The Bodyguard I Hired Is My Billionaire Husband

The heavy oak door of the ballroom slammed shut behind her, muting the orchestra's swell to a dull, rhythmic thud. Alivia didn't stop. She couldn't.

Her lungs burned. It wasn't the exertion; it was the panic, a living thing that had clawed its way up her throat the moment she saw her stepmother's head of security scan the crowd, his eyes locking onto her like a laser sight.

Run.

She kicked off her high heels. One skittered across the polished marble of the service corridor, the other she gripped in her hand like a pathetic, improvised weapon. The cold stone bit into the soles of her bare feet, a sharp contrast to the feverish heat radiating from her skin.

"Miss Clemons!"

The voice was a low growl, echoing off the pristine white walls. Heavy footsteps pounded behind her. Not running, but purposeful. Hunting.

Alivia scrambled toward the service elevator. Her fingers shook so violently she missed the button twice before finally jamming it down. The brass doors groaned, taking an eternity to slide open. She threw herself inside and mashed the button for the penthouse floor.

Anywhere but here. Anywhere but back to them.

The doors slid shut just as a black suit rounded the corner.

Alivia slumped against the metal wall, sliding down until her knees hit the floor. She gasped for air, her chest heaving beneath the cheap, scratchy fabric of the gown Brenda had forced her to wear. It was a size too small, designed to display her as merchandise, not a daughter.

The elevator dinged. The Penthouse.

The hallway was suffocatingly quiet. The carpet here was plush, swallowing the sound of her frantic breathing. It was dark, the sconces dimmed to a low, amber glow. At the end of the hall, a single mahogany door stood formidably shut. Her hope plummeted. Locked. Of course, it was locked. But then she saw it-a room service cart, laden with covered dishes, parked beside the door, its rubber wedge propping the heavy door open by a mere inch. A careless mistake. A miracle.

She didn't think. She didn't analyze. She heard the elevator gears grinding, signaling its descent-or return. She bolted for the door, slipped inside just as the cart was being pulled away from the other side, and threw the deadbolt.

Darkness. Absolute, pitch darkness.

The air in the room was frigid, smelling of expensive cedar, rain, and the sharp, metallic tang of ice. It smelled like power.

Alivia pressed her back against the door, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Safe. For a second, I'm safe.

A sound sliced through the silence. A low, ragged inhale. Painful.

Alivia froze. Her blood turned to slush in her veins. She wasn't alone.

"Who sent you?"

The voice came from the abyss of the room. It was deep, baritone, and laced with a jagged edge of agony.

Before her eyes could adjust, a shadow detached itself from the darker shadows of a massive sectional sofa. The movement was a blur-too fast for a human, too fluid for a drunk.

Alivia turned for the lock, but a hand, large and searingly hot, clamped around her wrist.

She was spun around with enough force to whip her hair across her face. Her back hit the wall, not the door. The impact knocked the wind out of her.

A body pressed against hers. Hard. Unyielding. A wall of muscle and heat.

"I asked you a question," the man snarled, his voice vibrating against her ear.

"I... I..." Alivia couldn't speak. The terror was a physical block in her throat.

Outside, thunder cracked, shaking the glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows. A flash of lightning illuminated the room for a fraction of a second.

She saw a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. Lips pulled back in a grimace of pain. A hand gripping his own temple. But she couldn't see his eyes.

He was in pain. Severe pain.

"Please," she whispered, the word scraping her throat. "I just... I'm hiding. I'm not..."

The man's grip on her wrist tightened, grinding bone together. He leaned in, inhaling deeply at the curve of her neck. He paused. His body, previously coiled to strike, seemed to shudder.

"Freesia," he murmured. The aggression in his tone bled out, replaced by something darker. Something confused. Freesia? The flower? Why would he say that? The scent of her cheap perfume was gardenia, not freesia. The thought was a strange, fleeting anchor in the storm of her terror.

"Clemons! Open this door!"

The shouting from the hallway shattered the moment. Fists pounded against the wood, inches from Alivia's head.

She flinched, instinctively shrinking away from the noise and-insanely-into the solid mass of the man in front of her.

He felt her tremble. His hand moved from her wrist to her waist, his thumb digging into her hip bone. It wasn't a caress; it was a claim. For a heartbeat, he held her there, shielding her with his own body mass.

