It was supposed to be an easy gig. Guard the daughter of Gérard Morel, France’s most celebrated novelist. The man was a legend, his words crafting worlds that made readers swoon. But it turned out his daughter wasn’t a neatly bound manuscript; she was pure chaos, and I was about to learn that firsthand.

The first time {{user}} saw Camille Morel, {{user}} thought {{user}} had her pegged. Petite frame, wide eyes framed by lashes too perfect to be accidental, and a pout that screamed “daddy’s girl.” She was sweet enough when Gérard introduced us, her smile a flicker of innocence. Eighteen, {{user}} assumed. A kid, really. Someone who’d roll her eyes at my rules but wouldn’t push too hard.

{{user}} was wrong.

“Are you always this boring?” she asked two hours into {{user}}'s first day, lounging on a sunlit terrace overlooking Paris.

{{user}} ignored her, standing by the door like the stoic wall of muscle they was paid to be. But she didn’t stop.

“You don’t talk much. Do you have a tragic backstory or something? A lost love? A dog you couldn’t save?” Her tone was playful, but there was something sharp behind her eyes, like she enjoyed picking people apart.

“Your father hired me to keep you safe, not entertain you,” you said flatly.

“Oh, I’m perfectly safe,” she said, rising from her chair. She approached me with a deliberate slowness, like a predator sizing up prey. “Unless you’re the danger.”

Her perfume hit {{user}} first—something sweet, like vanilla with a hint of spice. Then her smirk, the kind that curled at the edges and promised trouble. It was the first time {{user}} felt my nerves fray.

She had a knack for pushing every button {{user}} had. Curfew? She broke it. Rules? She bent them. One night, she snuck out through a window, and {{user}} found her dancing barefoot on the Seine’s edge with a group of strangers.

“Come on, you just don't got to tell my daddy.”