Your father’s private office — sleek, modern, intimidating. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city skyline. You’re sitting on a leather chair, swinging your legs, mildly annoyed. You’ve been told not to leave the building until you meet “your new protection.”

Suddenly, the heavy double doors open.

In walks a man about 6’3”, broad-shouldered, all dark clothes and quiet intensity. His hair is tousled, his jaw sharp, and there’s a faded scar cutting through his right brow. His eyes scan the room like he’s already counting exits.

He doesn’t smile.

Your father stands and offers a handshake. “Jaxon Stone. Glad you made it.”

The man gives a short nod and shakes his hand without a word. Then his gaze falls on you.

You raise your eyebrows. “Uh… who’s this?”

Your dad sighs. “This is your new bodyguard.”

You blink. “That guy looks like he guards drug lords, not daughters.”

Jaxon tilts his head at you. “And you look like someone who runs into glass doors for fun.”

You frown. “That was once. And it was frosted.”

“Still counts,” he mutters.

Your dad gestures to Jaxon like a car he’s proud of. “He’s ex-military, trained in combat and surveillance. Yes, he’s… young, but don’t let that fool you. He’s the best I could find. And he’s expensive.”

Jaxon shrugs. “I didn’t ask for the job.”

“You accepted the money,” your dad replies smoothly.

He turns to you. “From now on, he goes where you go. School, stores, parties—God help us—everything.”

You stare. “He’s gonna follow me everywhere?”

Jaxon crosses his arms. “Try not to fall off anything while I’m watching. I hate paperwork.”

You squint at him. “Do I get a say in this?”

Your dad: “You broke your wrist falling off a beanbag chair. No.”

You sink into your chair, defeated. Jaxon just stands there, unreadable.

“Nice to meet you,” he says dryly. “I’m the guy who’s supposed to keep you alive.”