In Love with My Defiant Bodyguard

Stacy Thompson had always gotten her way.

At twenty-four, she'd mastered the art of wrapping people around her finger-a smile here, a well-timed tantrum there, and even the most stubborn person would bend. Her father's employees? They jumped at her every whim. She had no friends and became so cold after her mom died. Even her father, the powerful David Thompson, owner of Thompson Industries and one of the wealthiest men in America, usually gave in sometimes....

Until today.

"Absolutely not," Stacy said, crossing her arms as she stood in her father's study in their mansion. "I'm not having some stranger following me around, i'm 24 dad!"

David Thompson didn't look up from the documents he was signing. His jaw was set in that familiar stubborn line that Stacy had inherited from him. "It's not up for discussion, Stacy."

"Everything is up for discussion dad!"

"Not this." Her father finally met her eyes, and Stacy saw something there she hadn't seen in the six months since her mother's death-fear. Real, bone-deep fear. "The threats are credible. After what happened to your mother, I'm not taking any chances."

The mention of her mother made Stacy's chest tighten, but she pushed the pain down like she always did. "Mom died in a car accident."Stacy says

"That's what the police report says."David replied

Stacy froze. "What does that mean?"

Her father's expression closed off. "It means you're getting a bodyguard, and that's final."

"I don't need protection. I need answers!" Stacy's voice rose. "You won't talk about what happened, you won't let me look into it, you just want to lock me away like some princess in a tower!"

"I want to keep you alive." David stood, his imposing six-foot-three frame towering over her. "And you will cooperate with your new bodyguard, or I will cut off your credit cards, your trust fund access, and every other privilege you take for granted. Do I make myself clear?"

Stacy stared at her father in shock. He'd never spoken to her like this before. Never been this harsh, this unbending.

"Crystal," she said coldly.

"Good. He'll be here in ten minutes."

"He?" Stacy raised an eyebrow. "You hired a male bodyguard to follow your daughter around?"

"I hired the best. Gender is irrelevant."

Before Stacy could respond, there was a knock on the study door. Marcus, their head of security, stepped inside. "Mr. Thompson, Isaiah Wright is here."

"Send him in."

Stacy turned toward the door, preparing her best dismissive expression. She'd have this bodyguard quit within a week. She'd done it before with personal assistants, and drivers. This would be no different.

Then Isaiah Wright walked through the door, and every thought in Stacy's head evaporated.

He was tall-at least six-two-with broad shoulders that filled out his black tactical jacket perfectly. His dark hair was cut short, military-style, and his jawline could cut glass. But it was his eyes that caught her attention. Bright blue, sharp, and utterly unimpressed as they swept over her once before focusing on her father.

"Mr. Thompson," Isaiah said, his voice deep and professional. He didn't even glance at Stacy again.

"Mr. Wright. Thank you for coming on such short notice." Her father shook Isaiah's hand. "This is my daughter, Stacy."

Isaiah's blue eyes finally landed on her again, and Stacy felt a strange flutter in her stomach. He gave her a single nod. "Ma'am."

Ma'am? Stacy bristled. She was twenty-four, not some middle-aged woman.

"I've briefed Mr. Wright on the situation," her father continued. "He'll be with you at all times. He has full authority to override your plans if he deems them unsafe."

"Excuse me?" Stacy whipped her head toward her father. "Full authority?"

"That's correct," Isaiah said, speaking directly to her for the first time. His expression remained neutral, professional. "I understand this is an adjustment, but your safety is non-negotiable."

"I didn't ask you," Stacy snapped.

Something flickered in Isaiah's eyes-amusement, maybe?-but his face remained impassive. "Noted."

"Stacy," her father warned.

She ignored him, stepping closer to Isaiah. Up close, she could see he was even more attractive than she'd first thought, with a small scar cutting through his left eyebrow. He smelled really nice and clean, like fresh laundry. "Let me make something very clear, Mr. Wright. I don't need a bodyguard. I don't want a bodyguard. And I certainly don't need some military reject telling me what to do."

