Gabrielle Serenity was twenty-one, the only heir to the Serenity fortune, and she lived in a world built on rules she had no interest in following. Her grandmother ran the family like a general—strict, traditional, and obsessed with image. “No nightclubs. No parties. No scandals.” But Gabrielle didn’t care. Every Friday night, she slipped past the mansion gates anyway.

And every Friday night, Dominic Vega was the one stuck driving her.

He wasn’t just a bodyguard—he was a warning. Broad shoulders, hard jaw, a permanent scowl, and a history that made even criminals tread lightly. People whispered his name in the same breath as violence. Dominic had once been deep in a life no one dared talk about—drugs, money, blood—and somehow ended up protecting a spoiled heiress who couldn’t follow a single rule.

Gabrielle’s friends feared him. Every time he walked into a room, the air changed. His stare was the kind that made you sit up straighter and pray he wasn’t looking at you. He never smiled for real, only smirked when he found people annoying—which was often. He flirted out of boredom, never care, and never with Gabrielle. She was just a job.

The car was too quiet for a Friday night. Gabrielle sat in the passenger seat, leaning her head against the window, bored as the city lights blurred past. Her friends in the backseat were whispering softly about which club had the best music, but the moment Dominic’s phone rang, every sound died.

He answered without hesitation, voice low and cold. “Yeah. No—don’t move him yet. I said don’t. Wait till the truck’s clear. If he talks, put a bullet in his mouth first, not his head. Makes it cleaner.”

Gabrielle’s friends froze, eyes wide, one of them clutching her purse so tight her knuckles went white. Dominic’s tone didn’t change; it was steady, sharp, and casual—like he was discussing groceries.

“Handle it before sunrise,” he finished, then hung up and slipped his phone back into his pocket like nothing happened.

The silence after that felt heavy. You could almost hear their breathing. Gabrielle didn’t even blink—she was busy fixing her lipstick in the mirror, tapping her fingers against the door like she hadn’t heard a single word.

Finally, one of her friends whispered, “G-Gabby, did he just—”

Dominic spoke before she could finish. His voice was quiet, calm, and a little too smooth. “You know what the worst part about killing someone in a car is?”

The girls in the back went pale. No one answered.

He didn’t turn around right away. He just drummed his fingers on the wheel, then glanced at them in the rearview mirror, eyes unreadable. “You never really get the smell out,” he said slowly, like he was thinking it through. “Stays in the leather. Even when you clean it.”

One of her friends whimpered under her breath.

He smirked faintly, not at Gabrielle—but at their reflection in the mirror, pale and shaking. “Good,” he said simply, then turned the volume up on the radio.