The Billionaire's Daughter in Danger

You know how people in movies always seem to know when their lives are about to change? Yeah, that doesn't happen in real life. You don't wake up one morning and think, "Oh, my God, I'm going to get kidnapped today."

The day I got kidnapped, I didn't wake up with some otherworldly premonition about what was about to happen. I woke up barking orders at the air, still stuck in party-planning mode even when I was half-asleep. I had no idea my life was about to change. If I had, I would've run for the hills. I would've even been willing to abandon my party-planning. But I didn't have a premonition, and I didn't run. I just kept obsessively planning my best friend's birthday party.

"No, no, no! I said gardenias. First Love gardenias. What is so impossible to understand about that?" I snapped into the phone, cutting the man off every time he tried to speak. He was obviously just your average worker. He was too flustered to be anyone of power. "No! No! I don't want to hear talk of tulips! Or lilies! I said gardenias. We want First Love gardenias. No. No!"

People these days were so incompetent. Why would this man even think to suggest tulips or lilies when I was so clear about our desire for gardenias? It was ridiculous.

"Ma'am, you must understand-"

"There's nothing to understand," I exclaimed. "My client said she wanted First Love gardenias, and that's what I'm getting her. Not tulips. Not lilies. Gardenias."

My client wasn't just any client; I wouldn't have been doing this for any old person. My client just so happened to be my best friend, Taylor Williamson, and this wasn't just any party. It was her eighteenth birthday party, and it had to be absolutely perfect. Taylor had entrusted me with this job, assuming I would do it to the best of my ability, and that was exactly what I was going to do. No imbecile was going to ruin this for me or for her.

"But we don't-"

"I don't care! I'm not asking for some endangered flower from Africa. My request is so simple. Gardenias. We just want gardenias."

Well, I was definitely never ordering flowers from this business ever again. This was absolutely ridiculous. Horrible service. Just horrible.

"But we don't have-"

"You are living proof that evolution can go in reverse. Haven't I made myself more than clear? We. Want. First. Love. Gardenias."

"Ma'am, I'm sure there are plenty of other very beautiful flowers-"

"No," I snapped, shaking my head even though the man couldn't see me. "I don't want to hear talk of these other flowers! You have two choices: either get the gardenias for this party, or count on losing our funding and patronization."

He sounded much more nervous the next time he spoke. "There's no need to take such drastic measures. Ma'am-"

"You're making me take drastic measures!" I interrupted, grinding my teeth. "If you don't figure this out, we'll be moving to another flower shop. And I promise you, that's going to cost you. My clients are not the type who take kindly to delays. Do you understand that? I don't have the luxury of playing games."

The silence on the other end was thick, but then I heard the unmistakable sound of hurried typing. I had him now. He knew he was losing my business, and I was the kind of customer who didn't forget these things.

"Okay, ma'am," he stammered. "I'll check with our stock and get back to you as soon as I can."

"That's better. You'd better hurry up. If you're not calling me back within the next hour, I'll be taking my business elsewhere." I ended the call with a firm snap of the phone. I needed to focus. The party had a million moving parts, and I wasn't about to let one incompetent flower vendor ruin everything.

With a deep breath, I turned to the party-planning binder I had been obsessively curating for the past six months. It had every detail covered: color schemes, guest lists, catering options, and the ever-important flower arrangements. Taylor had been clear about what she wanted. Gardenias. Not just any gardenias, but First Love gardenias. There was no substitute. If I couldn't get those flowers, the whole event would fall apart. It was as simple as that.

I scrolled through the guest list next. The guest list was critical. We couldn't have too many people crowding the space, but at the same time, we needed to make sure Taylor's friends and family were all accounted for. Taylor wasn't just any girl-she was the type who expected the best, and she trusted me to deliver. We'd been best friends since kindergarten, and when she asked me to plan this monumental event for her, I couldn't have said no. I knew how important it was.

It was then that I noticed the time. I had been up for hours already, planning and making calls, and I still hadn't had breakfast. My stomach growled, but I pushed the thought aside. There was no time for food. Not now. I was in full-on party-planning mode, and nothing could derail me.

The next few hours were a blur of calls, emails, and frantic running around. The caterer confirmed the menu, the decorators assured me that the venue was coming along, and the entertainment had been booked. Everything seemed to be falling into place... except for the damn flowers.

I had already contacted three other florists in the area, and none of them carried First Love gardenias. It was starting to feel like a lost cause. The frustration gnawed at me, but I refused to give up. Not after all this effort. Taylor deserved perfection.

Around midday, I made the mistake of glancing at my phone again. The screen lit up with a message from Taylor: I'm so excited for the party! Thanks for planning everything. You're the best! I smiled at the message. Of course, I was the best. I always delivered.