Isaiah's expression didn't change. "Are you finished?"

Stacy blinked. "What?"

"Are you finished with your tantrum?" Isaiah's voice remained calm, almost bored. "Because I have a job to do, and your feelings about it are irrelevant."

No one talked to her like that. No one.

"How dare you-"

"Stacy, enough." Her father's voice cracked like a whip. "Isaiah, her schedule is on the tablet Marcus will provide. She has a charity luncheon tomorrow at noon, shopping scheduled for the afternoon, and dinner with friends at eight."

"I'll review the locations and make adjustments as needed," Isaiah said.

"You will not make adjustments to my plans!" Stacy practically shouted.

Isaiah finally looked at her fully, and his blue eyes were cold as ice. "Ms. Thompson, let me be very clear. I don't care if you like me. I don't care if you're happy. I was hired to keep you alive, and that's exactly what I'm going to do. Whether you cooperate or not is up to you, but either way, I'm not going anywhere."

Stacy felt her face flush with anger. "We'll see about that."

"Yes," Isaiah said quietly. "We will."

Her father cleared his throat. "Isaiah, there's a room prepared for you in the east wing. Marcus will show you. You start tomorrow at seven."

"Six," Isaiah corrected, still looking at Stacy. "I need to assess Ms. Thompson's morning routine."

"I don't have a morning routine," Stacy said through gritted teeth.

"You do now." Isaiah turned back to her father. "Thank you, Mr. Thompson. I won't let you down."

After Isaiah left with Marcus, Stacy rounded on her father. "Are you serious right now? That man is insufferable!"

"That man is a former Navy SEAL with twelve years of protection experience," her father said calmly, returning to his desk. "He's guarded diplomats, CEOs, and foreign dignitaries. He's exactly what you need."

"What I need is for you to tell me the truth about Mom!"

Her father's expression hardened. "Your mother is dead. Nothing will change that."

"But if someone killed her-"

"Stacy, please." Her father suddenly looked exhausted, older than his fifty-two years. "I can't lose you too. Just... let Isaiah do his job. Please."

The raw pain in her father's voice made Stacy's anger deflate slightly. She knew he was grieving, that they both were. But where her father found comfort in protection and control, Stacy needed answers.

"Fine," she said quietly. "But I'm not making it easy for him."

Her father's lips twitched in what might have been a smile. "I wouldn't expect anything less."

#LATER THAT NIGHT

Stacy lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling of her bedroom. The house felt too quiet without her mother's laughter, without the sound of her parents talking late into the night in the study below her room.

Her mother, Catherine Thompson, had been the glue that held their family together. She'd been warm where David was cold, gentle where he was harsh, understanding where he was rigid. And six months ago, her car had gone off a bridge during a storm.

The police said it was an accident. Wet roads, poor visibility, a tragic mistake.

But Stacy had seen the way her father's security had tripled overnight. The way he'd stopped sleeping, stopped eating. The way he looked over his shoulder constantly, as if expecting an attack.

He knew something. Something he wasn't telling her.

And now he'd hired Isaiah Wright-a man who looked at her like she was a mission objective rather than a person-to keep her contained.

Well, Stacy thought, if Isaiah wanted to follow her around, he was going to learn just how difficult she could be.

But as she closed her eyes, she couldn't shake the memory of those cold blue eyes, or the way her pulse had quickened when he'd stepped into her personal space without flinching.

This was going to be complicated.

The next morning at exactly 5:45 AM, Stacy woke to someone pounding on her bedroom door.

"What the hell?" she mumbled, pulling her silk sleep mask off and squinting at her clock.

The pounding continued.

"Go away!" Stacy yelled.

"Ms. Thompson, you have five minutes to get dressed," Isaiah's voice called through the door. "We're going for a run."

Stacy sat up, fury replacing her grogginess. "I don't run!"

"You do now. Four minutes."

"I'm not going anywhere with you!"

"Three minutes. After that, I'm coming in."

