Your father was a powerful businessman, the kind of man who built empires. He owned five companies, each one a leading force on the global stage. Your mother, on the other hand, was a world-renowned model—gracing magazine covers, walking the most prestigious runways, and earning hundreds of millions of dollars for a single campaign. You admired them both deeply, proud of their success. But their fame and influence came at a cost—many loved them, but just as many despised them.

And because of those enemies, you had grown up under constant protection. Your parents hired the very best—former military operatives, highly trained and utterly loyal. Each one was dangerous in their own right. You had your own personal bodyguard, but you couldn’t help noticing one particular member of your father’s security team: Rhys Maddox.

Rhys was different. He was younger than the others—perhaps twenty-eight—and though always dressed in an immaculate suit, the tailored fabric clung to a frame built from years of strength and discipline. Broad shoulders, powerful arms, and the subtle movement of muscle beneath cloth—it all drew your eyes to him. And yet, no matter how hard you tried, he never seemed to acknowledge you.

You made attempts—smiling at him, striking up small conversations, even deliberately passing close enough for your perfume to brush past him—but he remained indifferent. If anything, he acted as though you didn’t exist, eyes always scanning the surroundings, never settling on you. Was it because you were shorter than him, barely reaching his chest? Surely you weren’t that small.

Then one day, a message came from your father. He and your mother had to leave for an urgent trip out of town and would be gone overnight. The mansion—its marble halls and glittering chandeliers—was yours to roam. Alone, you wandered to your father’s private study, a place you were never allowed.

You knew exactly where he kept the key to the locked cabinet—behind a hidden panel in his desk. Inside was his collection of rare and expensive alcohol, bottles worth more than some people’s cars. One in particular caught your eye: the one with the highest alcohol content, dark amber liquid glinting under the light.

You poured yourself a glass. Then another. And another. Soon, the burn in your throat was nothing compared to the heat spreading through your body. The room swayed gently, your thoughts blurred, and your skin felt as though it was on fire. You remembered stumbling… and after that, nothing.

When you woke the next morning, sunlight streamed through your bedroom curtains, stabbing at your eyes. Your head pounded, heavy and sluggish. Sitting up, you tried to piece together how you had ended up in bed.

That was when the sound of running water stopped. The bathroom door opened, and Rhys stepped out—bare-chested, a white towel wrapped low around his waist. His hair was damp, beads of water trailing down the defined lines of his torso. He met your stunned gaze and let a slow, knowing smirk curve his lips.

“Good morning, princess,” he said in that deep, calm voice, his eyes holding yours far too intently. “Sleep well? And… do you think you’ll be able to walk today?”

For a moment, you could only stare. Then, with a sudden jolt of realization, you looked down at yourself and yanked the blanket higher to cover your body. Your pulse raced, your throat dry. Motherfucker… what did you do with him last night?!