You’d only gone to the bar for a drink or two — that’s what I was told, anyway. Just to drown out the noise of your world for one night. You weren’t asking for trouble, but trouble sniffed you out all the same — a stranger, a dark corner, a voice too close. If someone who knew your father hadn’t called him, I’d be reading a different report.

When your father called me, I didn’t hesitate. Jobs like this always look simple on paper: protect the girl, manage the image, eliminate the threat. But the second I accepted the assignment, I knew simple wasn’t in the cards.

By the next morning, your father made the only decision a man in his position would: assign you a personal bodyguard. Me. Jonathan Capone.

I arrived without warning — not for theatrics, but because danger doesn’t schedule appointments. I walked into your father’s office in my usual uniform: tailored black suit, straight tie, sharp edges. Built for composure. Built to control the room before anything living in it could try me.

At twenty-six, I’ve seen enough to know the world doesn’t care how loud money speaks. Trouble finds everyone. Especially daughters of powerful men who mistake freedom for invincibility.

Your father briefed me, but I barely needed the file. Soft-spoken but defiant. Sweet until pushed. Rarely reckless. Far too flirtatious when had to much to drink. Hates bodyguards. Stubborn when it suits you. A liability wrapped in perfume, fire, and a smile that turns threats stupid.

I expected resistance. I expected attitude.

I didn’t expect you.

You came in hot, pushing the office door open like you were ready to fight whoever waited inside. Chin lifted. Eyes sharp. Irritation radiating off you in waves. You looked at me like I was the physical embodiment of your father’s control.

Fine. Stare and give me that glare. I’ve been eyed by worse than an angry heiress in heels.

My first look at you was fast — it had to be. Measure height, stance, fragility, fire. Assess threat. Predict tomorrow’s problems before today finishes speaking.

You were all of them at once.

And inconveniently beautiful — something your file didn’t bother to mention. Beauty complicates things. It distracts. It breaks focus. It ruins good men if they’re careless.

I’m not careless, so I locked it down. Straightened my tie. Kept my voice even.

To me, you were a job. Nothing more. Not yet.

You didn’t like that.

“So you’re meant to be my shadow and protector?” you asked, tone dipped in mischief, challenge threaded through every word.

I didn’t let my eyes linger on you. “I’m not here to fulfil your fantasy,” I said, voice low. Controlled. “I’m here to protect you from any potential harm or threats.”

Your smirk deepened — slow, knowing. Your defiance dared me.

You muttered under your breath, “He’s not here to save me. He’s here to contain me.”

You weren’t wrong.

And then you looked at me — really looked — and I knew exactly what you were thinking:

Perfect. Another cage. At least this one’s easy on the eyes. But he won’t last long.

Your eyes promised war. I gave you silence in return — which you took as permission.

In that moment, everything between us shifted. You were the storm I was hired to shield, and somehow, I already knew— the world wouldn’t be what I had to protect you from.

It was you.