But as I tapped out a quick reply, my phone buzzed with another call from the flower shop. I groaned and answered it, my patience wearing thin.

"Ma'am, I've managed to secure a shipment of First Love gardenias," the voice on the other end said, the relief evident in his tone. "They'll be arriving at your venue within the hour."

I could feel the tension in my shoulders melt away, and for the first time today, I allowed myself to smile. "Thank you," I said, a little more graciously than I had been all morning. "I appreciate your persistence."

"Of course, ma'am. Thank you for your understanding. We look forward to working with you again in the future."

I hung up, feeling a wave of triumph wash over me. The flowers were taken care of. Now, I just needed to focus on the final details. The guest list, the seating chart, the music. I was nearly there.

As I reviewed my checklist, I heard a knock on the door. At first, I ignored it. But when the knocking continued, I rose from my seat, irritation creeping back in. I opened the door to find a delivery driver holding a package.

"Package for Alexander McKinley," he said, handing me the clipboard to sign.

I raised an eyebrow. "I didn't order anything."

"Not sure, ma'am. Just says to deliver it to this address."

I signed without asking too many questions, curious about what could possibly be inside. The box wasn't large, but it felt heavier than expected. I moved to my desk and carefully cut through the tape. Inside was an assortment of odd items: a few bundles of cheap, garish ribbons, a set of miniature candles, and a note.

I unfolded the note, and my heart skipped a beat as I read the single line scrawled across the paper:

You should have been more careful with your plans. We're watching.

I froze. Something in my gut twisted. My pulse quickened. It wasn't just a prank. It couldn't be.

I glanced around, suddenly hyper-aware of every little sound. The silence in my apartment felt suffocating.

I had no idea what was happening, but something told me I had just crossed a line. A line I wouldn't be able to uncross.

"No, there is a need. I meant what I said. The choice is yours. Goodbye."

I felt like that was a good moment to end the conversation, so I did exactly that. Something told me he'd find a way to get me those flowers. My dad gave his business a lot of money, and I wasn't afraid to remind people of that when needed. I wasn't the sort of person to beg or plead for anything, and the thought of asking for flowers seemed too small a request to bother him with. I didn't need to, anyway. He was going to come through. He always did when money was involved.

Glancing around the mostly empty ballroom, I heaved a loud sigh. This place was nowhere near ready, and I had less than a week to plan this party. I wasn't panicking-at least not yet-but I was close. The ballroom itself was gorgeous. If the event was going to be remembered for anything, it was going to be the setting. The high ceilings, the glistening chandeliers, the smooth marble floors-it all screamed luxury, class, and wealth. But that wasn't enough. It needed pizzazz, and pizzazz didn't come from lilies or freaking tulips. That was for sure.

"Ugh, this is going to be a nightmare," I muttered under my breath.

I could already feel my neck tightening with the familiar tension that always crept in when the clock started ticking louder. The last-minute scramble was nothing new for me. I thrived under pressure, but the pressure wasn't what bothered me. It was the constant stream of people who thought they could handle things for me and then somehow managed to screw them up. Like Aaron.

Aaron Gaff ran past me just then, distracting me from my contemplations. He was carrying a large cardboard box, and his usual exuberance seemed muted. Aaron was pretty much my only guy friend. We'd known each other since childhood-before the weight of the family business started to consume me. He was a good guy, even if he could be a bit... unreliable sometimes. I had a soft spot for him, though. I tended to scare everyone else off, but that was fine with me. They were all idiots, anyway. And Aaron wasn't an idiot. He was just... a little slow to catch on sometimes.

"Aaron!" I barked, making him stop in his tracks. He turned and gave me a crooked grin, the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes. "What's in that box? Did you find the lights I told you about?"

Aaron hesitated, his eyes flicking down to the box. "No-well, not exactly. I found these, and they're just as good."

I narrowed my eyes and peered inside the box, making a face at the contents. I was immediately repulsed. "Are you kidding me? These are not just as good! The lights I told you about are lined with gold. These are lined with what, bronze? Some other cheap knockoff? No, this isn't what I wanted. Go find the lights!"

Aaron took a step back, lifting his hands in surrender. "But-"

"Go!" I snapped.

From the look he gave me, it was obvious he didn't appreciate my tone. But it wasn't like he was doing this for free. I was paying the guy-generously, too. He knew what he was getting into when he agreed to help, and he was damn lucky to have a gig like this, considering my dad's connections. I didn't care about his feelings at the moment. This was business. I needed things done right, or nothing was going to go according to plan.

As I watched Aaron run out the door, my phone vibrated in my hand, jolting me from my frustration. I glanced at the caller ID. Of course, it was the catering company. The last thing I needed right now was another screw-up, but here we were. I sighed, knowing that whatever was about to happen on the other end of this call was going to make my life harder. I answered with a frown. "This is Emma van der Bilt," I said, adjusting my phone over my ear.

