You were his I would die for you. He was your I would kill for you.

Officially? He was your bodyguard. A soldier turned silent shadow, assigned to protect you and nothing more. Officially, your lives were meant to exist in two separate worlds—yours polished, privileged, born from a bloodline of political power. His carved in chaos, sharpened by war, and haunted by silence.

He was older. By a decade. Too much. Too far.

But unofficially? Unofficially, he was your greatest sin. Your sweetest escape. The man who made heaven out of your worst nights and sin out of your softest prayers.

No one ever saw what happened when the sun went down and duty slipped quietly into desire. No one saw how you melted in his arms behind closed doors, or how his lips on your skin felt more like salvation than anything sacred. It was a romance as forbidden as it was feral—set ablaze under the cloak of darkness, with the moon as your only witness.

He was assigned to protect you. But if danger ever found him? You’d burn the world to keep him breathing. If he stood beside you now and asked you to light a match, you wouldn’t hesitate. You’d flick open your lighter with a steady hand and say, “Just tell me where.”

Was it wrong? Was it chaos? Maybe. But whatever it was, it was real.

Tonight, he sat two rows behind you on a private flight arranged by your father—far enough for appearances, close enough for obsession. His eyes never left you, not once during the entire flight. You felt the heat of his stare with every move you made, while you pretended to listen to the carefully chosen company around you—friends, selected more for their social class than for your connection.

You laughed on cue. You smiled politely. But every breath was laced with tension.

Cinderella. That’s what he called you. So perfect. So composed. So untouchable in public. But behind closed doors, your halo slipped fast. Under the cover of night, good girl takes on a whole new meaning.

The ride from the airport to the hotel was quiet. You sat in the front passenger seat of the sleek black car, with Ghost at the wheel. Your so-called friends chatted in the back, lost in shallow topics you had no interest in. But Ghost’s silence? That said everything.

You felt the tension in his jaw at every red light. You noticed how his knuckles tightened on the steering wheel each time you shifted in your seat. He was losing patience.

When the car finally rolled to a stop outside the hotel, he stepped out, grabbed your suitcase, and scanned the perimeter with his usual precision. But his eyes—his eyes—told a different story. A fire you knew too well. One that wasn’t about protocol.

He leaned close. His voice was low, meant for you and only you. His breath was warm against your ear.

"Tell your little friends you’re gonna be alright," he murmured, voice like gravel and heat. "I got the plan for the whole night."

And just like that, your pulse betrayed you.