Flash Marriage To My Mysterious Bodyguard

BANG-

"Aurelia! Oh my god, are you in there?"

The urgent pounding and the shouts ripped Aurelia awake, still dazed.

Her skull throbbed with a dull, hammering pain. Her body was dead weight, refusing to move. The air in the room was wrong-someone else's cologne, musk and something sharper beneath it, clinging to the sheets.

Fragments surfaced-dark eyes, a palm pressing the small of her back, her own voice catching on words she didn't want to retrieve. She pushed them back down.

She'd been drugged.

Not the first time. Her half-sister Celeste had spent a decade perfecting the art-leaked itineraries, doctored board documents, something slipped into her drink when she wasn't looking. But this time, Celeste had clearly set the stage for something bigger.

"Aurelia, please! Don't do anything stupid! The reporters are here, just open the door!"

Celeste's voice pitched high, manicured panic dripping from every syllable. Aurelia registered the noise beyond the door-more than one person. Celeste had brought an audience. Her plan was obvious: let everyone see the eldest Beaumont daughter's disgrace and torch her reputation in a single stroke.

Aurelia forced her eyes open. In the armchair by the window sat a man, tall and motionless, a block of shadow against the pale morning light bleeding through the curtains.

Hart. The bodyguard she'd hired three months ago. She knew he was more than a bodyguard.

He was already on his feet, moving soundlessly toward the door. He glanced back at her. His gaze was dark, unreadable. He wasn't surprised, she realized. He knew exactly who was on the other side.

She didn't have time to question him. Her silk slip dress lay torn on the floor. Her heels had been kicked into opposite corners. At the foot of the bed sat a man's white button-down, neatly folded-not hers, but placed deliberately within reach.

She grabbed it and pulled it on, her fingers unsteady on the buttons.

Beyond the door, the noise swelled into a low, tangled murmur. Voices overlapping. The shuffle of feet. The unmistakable hum of a crowd scenting blood.

Aurelia ignored all of it. Her eyes had landed on the bathroom door. Half open.

She crossed the room and pushed it wide.

Harrison Finch-a hedge fund predator with a wife, three children, and a reputation for destroying anything he couldn't sleep with-was curled on the cold marble floor. His own tie had been used to bind his hands behind his back. Another strip of fabric gagged his mouth, knotted tight at the back of his head, a trail of saliva running down his chin. Early autumn chill had seeped through the tiles overnight, and he was shivering violently.

He saw her and began thrashing, muffled grunts choking in his throat.

"You did this." Aurelia turned to Hart. "On whose authority?"

"Your safety required it."

His tone was flat as glass. No explanation. No hint of pride. As if binding a sixty-year-old man and leaving him in a bathroom overnight was a matter of routine.

She opened her mouth to press him, but a wave of dizziness hit-the drug still working its way out of her system. She caught the doorframe. From the hall, the voices threaded through the wood again. She caught the word scandal.

The whole setup snapped into focus. She'd come back from work late the night before. Celeste had insisted on drinks. A few glasses in, a strange heat had curled low in her stomach and her thoughts had started to blur. She'd felt the warning signs and tried to head upstairs. When she opened the door, someone lunged at her-and then Hart was there, intercepting him. After that, she had fragments. She didn't want the rest.

Now Celeste was at her door with reporters.

Celeste was gambling on her reputation, her board seat, everything their father had left her. Aurelia had always treated her like a real sister. The feeling, apparently, wasn't mutual.

"Sister, please! Whatever is happening, we can handle it as a family!"

Aurelia drew a slow breath and walked toward the door, her spine straight.

Her hand closed around the cold brass doorknob.

Hart's palm covered hers. "I'll handle this."

She pulled free and looked up at him. "This is my battlefield."

Then she yanked the door open.

The world detonated into a blinding salvo of flashbulbs. The shutters clattered like a swarm of furious insects.

"Aurelia!" Celeste lunged forward, her face arranged into a flawless mask of sisterly concern, trying to peer past her into the room.

Aurelia raised one arm and planted her palm flat against Celeste's shoulder, stopping her cold. The force was precise. Unyielding.

Microphones thrust into her face.

"Ms. Beaumont, is it true you were with Harrison Finch last night?"

"Were you aware he's a married man?"

"Is this why your engagement to Preston Vance ended?"

Aurelia said nothing. She swept her gaze across the pack of reporters with the cold composure of someone who had long stopped caring what people thought. The silence stretched, and one by one the shouted questions faltered, thinned, and died.

A faint smirk touched the corner of her mouth.

Then she took a deliberate step sideways.

The reporters craned their necks. They had expected rumpled sheets and a half-dressed man. Instead they saw Hart-tall and silent, standing in the shadows, suit pressed, face unreadable.

The smile on Celeste's face froze. "Where... where is Mr. Finch?"