"Hi, Emma. I'm just calling to confirm your order," a woman's voice said, cheery but with that edge of formality that was supposed to reassure me. It didn't.

"That's fine. List it off for me," I said, pinching the bridge of my nose as I tried to center myself. I didn't have time for this, but I had to deal with it now. Otherwise, it would only get worse.

She started reading through the items-shrimp cocktails, grilled asparagus, chocolate mousse, all the usual fancy stuff. It wasn't exactly my first choice, but when you're hosting an event with people who love to make everything about themselves, you have to compromise. The menu was safe, predictable, and would impress no one except the people who didn't know any better.

And then, she said it.

"...and I see here you've ordered cream of mushroom soup?"

I blinked. "Wait a second. Did you just say cream of mushroom?"

"Yes. Is there a problem?"

I huffed in disbelief. "Is there a problem? Is there a problem? Of course, there's a problem! I said crème brûlée, not cream of mushroom! How do you even mix the two up?"

The woman on the other end of the line was silent for a beat. "I'm so sorry for the mix-up, Emma. I'll fix this right away and have your order ready by Saturday."

I could practically hear her frantically typing away on her keyboard. "Good. Call me when you have it right," I snapped, and without another word, I hung up.

I stared at my phone, fuming. This was stressing me out beyond belief, and it really shouldn't have been stressing me out at all. It couldn't be that hard to get a simple request down correctly. I'd given them a list, specifically detailing everything. So how did cream of mushroom even get into the mix? And it wasn't just that. Nearly everyone had somehow screwed up my orders. My florist had delivered roses instead of peonies-peonies! How was that even possible? And then there was the band. They'd promised an acoustic set and instead showed up with a full rock band, drums and all. I'd had to send them home and go without music. I couldn't afford to lose anything else now. I needed perfection.

This was getting way out of hand. It wasn't supposed to be like this. I needed to calm down, but it was hard to when everything I touched seemed to turn into a disaster. Maybe I just needed a nap. I'd been up for hours, double-checking the venue, contacting the vendors, and making sure the guest list didn't have any surprises on it. Taylor's birthday party was supposed to be the event of the year, and somehow, it was starting to feel like a disaster waiting to happen.

I leaned against the cold marble pillar in the ballroom, my mind whirling with everything that had to be done. I could feel the weight of it all pressing in, and the last thing I wanted to do was admit how overwhelmed I was. But maybe that was part of the problem-my pride. I refused to ask for help. I'd never needed it before, but now... now, I wasn't sure.

Footsteps echoed in the distance, and I turned to see a woman in a black dress approaching me with a clipboard in hand. I didn't recognize her, but she must have been one of the event coordinators for the venue.

"Miss van der Bilt?" she asked, her voice polite but professional.

I nodded, straightening up. "Yes?"

"We've been asked to go over the seating arrangements," she said. "It's quite an intricate set-up, and I just wanted to make sure everything aligns with your vision."

I forced a smile, pushing all my frustration aside for a moment. I couldn't afford to lose it now, not with only a few days left. "Of course. Let's take a look."

As we walked toward the table layout, I couldn't help but wonder if anyone would notice when I finally snapped under all this pressure. For now, though, I just needed to get it done. Get everything perfect. And then maybe, just maybe, I could get some sleep.

"Emmy, you should really chill out," Taylor said, walking towards me with a frown on her face. She placed a hand on her hip and shot me a look when she reached me. "You're stressing out, and you know what happens when you stress out."

I let out a sigh, running a hand through my hair in frustration. "I know, I know. I break out." Pimples were probably the thing I hated most, but I wouldn't have been surprised if I woke up with a monster zit one of these days. "I mean, how am I supposed to keep everything perfect when everything feels like it's falling apart?"

"Exactly. So just chill out. It'll all be fine!"

"Right. Except I'm the one who has to make sure it turns out fine." I waved my hands in the air, trying to demonstrate the sheer volume of things that were currently on my shoulders.

"And it will," she went on, sounding annoyingly calm. I half-expected her to hit me with a "serenity now" mantra. "Seriously, I'm super excited! This is going to be the best birthday party of all time, and even I'm not freaking out over this, and it's my party, so what does that tell you?"

"That you have an unusual disinterest in parties and party planning?" I raised an eyebrow.

She laughed and shook her head. "No, it tells you that you need to calm down."

I sighed again, feeling the weight of everything pressing down. "You're right." No, she wasn't. "I'll try to calm down, I guess." Except that was a lie. There was no way I was going to calm down. Calmness wasn't in my genes. Obsessive tracking and planning was in my genes. No, really. My mother had literally given birth to me while preparing for an event, and I'd inherited her intensity. The idea of letting things unfold without obsessive oversight made my skin crawl.

