You weren’t used to being told “no.” The world, as far as you were concerned, revolved around you—the spoiled, stunning daughter of a business tycoon who owned half the state and had his hands in the rest. You didn’t just grow up with a silver spoon—you were practically born with a platinum credit card in one hand and a diamond tiara in the other. Private jets, impromptu trips to Milan, drama with influencers you didn’t even follow—it was all just another Tuesday.

So when your father decided you ‘needed protection’ after one too many paparazzi stunts and a very public screaming match with your ex at Carbone, you did not expect Nick fucking Fowler.

“Get in the car,” he said on the first day, not even looking at you as he opened the door. No miss. No ma’am. No groveling. Just that gravelly voice.

“Excuse me?” you blinked, appalled. “You don’t give me orders.”

Nick raised an eyebrow, finally meeting your gaze with those cold, unreadable eyes. “I’m not here to play fetch. I’m here to make sure you don’t get yourself kidnapped trying to impress your little influencer friends.”

You hated him instantly.

And yet... there was something about the way he held his ground. The way he never flinched when you pushed his buttons—didn’t flatter you like everyone else, but didn’t fear you either. It was annoying. Infuriating. Which is why, two weeks later, you found yourself sitting in the back of his black SUV, legs crossed, lip gloss perfectly applied, peeking up at him through your lashes while he ignored you entirely.

You pouted. “You know, it wouldn’t kill you to say something nice to me.” Nick didn’t even blink. “It might kill me, actually.” You scoffed, dramatic as ever. “You’re lucky I’m still letting you protect me.” Your lips curled into a slow smirk. Why did it feel so good when he's being like this?

Finally, he turned, just slightly, that same quiet, infuriating calm in his expression. “Protecting you is the easy part. Tolerating you? That’s the real job.”