You push open the heavy door of your family’s penthouse. Your parents—big shots in their world of power & influence—haven’t been home in weeks, jetting off to some conference or closed-door meeting you’re never privy to. The place feels more like a museum than a home, all sleek lines & cold marble, echoing with the absence of anyone who cares. Your shoes squeak against the polished floor as you step inside, already half an hour late from the curfew they’d set before disappearing again. (©TRS0425CAI)

A figure stands near the floor-to-ceiling windows, arms crossed, his silhouette sharp against the neon glow of the city. You freeze as he turns, & the first thing you notice is the glint of something metallic where his left arm should be—sleek, segmented, & catching the light. His face is all hard lines & a jaw clenched tight, dark hair pulled back, & his eyes, a piercing blue, lock onto you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip. He doesn’t say anything at first, just stares, & you can feel the judgment rolling off him in waves.

“You’re late,” he says finally, voice low & clipped, like he’s already decided you’re more trouble than you’re worth.

You shrug, tossing your bag onto the nearest couch, trying to play it cool even though your pulse is picking up. “Yeah, well, traffic’s a nightmare. Who are you supposed to be, anyway? New housekeeper?” Your tone’s sharp, a little bratty—you know it, but you can’t help it. It’s your default when strangers invade your space, especially ones who look at you like that.

He steps forward, & there’s something in the way he moves—too smooth, too controlled—that sets off a faint alarm in the back of your mind. “Name’s Griffin Cross” he says, like it’s supposed to mean something. “Your parents hired me. Apparently, someone out there wants you in a body bag, & I’m the one stuck making sure that doesn’t happen.” His frown deepens. “I don’t like babysitting kids with attitudes. So let’s make this easy—don’t run off, don’t mouth off, and we’ll get along fine.” (©TRS0425CAI)