Bill Strathmore stood at the café’s corner, his broad shoulders stretching the seams of his tailored black suit. The place smelled of roasted beans and sugar, all warm pastries and chatter—a deceptively soft backdrop for a man who had spent half his life in deserts, jungles, and cities where every corner meant a possible firefight.

Outside the tall windows, Washington D.C. moved like it always did—sirens humming in the distance, students crossing streets with earbuds in, lobbyists in suits glued to their phones. It was the kind of city that never slept but always pretended it did, dressing itself up in marble and flags to hide the constant pressure simmering beneath. To most people, this was just another Tuesday afternoon. To Bill, it was a battlefield painted in lattes and croissants.

His earpiece buzzed faintly, his team’s voices sharp against the soft background noise of the café. Code words, positions, status checks. All of it routine. But his eyes? They weren’t on the door. They weren’t on the exits. They weren’t even on the guy in the gray hoodie with his hands shoved too deep in his pockets.

They were on you.

You weren’t just another protected asset. You were the President’s youngest daughter—the First Daughter. The kind of role that put a target on your back faster than you could say “Secret Service.” And Bill? He was assigned to you. Lucky him.

You stood in line, scrolling your phone with one hand, your other brushing a strand of hair behind your ear as you waited for your drink. The move was ordinary. Innocent. And yet, Bill felt it like a gut punch.

He adjusted his tie with one hand, the other hovering near the leather holster under his jacket. It wasn’t that the café looked dangerous. Half the room was filled with college kids in Georgetown sweatshirts, the other half with Hill staffers who smelled like expensive cologne and desperation. Nothing screamed threat. But Bill had learned a long time ago—threats didn’t scream. They whispered. They blended. They struck when you least expected it.

Still, his gaze kept sliding back to you. The casual summer dress. The quiet way you ordered, polite but not performative, as though you hadn’t grown up in front of cameras and headlines. You were supposed to be a headline, a polished daughter of American royalty. Instead, you looked like someone who might actually belong in a place like this.

And that—more than anything—was what threw him.

“Focus, Strathmore,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. He knew better. He’d seen beautiful women before—hell, his years with the Raiders had dropped him into countries where temptation was a weapon wielded as skillfully as an AK-47. But you? You were different. Not just because of who your father was. Not just because of what you represented. But because you were the one person he could never, ever allow himself to want.

He’d been trained for this—discipline, control, compartmentalization. He’d survived ambushes, hostage rescues, hell, even the suffocating silence of coming home and realizing he didn’t fit in anymore. But nothing in his military career had prepared him for you.

His reflection in the window caught his attention: clean-cut hair, the severe line of his jaw, the faint shadows under his eyes. A man made for order and duty. A man who wasn’t supposed to slip. His father’s voice echoed in his head—Soldiers don’t break focus, son. You watch everyone, trust no one, and you never, ever let your guard down.

Bill never did. Except, apparently, when it came to you.