Aurelia lifted her hand and snapped her fingers.

The sound cut through the murmuring crowd. Hart disappeared into the bathroom and reemerged a beat later, dragging Finch out by the collar of his thousand-dollar suit. Finch tumbled onto the hallway carpet in a pathetic heap, the tie still stuffed in his mouth, his eyes wide with terror.

A collective gasp swept through the crowd. Every camera swiveled toward him.

Celeste stumbled backward, the color draining from her face.

"Is this the surprise you had planned for me?" Aurelia's voice was soft as a blade sliding across skin.

"No! I-I don't know what this is!" Celeste shook her head frantically, tears springing to her eyes right on cue. "I was just worried about you!"

Aurelia didn't bother watching the performance. She was already tired of the game.

She turned and walked back into the room. Hart moved to her side, his gaze sweeping over the reporters-silent, cold, carrying a threat that required no words. They lowered their cameras. They stepped back.

She slammed the door shut.

The heavy thud echoed down the hallway. Outside, the noise rose one last time-voices, footsteps, the scrape of someone stumbling backward-and then fell away, swallowed by the thick wood. She had shut them out. Every last one of them. The vultures who had come to watch her fall, the sister who had led them to her door, all of it sealed on the other side.

Inside the room, silence gathered like deep water.

And it was absolute.

Aurelia leaned her back against the solid wood of the door, the latch clicking shut with a sound of finality. She let out a long, slow breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The adrenaline that had flooded her system began to recede, leaving a tremor in its wake. Her legs felt weak, like they might give out from under her.

The room was quiet again, but the air was thick with unspoken things.

Hart didn't look at her. He walked past, his long legs eating up the space in the suite. His leather shoes made no sound on the thick carpet as he approached Finch, whom he had hauled back inside for questioning just before the door latched. The man was still whimpering on the floor, scrambling backward, crab-walking away until his back hit the leg of a sofa.

Hart crouched down, his large frame eclipsing Finch completely. He stared into the man's terrified eyes, a predator studying its cornered prey. A low, guttural sound of fear escaped Finch's throat.

With a swift, almost contemptuous motion, Hart reached out and ripped the towel from Finch's mouth.

Finch gasped for air, his chest heaving. "Do you have any idea who I am?" he rasped, the threat empty, his voice shaking.

Hart didn't answer. A small, cold smile touched his lips. He reached into his own pocket and pulled out Finch's phone. The screen lit up, displaying a string of unread messages. He dangled it in front of Finch's face.

A knock at the door. Three sharp, professional raps.

Hart's hand clamped over Finch's mouth before the man could make a sound. His eyes, cold and flat, promised violence. Finch went still.

"Miss Beaumont? Floor manager. Noise complaint from the adjoining suite. Is everything all right?"

Hart was already at the door. He opened it a crack, his body filling the gap. When he spoke, his voice had changed-smooth, polished, the tone of a man who belonged in a penthouse. "Apologies. My employer stumbled. Heel caught the marble. We're turning in for the night."

A pause. "Of course, sir. My apologies."

The door clicked shut. Hart turned back. Aurelia stared at him. The switch-from brute force to polished professionalism in the space of a breath-was not normal.

Aurelia pushed herself off the door and walked over to the armchair Hart had vacated. She sank into it, crossing her legs, the borrowed shirt riding up her thighs. She tried to project an image of control, of a queen on her throne, watching the proceedings with detached interest.

Hart swiped the screen open and tapped on the message thread. Then, he angled the phone so Aurelia could see.

The name at the top of the screen was Celeste.

The last message sent was chillingly clear: The drug should have kicked in by now. Just go right in.

The words burned into Aurelia's mind. A cold, hard knot formed in her stomach. Her fingers dug into the plush velvet of the armrest, her knuckles turning white.

She stood up.

She walked towards Finch, her steps measured and deliberate. She stood over him, her shadow falling across his pale, sweating face. The disgust she felt was a physical thing, a sour taste in her mouth.

"It was Celeste," Finch babbled, his eyes darting between Aurelia and Hart. "She set it all up! She said you were easy, that you'd be grateful for the attention!"

Aurelia's expression didn't change. She lifted her foot and brought her heel down hard on his outstretched hand.

A sharp crack, followed by a scream of pure agony.

The sound echoed in the silent suite. Finch cradled his hand, his face contorted in pain. From the corner of her eye, Aurelia saw Hart's eyebrow lift in a gesture of silent, grim approval.

"Besides the drugs," Aurelia said, her voice a whipcrack in the quiet room, "what else was part of the plan?"

Sweat beaded on Finch's forehead. "A camera," he gasped, his voice tight with pain. "A hidden camera. To record everything."

Aurelia's blood ran cold.

