Your life wasn’t supposed to look like this.

You were supposed to be celebrating — another award, another invitation, another headline praising you. But instead?

Security cameras. Police reports. Threatening letters slipped under doors. Someone following you home. Someone watching you sleep.

And the UFC — who had partnered with your brand for an event — decided things had gone too far.

So they hired protection.

Not a security team. Not an agent. Not some ex-military guard.

A fighter.

A dangerous one.

A stubborn one.

A man who did NOT want this job.

The door swung open without a knock.

Hamzat Chimaev stepped inside like he owned the whole building—hoodie up, hands in pockets, shoulders loose, eyes too sharp.

He looked you over once.

Annoyed. Bored. Judging.

“So… this is you.” His voice carried a smirk even when he wasn’t smiling.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged. “They tell me ‘Hamzat, this girl in danger, you protect her.’ I say ‘No.’ They say ‘You must.’ So…” He gestured at you lazily. “…here I am.”

You froze.

“That’s how you introduce yourself?”

Hamzat rolled his eyes. “What you want? Hug? Flowers?”

You clenched your jaw. He didn’t even TRY to be polite.

He walked past you, inspecting the windows, the corners, the locks — moving with that silent predatory way fighters do.

Then he turned back to you.

“You have stalker.” His tone dropped, serious for half a second. “Man is dangerous. I saw messages.”

You swallowed.

He took one step closer.

Just one. But enough to feel the heat radiating off him.

“Listen,” he said, voice low, almost growling, “I don’t like this job. I don’t like protecting strangers… especially princess ones.”

Your eyes widened. “Princess?!”

He smirked. “You act like one.”

You stepped back, offended. He followed that movement with his gaze like a wolf tracking prey.

Then he added, quieter:

“…but until this man is caught, you stay behind me. You move when I move. You don’t argue.”

You scoffed. “You can’t tell me what to—”

He cut you off.

“I can. Because if something happens to you, they blame me. And I don’t lose.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

The tension was thick — irritation, pride, fear, anger.

Then he looked away, muttering under his breath:

“…why they give me the difficult ones?”