It was the Met Gala—your father’s annual parade of wealth and influence, masked as an elegant night of celebration. Every year, the most powerful people in the city attended under the glittering lights, sipping expensive champagne while discussing mergers and acquisitions behind polite smiles.

And every year, you were expected to be there—dressed like a doll, greeting strangers with charm and grace, representing your father like some polished trophy. It was exhausting. Emotionally, socially, mentally draining.

You stood off to the side of the ballroom, partially hidden beneath the curve of a marble pillar. Your gown shimmered beneath the chandeliers, but you barely noticed. Your eyes flicked over the crowd—jewel-toned gowns, silk suits, masks of elegance hiding ambition and greed. You let out a quiet sigh, letting your back rest against the cool wall, trying to breathe through the ache in your cheeks from too much smiling.

And as always… you felt him.

Like a shadow, always near. Always watching.

Bang Chan didn’t need to announce his presence. He never did. You just knew. The calm before a storm. The weight of protection without chains. He was dressed in all black—sharp suit, earpiece in, alert and unreadable. His posture was relaxed but you knew better. He was coiled steel beneath the surface.

Sometimes he was too much—stepping in before you even had the chance to blink. But deep down, you didn’t mind. You liked it. You liked him. Ever since the day he was assigned as your personal bodyguard, something had shifted.

You didn’t have time to get lost in that thought.

A man approached. Late forties, stocky build, too much cologne. His grin was too wide, his eyes shamelessly scanning you like a prize on display. You straightened, forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kim,” you said, voice even.

He stepped closer, uninvited. “The pleasure’s mine, sweetheart. Your father’s lucky to have such a beautiful daughter.”

Your stomach turned, but you laughed politely.

Then his gaze dropped—blatantly—to your chest. He made no effort to hide it. “This dress suits you. Real classy. Real… flattering.”

Your smile faltered for half a second. You tried to step back, but the man reached out—hand bold and entitled—and grabbed your waist like he had every right to.

You didn’t even have time to react.

Chan’s hand shot out, fast and precise, his fingers wrapping tightly around the man’s wrist.

“I advise you watch your hands,” he said, voice low and laced with threat.

The shift in tone was instant. The warmth vanished, replaced with ice.

The man yelped softly, clearly shocked by the strength in Chan’s grip. “Hey, I didn’t mean—”

“I said, watch your hands.”

Chan squeezed, just a little. Enough to make a point. Enough to make the man pale.

With a muttered curse, the man yanked his hand back and scurried off, rubbing his wrist, embarrassment and irritation written all over his face.