Hart was already moving. He walked to the large media console across the room. Without hesitation, he reached up into the HVAC vent above the television. His fingers probed for a moment before he pulled his hand back.

Clutched between his thumb and forefinger was a tiny black device, no bigger than a button.

He tossed it onto the carpet. Then, he raised his foot and brought the heel of his expensive leather shoe down on it. The crunch of plastic and electronics breaking was loud and satisfying. Finch flinched at the sound.

Aurelia watched him, a sliver of suspicion cutting through her anger. The way he moved, the efficiency of his actions... it wasn't normal.

"Have you had professional training?" she asked, her voice sharp. Her eyes were locked on his face, searching for a crack in his calm facade.

Hart didn't miss a beat. He bent down to adjust the cuff of his sleeve, his expression unreadable.

"I served overseas for a few years," he said, his tone flat. It was a perfect, generic backstory for a high-end security professional. Plausible. Untraceable.

Aurelia held his gaze for a moment longer, then looked away. She didn't fully believe him, but she had more pressing issues.

"Get him out of here," she ordered, waving a dismissive hand at the whimpering man on the floor. "I don't want to see him again."

"Yes, ma'am."

Hart grabbed Finch by the collar, hauling him to his feet as if he weighed nothing. Finch, his fight completely gone, stumbled along, a puppet with its strings cut. Hart dragged him not to the main door, but to a service entrance she hadn't even noticed, hidden behind a tapestry.

The door clicked shut, and she was alone.

The sudden silence was deafening. A wave of dizziness washed over her. The last dregs of the drug, combined with the adrenaline crash, hit her all at once. She swayed, reaching out a hand to brace herself against the wall.

Her mind, no longer focused on the fight, betrayed her. Flashes of the night before-fragmented, chaotic, and hot-assaulted her. A strong hand on her waist. The scent of sandalwood and something uniquely masculine. A low voice murmuring in her ear.

She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose, trying to force the images away.

The service door opened and Hart stepped back in. He saw her instantly, saw the way she was leaning against the wall, her knuckles white. He was across the room in three long strides.

He reached out to steady her.

The moment his fingertips brushed her shoulder, she recoiled as if she'd been burned.

"Don't touch me!" The words were a raw gasp.

She scrambled backward, away from him, until her back hit the cool plaster of the opposite wall. Her eyes were wide, filled with a wild, cornered panic.

Hart's hand froze in mid-air. A flicker of something-hurt, maybe-crossed his face before it was replaced by his usual stoic mask.

He took a slow, deliberate step back, raising his hands slightly in a gesture of surrender. He was giving her space.

Aurelia dragged in a ragged breath, then another, forcing the panic down. She pushed herself off the wall, her spine rigid. When she looked at him again, her face was a mask of ice.

She walked to her purse, which was lying on the floor by the bed. She picked it up, her movements stiff.

"You can go now," she said, her voice devoid of all emotion. "I'll have my assistant wire your payment. And a bonus, for your... discretion."

She was cutting him off, reducing what had happened between them to a transaction. A service rendered. A bill to be paid.

Hart's jaw tightened. The air in the room grew heavy, dangerous. His eyes, which had been calm moments before, now smoldered with a dark, unreadable fire.

Hart stared at her, his dark eyes boring into hers. The professional calm he usually wore had vanished, replaced by a raw intensity that made the air crackle. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Aurelia's heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, unsteady rhythm.

She forced herself to move, to break his paralyzing gaze. She walked to the sofa, her movements a little too stiff as she gripped her purse. Her fingers, trembling slightly, fumbled with the clasp. She pulled out her checkbook.

The sound of his footsteps on the carpet behind her was silent, but she felt his presence as a physical weight, a looming shadow that blocked out the light.

She flinched but didn't turn around.

She clicked the pen, the small sound unnaturally loud in the quiet room. "How much?" she asked, her voice brittle. She kept her eyes fixed on the blank check, refusing to look at him.

A large, warm hand suddenly covered hers, pressing the checkbook down against the sofa cushion. His fingers were long and strong, the pressure unyielding. Her pen stopped moving.

She looked up, her anger flaring. "Take your hand off me."

Her voice was cold, the imperious tone of a woman used to being obeyed. But it had no effect on him. He didn't move. He just looked at her, his eyes blazing with a fire she couldn't name.

"Is that what this is to you?" he asked, his voice low and rough, a dangerous rumble. "A transaction? Something you can just pay for and forget?"

She tried to yank the checkbook from under his hand, but it was like trying to move stone. Frustration and a flicker of fear washed over her. She let go.

With a swift, dismissive motion, he picked up the checkbook and tossed it. It sailed across the room, landing silently on the thick rug, a useless piece of paper. He had just severed her only line of defense.

Aurelia scrambled backward, a strangled gasp escaping her lips. She forgot about the glass coffee table behind her. The edge of it hit the back of her calves, and she lost her balance, tipping backward with a cry of alarm.

