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CHAPTER 2

Alana

I sit in Emily’s waiting room .

(My therapist, remember?) She’s in her office, talking to my dad.

He dropped everything up North—his whole world, his work—and flew down the moment the payment cleared.

Two hours on the jet.

No hesitation.

Apparently, my dad received a text with the warehouse address after my abductors got what they wanted.

He didn’t try to negotiate.

Didn’t call the cops first. He just paid.

The men left me there.

Just walked out.

I don’t know how long I sat there strapped to that chair, before the cops showed up.

According to the detective, they’re ‘doing everything in their power to catch whoever took me’.

The paramedics checked me out and patched me up as best they could.

Physically, I was fine, aside from the blow to the face.

Two stitches on my right cheek.

Nothing major. My dad arrived while I was still in the medic’s van getting sewn up.

He phoned Emily and told her I needed an emergency session.

Then he drove me straight here.

Guess he figured we should work through the trauma immediately.

Twenty million. That’s the price tag for keeping me breathing.

For buying back a daughter the world almost swallowed.

I hope I’m worth it.

I don’t feel like it right now.

I run my fingers gently over the stitches on my cheek.

I really don’t want it to scar.

It’s stupid to care, I know.

The couch is too soft.

Like I might sink into it and never come back up.

The door creaks open and I blink against the light.

Emily pokes her head out from her office, her short brunette bob bouncing slightly.

“We’re ready for you, Alana.”

I get up and move into her office.

I can’t wait to get out of these damned Pilates clothes.

Who even kidnaps someone after Pilates?

That class was torture enough.

I walk into Emily’s office and sink into the chair next to my dad.

He gives me a small, reassuring smile.

“Alright, Alana,” Emily says.

“Your dad and I have had a chat. He thought it would be best to bring me in to help deliver his plans.”

What plans?

I thought I was here to get ahead of any lingering trauma.

She gives my hand a gentle squeeze and props herself on her desk, legs crossed.

I’ve been coming to Emily since my mom passed away when I was twelve.

That was fifteen years ago.

She’s more than a therapist. And I know she cares.

My dad’s not the best at communicating how he feels.

He often uses her as a talking piece.

I love him. He really does his best.

“Michael’s understandably shaken by what happened,” she continues gently.

“You’re the most important person in his life, his greatest treasure. This ordeal hit him hard. He’s put a contingency plan in place to make sure you’re always safe and protected. He’s hired a bodyguard. Someone who’ll be moving in with you.”

My dad doesn’t say anything, but I can feel him watching me.

Like he’s waiting for me to fall apart and trying not to show how scared he still is.

“What about Tessa?” I ask.

She’s my roommate, my best friend and my right hand when it comes to my jewellery brand, Rock others are meant to be stacked until they practically become armour.

We’ve even done jewellery-as-clothing for limited drops.

Think chainmail corsets, body harnesses, that kind of thing.

Not exactly the kind of jewellery that gets you kidnapped.

(Haha?)

We launch two seasonal collections each year, which are sold online and through a select number of boutique stores.

I design everything in my studio.

Sketches, mood boards, full-on vision boards.

I’m the creative heart of the brand.

I’ve got insanely talented jewellery crafters who bring the pieces to life, a killer team that handles content and backend logistics and Tessa, who helps bring it all together.

She handles the marketing side.

The strategy, storytelling, getting our pieces in front of the right people.

Tessa’s the one who knows how to translate my chaos into something people actually understand.

She didn’t get much support from her family growing up.

Her mom was an alcoholic, barely present, even before she passed.

And her dad? He got himself a shiny new wife, a shiny new kid and left Tessa behind like she was something he outgrew.

She put herself through college on student loans and pure grit.

Built her future from the ground up while the rest of us had safety nets.

She’s still battling to pay off those loans, so she lives with me in the apartment my dad bought me, rent free.

I really don’t understand why my dad would just evict her.

She’s like family.

“Your dad has already made arrangements with Tessa,” Emily says.

“He’s renting a fully furnished one-bedroom apartment for her in the same building until everything passes and the men responsible are apprehended. Her things have already been moved. She’ll be right down the hall. Or technically… three floors below you. He wants the bodyguard by your side 24/7.”

So I’m just supposed to have some random person live in my house and follow me around?

I get that this ordeal shook my dad.

Hell, it shook me more.

I lean back into the chair.

It’s not the bodyguard that bothers me.

It’s the choice being taken from me.

Again.

I know my dad means well.

But I’m fiercely independent.

It’s one of the only things that keeps the anxiety from swallowing me whole.

I try to joke, “Let me guess. Beaming recommendations, gold-plated references and a LinkedIn page that screams ‘trust me with your daughter.’”

“The firm handles executive protection for two members of Parliament. Your dad vetted every detail. Background checks, psychological profiles, even internal audits.” Emily interjects.

My dad leans over and says, “This is for the best, Princess. I can’t have anything happen to you.”

His eyes go glassy and his stormy grey gaze holds mine.

I’ve always seen myself in his eyes.

And right on cue, mine start to leak.

He reaches over and gently swipes a tear from my cheek.

That’s the moment I decide to keep quiet.

Not for me. For him .

“I understand, Dad.”

I’ve always been his princess and after my mom passed away, that role only deepened.

He says I look just like her, except for the eyes.

Those, I got from him.

It must be hard, seeing me and catching glimpses of both the love of his life and his little girl in the same face.