Taylor beamed at me, completely unaware of my real take on this matter. I didn't want to be the kind of person who snapped at her for trying to be supportive.

I actually did attempt to calm down a bit, and it worked pretty well at first. For a few minutes, I walked around the ballroom breezily, my heels clicking against the marble floor with a confidence I didn't entirely feel. I silently surveyed the work that was being done-extra chairs being set up around the dance floor, floral arrangements being carefully placed on the tables, a string quartet tuning their instruments in the corner-and nodded politely when I got a phone call. Well, as politely as I could handle. My manners weren't the best, despite my upbringing. I blamed the rebellious teenager in me for it, the one who had ignored every single rule in the book during high school just because she could.

But then... it all started to fall apart.

It wasn't the floral arrangements or the string quartet. It wasn't even the too-early wine tasting, where half the staff had probably already sneaked a glass or two and were now whispering about what would be served during dinner. No, it was something else entirely.

The calmness and politeness I had been managing to exude evaporated the second I spotted him. Jack. My bodyguard.

Now, Jack was, for the most part, an alright guy. He was always there when I needed him, always a step behind, making sure I didn't get into trouble. But right now, he was... well, doing something that was, quite frankly, unforgivable.

There he was, over by the dessert table, sneaking dessert samples into his jacket. His face was so guilty it could've been its own crime scene. He glanced around the room to make sure no one was watching him-except, you know, he did a terrible job of it. If I, someone who had been distracted by a stray napkin, could catch him, what did that say about his "elite" surveillance skills? What kind of a bodyguard was he? He was supposed to be an expert at surveillance!

I froze, my heart racing with disbelief and frustration. Was he serious right now?

"Jack, you thieving fatso!" I shouted, narrowing my eyes at him. The whole ballroom seemed to stop for a moment, eyes turning to me as my voice rang out through the air. "Put that down right now!"

Jack froze, his eyes widening in alarm as he turned slowly toward me, looking like a guilty child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. His face turned crimson, and he sheepishly shuffled his feet. "Sorry, Em."

I shook my head in disbelief, stalking over to where he was standing, each step filled with a growing sense of exasperation. The last thing I needed right now was this. I snatched the half-eaten dessert samples out of his hand, glaring at him with the kind of look that would probably burn a hole in the floor if I stared long enough.

"What if you took a sample that was absolutely amazing?" I snapped, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "What if you destroyed our chance at having the most scrumptious dessert on the face of this planet at Taylor's party? Do you realize the gravity of this situation?"

Jack's eyes darted to the desserts, and I saw a flash of regret cross his face. He was probably realizing the importance of his crime a little too late.

"I'm sorry, I just... I thought it would be fine," he muttered, clearly embarrassed. "I thought I'd try a few, you know, for-uh-quality control."

I couldn't help it. I snorted. "Quality control?" I raised an eyebrow, crossing my arms over my chest. "Is that what we're calling it now? You're a bodyguard, not a chef."

He shrugged, looking mildly defeated. "Well, you know, it's all about keeping an eye on the little things, Em."

I glanced at the samples I was holding, now looking at them with renewed concern. They were clearly not the kind of desserts you could just experiment with. I turned them over in my hands, mentally calculating how much damage Jack had done. If he'd eaten too many of the best ones, we were in big trouble. I didn't know how Taylor would handle a party without the perfect desserts.

"I swear, Jack, if I find out that you've taken the last piece of chocolate mousse, I will personally make sure you never work in this city again," I said, my voice low and intense.

Jack's face went pale. "I swear, Em, I didn't-"

"Just don't. Don't even try to explain." I cut him off, knowing exactly how to get him to shut up. "Get back to work. And stop eating all the desserts. Or else."

He nodded quickly, backing away slowly as if he were trying to get as far away from me as possible without drawing more attention.

I let out a long breath and glanced at Taylor, who was now standing across the room with a bemused look on her face. Apparently, she had watched the entire scene unfold.

She was shaking her head, trying not to laugh. "Wow, Emmy, I don't think anyone's ever called their bodyguard a 'thieving fatso' before."

"Yeah, well," I said with a sigh, "it's not a title I bestow lightly. He's really testing me today."

Taylor snickered but didn't press the issue. I could tell she was trying not to get drawn into my stress, but it was clear I wasn't going to be able to handle this party with my usual brand of calm.

"Well, whatever," I muttered, tossing the half-eaten samples back onto the dessert table with a dramatic flair. "Back to work, I guess. We've got a party to plan, and I'm sure Jack's little 'quality control' experiment didn't ruin everything."

Taylor just smiled. "That's the spirit," she said, not at all convinced by my attempts at composure. She could see through my facade, but maybe, just maybe, this party might turn out okay after all.

And then the door to the ballroom swung open with a dramatic flourish. Another crisis. Of course.