Before she could fall, an arm like a steel band wrapped around her waist, pulling her forward. She stumbled into him, her hands landing flat against the hard wall of his chest. The crisp cotton of his shirt was warm beneath her palms. His body was solid, immovable.

Her heart leaped into her throat. She could feel the steady, powerful beat of his heart under her hand, a stark contrast to her own frantic pulse. She tried to push him away, but he tightened his grip, holding her fast.

He lowered his head, his mouth close to her ear. His breath was hot against her skin, sending a shiver down her spine.

"I don't want your money, Aurelia," he said, his voice low and rough, but the anger had drained from it. What remained was something harder to name-something that sounded almost like a confession. "What I want... is for you to stop looking at me like I'm just another man you have to pay to stay."

Her breath caught.

"You asked me earlier what kind of training I've had," he continued, his thumb now resting at the corner of her jaw, light as a question. "You're right not to trust me. You'd be a fool if you did. But sooner or later, you're going to need someone in this fight who isn't on your family's payroll."

He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes.

"I'm asking you to let that someone be me."

The words hung in the air between them-not a demand, not a confession of love, but an offer. A door left open.

Aurelia stared at him, her mind racing. He's right. She didn't trust him. Every instinct she had told her there was more to Hart than a discharged soldier looking for private security work. The way he had found that camera-fingers moving straight to the vent, no hesitation. The way he had tied up a hedge fund manager on his own authority, as if the rules of ordinary men didn't apply to him.

And now this. An offer of loyalty that asked for nothing in return but her trust.

It was the most dangerous thing he could have said.

Reality came crashing back. She shoved him, hard. This time, he let her go. She stumbled back, putting as much distance between them as she could.

"You're my bodyguard," she said, but the cruel, mocking edge she had reached for didn't quite land. Her voice wavered. She tried again, forcing steel into it. "Don't get any ideas above your station."

The words were still sharp, but they sounded hollow now-a reflex, not a conviction. A script she was reciting because she didn't know what else to say.

Hart didn't flinch. He didn't retreat. He just held her gaze, steady and unreadable, as if he could see right through the performance.

She backed away until she felt the cold, unyielding wall against her back. There was nowhere left to run.

He followed, stopping just in front of her. He placed a hand on the wall next to her head, trapping her. He leaned in, his body caging hers, his scent-sandalwood and clean musk-filling her senses.

"I can be more than that," he murmured, his voice a low, hypnotic whisper.

The proximity, the scent, the intensity in his eyes-it was too much. Her carefully constructed composure began to crumble. The ghosts of the past, of another man's betrayal, another man's touch, rose up to choke her. And beneath it, colder and sharper, the splinter of doubt she couldn't remove: Who are you, really? And why do you want this so badly?

The room started to feel small, the air thin.

Her face went pale.

He saw it instantly. The shift in her eyes, the sudden, stark terror that replaced her anger-and beneath the terror, something else. Calculation. The look of a woman who had learned, long ago, that trust was a luxury she couldn't afford.

Regret washed over his features. He immediately pulled back, dropping his hand from the wall.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice strained. "I pushed too hard."

He took two steps back, creating a safe distance between them. He held his hands up, palms out, a clear sign that he was no threat.

The strength drained from Aurelia's legs. She slid down the wall, her body folding in on itself until she was sitting on the floor. She wrapped her arms around her knees, making herself as small as possible. Her eyes burned, but she refused to cry. She refused to let him see how close he had come to breaking through.

He didn't speak. He walked over to the minibar, his movements quiet and deliberate. He poured a glass of water-not from the chilled bottle, she noticed, but from the room-temperature one. He walked back and crouched down in front of her, offering her the glass.

She hesitated for a long moment before taking it. Her fingers brushed against his as she did, and a jolt, like static electricity, passed between them. They both froze for a fraction of a second.

"I would never hurt you, Aurelia," he said, his voice soft but firm, filled with an unshakeable conviction. "No matter what you think of me, believe that."

She looked up at him, at the raw sincerity in his dark eyes. And for the first time, something shifted. Not trust-not yet. But the recognition that whoever this man was, whatever he was hiding, he was not her enemy. Not today.

It was a fragile, dangerous thought. She tucked it away, somewhere she wouldn't have to examine it too closely.

Suddenly, the shrill, jarring ring of the hotel landline cut through the fragile peace.

Aurelia jumped, startled by the sound.

Hart rose to his feet and answered it. "Yes?"

He listened for a moment, his back to her. She watched as his shoulders tensed, his entire posture shifting from gentle protector to something harder, more dangerous.

He hung up the phone and turned to face her. His expression was grim, his eyes cold as steel.

"Preston Vance is in the lobby," he said. "He's brought his attorney. And he's demanding to see you."