My mom was beautiful, effortlessly so.

She was a flight attendant back in the day, always jetting off somewhere, full of stories and grace.

They met on one of her flights.

He was flying for work and she was working the aisle.

According to him, one smile from her and that was it and he was done for.

My dad walks over, gently tucks a strand of my long honey-blonde hair (which is probably a total mess right now) behind my ear and presses a kiss to my forehead.

“I can’t lose you too,” he whispers.

All I can do is nod in understanding.

I’ll put up a fight again in a few weeks.

Just… not now. Not when he looks this broken.

“It’s all settled then,” Emily says, breaking us out of the moment.

“Michael is going to head out now to finalise the last of the arrangements while you and I have a chat. Your new bodyguard, Hunter, is busy collecting your vehicle. He will pick you up and drive you home once our session is concluded.”

I bet anyone named Hunter takes himself way too seriously.

“Love you, Princess. I have to get back to work, but we’ll make a plan soon,” my dad says, then makes to leave the room.

He gives me one last look—half grief, half reassurance—before the door clicks shut behind him.

I only get to see him every few months.

He doesn’t live here.

Just visits. Morning phone calls are our ritual, our tether across the distance.

“Love you, Dad,” I say just as the door closes.

Emily and I wrap up the session without much resolution.

Just deep breaths, a few half-nods and reminders to keep using my grounding exercises.

By the time I step into the waiting room, the sun’s starting to slip out from behind the clouds.

The sky outside is still pale, tinged with pink.

It must be just after sunrise.

Which means it’s been, what, ten hours?

Maybe less? I don’t really remember how long I was out.

And I don’t know how my dad convinced Emily to have this session before the crack of dawn.

And then, I see him.

He’s standing just off to the side, hands clasped in front of him, posture too straight to be casual.

Short dark hair. Warm, tan skin.

A sharp jaw dusted with stubble.

Black T-shirt. Leather jacket.

Military precision bleeds through his stillness, sharp and deliberate.

Then there are the tattoos, peeking out from under his T-shirt, crawling up his neck, stopping just short of his jaw.

He looks a soldier built for sin.

My stomach twists.

Our eyes lock.

His are a kind of blue that shouldn’t exist outside of frozen lakes and bad decisions.

Cold. Calculating. And yet, there’s something else buried beneath the surface.

Something dangerously close to softness.

Almost.

“Miss Ashby,” he says with a curt nod, voice smooth and deep.

Not booming. Measured.

Controlled.

“I’m Hunter. Your bodyguard.”

Hunter.

Right.

Of course he’s terrifying.

Of course he’s hot. Because why not make my life even more complicated.

He moves like water as he steps forward and gestures to the door.

I follow, because what else am I supposed to do?

The morning air is cool against my skin, sharp enough to make me shiver.

The sky is stretched in bruised shades of gold and violet, the sun just beginning to bleed over the horizon.

The parking lot is nearly empty, abandoned but for a few scattered cars and every step we take echoes louder than it should.

I didn’t expect to see my car again so soon.

It looks exactly the same.

Untouched. Like it never left me in the first place.

As we approach the vehicle, he glances at me.

“Do you prefer the front or back?” Polite.

Professional.

“I’d prefer to drive, actually,” I say, already heading for the driver’s side.

I have this thing about control.

Always have. I’m not a passenger princess.

I’m the driver. Every time.

In every way.

But when I reach for the handle, a strong hand presses onto the door, just before I can pull it open.

I freeze, look up and glance over my shoulder.

Hunter’s standing close.

Too close. His body practically cages me in.

His hand doesn’t move from where he’s keeping the door closed.

He smiles and damn it, he has cute canines.

Like little vampire fangs.

I love pretty teeth, especially in a world where everyone’s got identical veneers.

His are real. Sharp.

I want to trace my tongue over them and see if it makes me bleed .

“No can do, Miss Ashby,” he says.

“My name is Alana,” I snap.

He’s making me feel like a small child.

I hate it. Time to use my words.

“I’m sorry. It’s been a long night. I have this… thing about control. Not being the one driving makes me anxious. Really anxious. Will you please let me drive?”

I glance up at him and give him the doe-eyed look.

My eyes are almond-shaped, doe eyes or siren, depending on the mood.

They’ve never failed me.

I even bite my full bottom lip for added effect.

This look usually has men crawling on their hands and knees.

I try to open the door again, but he doesn’t budge.

He’s carved from marble, physically and emotionally.

The look doesn’t work.

At all.

“I’m sorry, Miss—” he corrects himself.

“I’m sorry, Alana. I’m under strict instructions from your father not to let you drive just yet. He did mention your… quirk.”

Quirk?

Oh, the nerve. It’s a clinically diagnosed anxiety disorder, actually.

He ushers me to the passenger side and opens the door for me.

Once he closes it, he walks over to the driver’s side and gets in.

I sulk. I’m not used to being told no.

Especially not by big strangers in leather jackets who think they know what’s best for me.

The last time I was in this car…

I take a breath. Deeper than I mean to.

I smell leather, something smoky and the faintest trace of metal.

“It still smells like him,” I mutter, barely louder than a thought.

He looks over at me and a flash of something, maybe worry, passes over his face before he schools his features.

“I’ll have the vehicle cleaned for you, Alana.”

“Thank you,” I sigh, just as he starts driving.

It doesn’t feel like my car anymore.

But at least I’m not alone in it.