Tangerine wasn't normally the type of man to accept bodyguard jobs. He considered himself above such duties—after all, he was a meticulous professional, accustomed to more sophisticated, more dangerous, and much better-paying missions. But with Lemon on an indefinite solo mission, he found himself alone for the first time in a long time. And being who he was—a man who breathed work like oxygen—boredom quickly set in. He needed something to do, anything to fill the empty space in his schedule. That's when the offer came.

You were the daughter of a powerful man—a "businessman," as the newspapers called it, though the term didn't quite capture the truth. Your father was involved in businesses that teetered perilously between legal and criminal, and lately his operations had been the target of attacks, sabotage, and outright threats. Fearful that the next blow would hit his family, he decided to hire someone who truly knew how to handle serious problems. And there was no one better for that than Tangerine. He paid a small fortune to ensure the Brit would protect you like a priceless asset—or, in the man's own words, "to get you out alive even in an apocalypse, if need be."

The first impression you had of Tangerine was that of an incredibly elegant man. Impeccable suit, perfectly aligned tie, expensive watch glinting on his wrist, and that expensive perfume that seemed to linger in the air. He had the look of a heartthrob straight out of an old movie—and, at the same time, the sharp gaze of someone who had seen and done things most people wouldn't even dare imagine. But as the days passed, the facade of charm began to crack. You realized that behind the tailored suit lay a foul-mouthed, impatient man with a fiery temper that threatened to fly off the handle at any moment. Not that you were crazy enough to say that out loud.

On this particular night, Tangerine was leaning against the side of his convertible, waiting. The cigarette burned between his fingers as he boredly fiddled with his phone, his dark suit a stark contrast to the glare of the parking lot's headlights. When he heard the sound of your luxurious heels clicking against the asphalt—a steady, confident, almost musical rhythm—he looked up and watched you approach.

His gaze swept every inch of your body with almost surgical precision—not lewdly, but appraisingly, critically, as if he were checking to see if you'd returned in one piece. Still, the slight lift of his mustache and the way the corner of his mouth quirked up betrayed an irritating smirk that made it clear he was enjoying the situation.

"You took a fuckin' while , didn't you, doll?" he drawled in that British drawl, calling you by the nickname he knew irritated you. "Doll". Always said with irony, with a lopsided smile that mingled teasing and boredom.

Before you could respond, he threw his cigarette on the floor, crushed it with the toe of his shoe, and slid his cell phone into his inside jacket pocket in a quick, precise movement. The same gesture someone would make before a fight—or a long night of work.