Vincent
The next few days blur into routine that’s slowly driving me insane. I move through this apartment—present, silent, impossible to ignore but apparently easy to hate.
Clean weapons. Answer encrypted calls. Read threat assessments. Pretend I don’t notice Emilia watching me like I’m a puzzle she’s determined to solve with strategically short skirts.
I never planned to be here.
Sebastian Torres saved my life in Afghanistan, 2018. Pulled me out of a collapsed building while taking shrapnel that should’ve been mine. Told me I owed him one, someday he’d collect.
That someday arrived three months ago.
“The Paris video,” he said over encrypted video call, looking like he’d aged five years overnight. “Twelve million views of my daughter dancing half-naked on a table.”
I’d seen it. Half the planet had seen it. Emilia Torres, tech mogul’s wild child, dancing in what could generously be called fabric scraps, then stumbling through Paris streets with stolen city property. Fucking hilarious, honestly. Girl had balls.
“Anonymous threats started the day it went viral,” Sebastian continued. “Real ones. And now I need someone I trust.”
Sebastian Torres doesn’t trust anyone. The fact that he was calling me meant desperation level: critical.
“Your daughter’s a bratty rich girl,” I told him. “I don’t do babysitting.”
“You do now. Consider it payment for Afghanistan.”
Perfectly timed. My marriage to Tatiana had imploded spectacularly—caught her fucking my business partner in our Sydney penthouse. Australia had become suffocating, every corner holding memories of betrayal.
Emilia Torres would be my escape route. Simple transaction.
Except nothing about Emilia Torres is simple.
I remember her from years back, hanging around Sebastian’s social functions like an angry little shadow. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen—all knobby knees and attitude, shooting me these intense looks that were part hero worship, part hormonal confusion. Kid had it bad for me, which was equal parts flattering and completely fucking inappropriate.
She’d find excuses to walk past whatever room I occupied, practice conversations that came out stilted and weird, wear lip gloss to family barbecues like she was heading to prom. It was obvious and pathetic and endearing in ways that made me keep my distance because Sebastian’s teenage daughter having a crush on his war buddy was a complication nobody needed.
Now she’s twenty-three and the hero worship has evolved into something infinitely more dangerous. Still obvious. Still complicated. But no longer pathetic.
Bratty? Absolutely. Rich? Obviously. But there’s intelligence underneath the rebellion that makes my chest tighten in ways Tatiana never managed.
She’s off limits. Completely, permanently, catastrophically off limits.
Doesn’t stop my body from reacting when she deliberately drops her towel. Doesn’t stop my pulse from spiking when she bends over in those fucking skirts. Doesn’t stop me from imagining what she’d look like stripped of attitude and clothing in equal measure.
Professional discipline versus biological imperative. The eternal war, and I’m losing ground daily.
This morning she’s trying again. Mini skirt that barely qualifies as clothing, lingering looks, movements designed to test my resolve.
I don’t react. Can’t react.
“Nothing?” she asks, exasperation bleeding through manufactured seduction.
I glance at her—calculated, brief, dismissive. “You’re not ready.”
“Not ready for what?”
I don’t answer because explaining would require admitting things that would destroy us both.
The file incident happens purely by accident. Operational security failure that could’ve gotten us both killed in my previous life—left it on the kitchen table while taking a call about perimeter updates.
“You spy on me?” Her voice carries that particular brand of outrage reserved for people who’ve never faced actual surveillance.
I assess the damage. Photos from Paris, behavioral assessments, psychological profiles. Standard protection protocol that looks sinister through civilian eyes.
“Put it down.”
“You have a fucking dossier on me!”
She’s holding it like evidence of war crimes. The betrayal in her voice hits harder than it should.
“I’m protecting you.”
“You’re controlling me.”
Something snaps. Maybe it’s the accusation. Maybe it’s weeks of proximity to temptation. Maybe it’s the way she looks at me like I’m the villain when I’m the only reason she’s still breathing.
I take a step forward, close enough to see her pupils dilate.
“If I were controlling you, Emilia, you’d be naked and on your knees.”
The words slip out like a confession I didn’t authorize. Shock hits me immediately—where the fuck did that come from? Years of professional composure, shattered by one bratty girl with daddy issues and legs that go on for miles.
She gasps. I stare at her, struggling to maintain neutrality while my brain screams warnings about crossing lines that can’t be uncrossed.
“But I’m not,” I continue, forcing control back into my voice. “So don’t confuse protection with control.”
She storms off, but not before I catch it—the tremor in her hands. Not fear. Something darker. Something that matches what I’m fighting.
Want.
“Do you want me afraid of you?” she asks.
The question hangs between us like a loaded weapon.
I answer without turning, because looking at her right now would end this conversation in ways that would destroy us both.
“No. I want you to trust me.”