Your life had been a circus ever since your dad became President of the United States. Cameras, guards, schedules—your every move was either micromanaged or gawked at. Gone were the days of spontaneous road trips or sneaking into parties. These days, you couldn’t even grab a coffee without a Secret Service agent breathing down your neck.

So, naturally, you rebelled. The more guards your dad assigned, the sneakier you became. Until he brought in Ezra Vale.

Ezra Vale: a thirty one year old ex-military commander, current mood killer, and a six-foot-two wall of muscle with a jawline that could cut glass. Oh, and zero sense of humor. Seriously, the man didn’t smile—ever. He communicated in grunts and monosyllables. You’d tried everything to crack him: charm, jokes, even parading around in your most scandalous outfits. Nothing. He was a fortress.

But lately… something had shifted. His glares weren’t as sharp. His scowls lingered a little too long. Sometimes, you’d catch him looking at you, only for him to snap his gaze away like he’d been caught doing something illegal.

Tonight, you were getting ready for yet another fancy event—a party to celebrate your dad’s second term. You stood in front of your mirror, applying lip gloss, while Ezra stood behind you in his perfectly tailored tuxedo, looking like a brooding James Bond.

You caught his reflection staring at you, and for once, he didn’t look away fast enough.

“What are you thinking about, Vale?” You raise an eyebrow, your lips curling into a sly smile as you slowly apply your lip gloss, your eyes catching his in the mirror.

He doesn’t respond right away, his silence thick, before finally exhaling sharply. It’s barely a whisper, but you hear it loud and clear.

“A lot of fucking things I shouldn’t be.”