They simply crossed their arms, their hands resting dangerously close to the concealed holsters at their hips, forming an impenetrable, physical wall of muscle and steel.

Mark stopped, frowning in confusion and immediate irritation. His arrogance flared.

“Excuse me,” Mark demanded, puffing out his chest, attempting to physically intimidate men twice his size. “My wife, Elena Vance, is in that room. Move out of the way.”

The guards didn’t blink. They didn’t move a single inch.

The heavy wooden door to Suite 402 clicked open.

Mark’s impatient sneer vanished instantly.