"You wouldn't dare-"

She heard the sound of a key turning in her lock. Her father had given him a key to her room?

Stacy scrambled out of bed, grabbing her robe and wrapping it tightly around herself just as her door opened. Isaiah stood in the doorway, dressed in black running gear, looking far too alert for this ungodly hour.

His eyes swept over her once-completely professional, no hint of appreciation for her appearance-before meeting her gaze. "Two minutes. Running clothes. Meet me downstairs."

"Get out of my room!"

"Gladly. Clock's ticking, Ms. Thompson." He pulled the door closed behind him.

Stacy stood there, shaking with rage and something else she didn't want to examine too closely. How dare he? How dare her father?

But she knew if she didn't go down, Isaiah would come back up. And she'd be damned if she gave him the satisfaction of physically dragging her out of bed.

With jerky movements, she pulled on leggings and a sports bra, threw a tank top over it, and shoved her feet into running shoes she'd bought two years ago and never worn. She pulled her long blonde hair into a messy ponytail and stomped downstairs.

Isaiah was waiting by the front door, holding a water bottle. He handed it to her without comment.

"I hate you," Stacy said, snatching the bottle.

"Noted. Let's go."

The morning air was crisp and cool as they stepped outside. The sun was just starting to rise over the Chicago skyline, painting everything in shades of gold and pink.

"We'll start with two miles," Isaiah said, beginning to stretch.

"I'm not running two miles."

"Then run one mile. But you're running."

"Why?" Stacy demanded. "What does this have to do with protection?"

Isaiah straightened, his blue eyes finally showing some emotion-determination. "Because if someone tries to grab you, I need to know you can run. Because physical fitness could save your life. And because your father mentioned you've been cooped up in this house for six months, barely leaving, barely living. Exercise helps with grief."

The last part caught Stacy off guard. She'd expected him to be all business, all protocol. She hadn't expected him to acknowledge her mother's death, or to suggest he actually cared about her well being beyond just keeping her alive.

"How would you know?" she asked quietly.

Isaiah's jaw tightened. "Because I've lost people too. And I know what it's like to drown in it." He started jogging down the driveway. "Come on. We'll take it slow."

Stacy stood there for a moment, torn between her stubborn desire to defy him and a strange curiosity about this infuriating man.

Finally, she started jogging after him.

"This doesn't mean I like you," she called out.

"Good," Isaiah called back. "I'm not here to be liked."

As they ran through the quiet morning streets, Stacy's security detail following at a discrete distance in a black SUV, she couldn't help but wonder what she'd gotten herself into.

And why, despite everything, she was already looking forward to tomorrow's run.

One month later, Stacy was running like her life depended on it.

"Time!" Isaiah called out as she crossed their makeshift finish line at the end of the driveway, breathing hard but steady.

Stacy bent over, hands on her knees, chest heaving. "How... did I do?"

Isaiah checked his watch, and something that might have been approval flickered across his face. "Seven-minute miles. You've cut ninety seconds off your time since we started."

Despite her exhaustion, Stacy felt a surge of pride. A month ago, she could barely run a quarter mile without wanting to die. Now she was running five miles every morning, and actually enjoying it.

"Not bad for someone who claimed she 'didn't run,'" Isaiah said, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Was that almost a smile, Mr. Wright?" Stacy straightened up, pushing sweaty blonde hair out of her face. "Careful, people might think you're human."

"Can't have that." But his eyes held warmth that hadn't been there four weeks ago.

Their relationship had shifted, slowly and subtly. Stacy was still stubborn-she'd tried to ditch him at the mall twice, refused to change her shopping plans, and insisted on eating at restaurants he deemed "security nightmares." But Isaiah never bent. He simply cancelled her car, rerouted her schedule, or physically positioned himself between her and whatever danger he perceived.

The first time he'd literally picked her up and carried her away from a crowd that was getting too aggressive, Stacy had screamed at him for twenty minutes. Isaiah had waited until she finished, then calmly explained his reasoning. When she tried the same stunt again, he'd done it again.

