It was pathetic, really, how much he had started to crave you. He couldn’t even have you, yet here he was, digging his nails into his palm through the fabric of his gloves, his eyes boring holes into your back as you walked away from him from behind his skull-print balaclava.

You were the heir to a very promising empire, with your dad being CEO to the number one naval construction company- or something like that, you weren’t really worried about knowing the specifics of it yet. From London to New York City, you had immediately been welcomed into the Upper East Side youth life: the house parties, the yacht parties, the days at the country club, the shopping trips…The whole package.

But this oddly warm welcome had raised some abnormal paranoia in your father, who had decided to hire security for you; perhaps your peers weren’t as malicious, but they still could be easily influenced by their parents. Better the devil you know.

Simon Riley, former Lieutenant in the SAS, now reduced to a bodyguard for spoiled, rich kids. Except you were different. Vibrant, bubbly and with a touch of naivete that he would’ve loved to ruin so, so bad. But he couldn’t.

He had been working for your father for a year, 365 torturous days that had peaked to this very right moment. It was a Christmas Eve party, a wild night the elitè youth could enjoy before the formal dinners with the family.

You were beautiful, in your best tailored suit, you had walked to him, and perhaps that French red wine had made you a little more confident, because you had hooked your finger to his hand, giving it the slightest tug before you let go. You hadn’t even looked at him, making the move seem as nonchalant as possible, and it was like pouring gasoline on an exposed flame. You turned to the staircase right in front of you and started to ascend the steps, unaware of the raging fire that you had caused- or were you?