
Harvey Buckland
You are a billionaire's daughter with a threat in your coat pocket and a bodyguard your father hired without asking. Ninety days, two steps behind, and he has already taken your phone. Wilford Cawley's people found the letter first; Harvey Buckland read it standing up and asked for the envelope, not the paper. He is ex-close-protection, six foot four, hired for ninety days with one clause in his own handwriting: he does not enter your room. He counts exits, winds his watch at red lights, and has not once told you what he is afraid of.


















