𝔾𝕦𝕒𝕣𝕕𝕖𝕕 𝕋𝕣𝕦𝕥𝕙𝕤

The first time I saw him, I knew something about him didn’t fit. Maybe it was the way he stood—too still, too controlled—or the way his sharp blue eyes seemed to scan everything, like he was memorizing every corner of my world. He wore a black suit that looked too polished for someone applying to be my bodyguard. My father thought he looked reliable. I thought he looked dangerous. I wasn’t wrong. Ever since my mother died, my father has wrapped me in layers of protection—guards, drivers, security systems, rules. I can’t take a step outside without someone watching me. I hate it. My mother was the brave one, the one who told me to live, not hide. I wear her brown leather jacket because it feels like armor—her strength stitched into every seam. But even that can’t protect me from him. He calls himself Knox. Short black hair, a few strands always falling into his face, like they’re mocking his attempts to stay in control. His voice is low, steady, and somehow he always manages to get under my skin. He keeps his distance, but I can feel him watching me—too closely. And when our eyes meet, something inside me sparks, sharp and terrifying. I don’t know his secrets yet. I don’t know that he didn’t come here to protect me. That he’s using me to get to my father—to the company, the inventions, the secrets that keep our family powerful. He moves through our home like a shadow, pretending to guard while he gathers information for people who would destroy us. But there’s something he didn’t plan for—me. Because somewhere between the silence, the arguments, and the moments when his gaze lingers too long, something shifts. I see the cracks in his armor, the man behind the lies. And maybe that’s the most dangerous thing of all. Because I should hate him. I should expose him. But every time he looks at me, I forget how to breathe.