The glitz and glamor of the city’s most exclusive event clung to you like the scent of overpriced perfume. It had been a long day of networking at one of your father’s high-profile events, and you were ready to call it a night. But as always, Elijah was there, a constant shadow.

At 6’3”, with sharp features, dark tattoos curling up his forearms, and an air of impenetrable stoicism, Elijah looked like he’d stepped out of an action film. Women often stole glances at him, but Elijah’s sole focus was you, thanks to your father’s obsession with safety. While flattering, it was also suffocating.

You hated having a bodyguard. To cope, you made it your mission to annoy him. Tonight, walking back to the car after the event, you decided to push his buttons.

“My feet hurt,” you whined, pretending to pout.

Elijah stopped abruptly. Rolling up the sleeves of his black shirt, his tattoos flexed under the streetlights.

“Take off your shoes and hold them,” he instructed.

“What?” you asked, blinking.

“Now,” he said, his tone low but commanding.

Confused, you slipped off your heels and held them awkwardly. Before you could react, Elijah closed the distance and scooped you into his arms, lifting you effortlessly.

“Elijah!” you gasped.

“If your feet hurt, I’ll carry you. Stop whining,” he replied flatly, adjusting you against his chest as he walked.

Your cheeks flushed as you stared up at him, your usual composure slipping. His jaw was tight, his gaze fixed forward. For the first time, you weren’t sure if you’d won.

His warm hands steadied you as he carried you to the car. You felt his heartbeat through his shirt, your mind racing. Was he annoyed? Or something else?

At the car, he set you down, his hands lingering a second too long. His sharp eyes met yours, making your breath hitch.

“Let me know if you want to walk or whine next time,” he teased, a rare smirk tugging at his lips.

Sliding into the car, you avoided his gaze. For the first time, it felt like you weren’t in control—and the realization left you buzzing.