Stacy learned quickly that Isaiah Wright didn't do anything he didn't want to do, and nothing she said or did would change that. It was infuriating. It was also, she was beginning to realize, exactly what she needed.

"Alright," Isaiah said, tossing her a fresh water bottle. "Cool down stretch, then we're starting something new."

"What new thing?"

"Self-defense training."

Stacy's eyes widened. "Seriously?"

"You're fast now. That's good. But if someone corners you, you need to know how to fight back." Isaiah started walking toward the house. "Thirty minutes to shower and eat. Meet me in the gym."

Their house had a full gym in the basement that Stacy had maybe used twice in her life. Now she showered quickly, threw on workout clothes, and headed down to find Isaiah had already set up mats on the floor.

He'd changed too-black athletic pants and a fitted gray t-shirt that showed off arms that looked like they could bend steel. Stacy tried not to stare.

"First rule," Isaiah said as she approached. "Always be aware of your surroundings. Most attacks can be avoided if you see them coming."

"And if I don't see them coming?"

"Then you create distance and run. That's always your first option." He moved to the center of the mat. "But if you can't run, you need to know vulnerable points. Eyes, nose, throat, groin. You're not trying to win a fight-you're trying to create an opening to escape."

For the next hour, Isaiah walked her through basic movements. How to break a wrist grip. How to throw an elbow. How to use her body weight to her advantage even though she was smaller than most attackers.

Stacy was terrible at it.

"No, your stance is too wide," Isaiah said for the tenth time. "You'll lose your balance."

"I'm trying!"

"Try harder." But his voice wasn't harsh, just firm.

He demonstrated again, his movements fluid and precise. When Stacy attempted to copy him, she nearly tripped over her own feet.

"This is hopeless," she groaned. "I'm not a fighter."

"You're not a fighter yet," Isaiah corrected. He stepped behind her, and Stacy felt her breath catch as his hands gently adjusted her shoulders. "You're thinking too much. Stop trying to be perfect and just react."

His touch was professional, clinical even, but Stacy was acutely aware of how close he was, the heat of his body behind hers.

"Feet shoulder-width apart," Isaiah continued, apparently unaffected. "Knees slightly bent. Good. Now when I grab you-" his hand closed around her wrist, firm but not painful, "-what do you do?"

Stacy's mind went blank. All she could focus on was the pressure of his fingers, the smell of his cologne.

"Stacy."

She snapped back to attention. "Um. Twist away?"

"Show me."

She tried to yank her arm free and failed completely.

"You're pulling against my strength," Isaiah said patiently. "Don't do that. You'll never win. Instead-" He released her, then grabbed her wrist again. "Rotate your wrist toward my thumb. That's the weakest point of my grip."

Stacy tried again, and this time her hand slipped free.

"Better," Isaiah said. "Again."

They drilled the movement over and over. Then another. And another. Isaiah was endlessly patient, never getting frustrated when she messed up, always explaining things clearly. He corrected her form with the same professional detachment, never inappropriate, never making her feel uncomfortable.

"Alright," he finally said after two hours. "That's enough for today."

Stacy collapsed on the mat, every muscle screaming. "You're trying to kill me."

"If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead." Isaiah handed her a towel. "You did well."

"I was awful."

"You were a beginner. There's a difference." He sat down beside her, not quite close enough to touch. "Everyone's terrible at first. The key is showing up and doing the work. You're doing that."

Stacy looked at him, really looked at him. His blue eyes were serious, sincere. "Why do you care if I learn this?"

Isaiah was quiet for a moment. "Because the world is dangerous, especially for people like you. Wealthy, visible, vulnerable. And because..." He paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. "I've seen what happens when people can't defend themselves. I don't want that to happen to you."

There was something in his voice, a old pain that made Stacy wonder what he'd witnessed, what he'd lived through.

"Isaiah-"

"Go eat lunch," he said, standing abruptly. "I'll be upstairs when you're done. Your father wants you to review some documents for the foundation."

And just like that, the walls were back up.