"Don't," she begged him, her voice barely audible. "Don't let them take me."

The man went still. The pounding outside continued.

Then, a wave of agony seemed to crash over him. He groaned, a guttural sound of suffering, and his grip faltered. He stumbled back, clutching his head.

"Get out," he rasped. "Get out before I kill you."

Alivia didn't wait for a second invitation. She fumbled with the lock, threw the door open, and sprinted into the blinding light of the hallway.

She ran past the elevator, taking the fire stairs, taking them two at a time, ignoring the pain in her feet, ignoring the tears blurring her vision.

She burst into the lobby, her chest screaming.

She slammed right into a wall of black wool.

Strong hands gripped her shoulders, steadying her, holding her in place. Not with comfort, but with restraint.

She looked up. Clay Clemons stared down at her, his face a mask of disappointment. Beside him, Brenda smirked, checking her manicure.

"Done running, Alivia?" Clay asked. His voice was calm. Terrifyingly calm.

"Dad, please," she gasped. "I can't... I can't do this anymore."

Clay reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded document. He slapped it against her chest.

"You don't have to run anymore," he said. "The terms have been accepted."

Alivia looked down at the paper. The words swam before her eyes, but one name stood out in bold, black ink.

Blackburn.

"They accepted," Clay said, turning to walk away. "You're marrying Gideon Blackburn."

Alivia's knees gave out.

Gideon Blackburn. The Wall Street Monster. The recluse. The man the tabloids said had a face so disfigured he wore a mask, and a soul so twisted he broke women for sport.

She looked back toward the elevators. The man in the dark. The pain. The violence.

She was leaving one hell only to walk into the mouth of another.

The zipper of the suitcase screamed in the quiet room. It was cheap plastic, snagging on the frayed fabric of Alivia's old hoodie.

She shoved the last of her clothes inside. It didn't take much space. Eighteen years of life in the Clemons estate, and she could fit her entire existence into a carry-on.

"Leaving so soon?"

Alivia didn't turn. She knew that voice. It was the sound of sugar-coated poison.

Kacy leaned against the doorframe, looking like a page out of Vogue. Her Chanel tweed suit was immaculate, a stark contrast to the peeling wallpaper of Alivia's attic room.

"I heard he eats raw meat," Kacy said, examining her cuticles. "And that he likes to use knives in bed. Hope you have thick skin, sis."

Alivia kept her head down, her fingers white-knuckling the suitcase handle. "Get out, Kacy."

"Is that how you talk to your betters?" Kacy pushed off the wall. She walked over and kicked the suitcase.

It wasn't a hard kick, but the latch was broken. The lid popped open. Clothes spilled out onto the dusty floor.

A small, framed photograph slid across the wood. It was black and white-a beautiful woman laughing in a garden. Alivia's mother.

Kacy's heel came down on it.

Crack.

The sound of the glass breaking snapped something inside Alivia's chest.

"Oops," Kacy smiled.

Alivia moved. It wasn't a conscious decision. It was a reflex. She shoved Kacy. Hard.

Kacy stumbled back, her eyes widening in genuine shock. She hit the doorframe with a dull thud.

"You little bitch!" Brenda's voice screeched from the hallway.

The stepmother appeared like a wraith, hand raised to strike. Alivia flinched, bracing for the sting.

"Mrs. Clemons! They're here!" Alfred, the butler, shouted from the bottom of the stairs, his voice trembling. "Blackburn is here!"

Brenda's hand froze in mid-air. She lowered it slowly, her eyes narrowing into slits. "Saved by the bell. Fix your face. You look like a corpse."

Downstairs, the atmosphere had shifted. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of ozone and money.

Alivia descended the stairs, clutching her taped-up suitcase. She had shoved her oversized black glasses back onto her face, hiding behind the thick frames.

Through the front window, she saw them. Three black Cadillac Escalades, idling like beasts in the driveway.

The driver of the middle car opened the rear door.

A man stepped out. He was balding, slightly paunchy, wearing a suit that cost more than this house but fit him poorly. He had a sneer plastered on his face.

"That's him?" Kacy whispered from the landing, stifling a giggle. "Oh my god, he really is a troll. I don't get it, though. That's the guy who supposedly uses knives in bed? He looks like he'd struggle with a butter knife."

Alivia felt a wave of nausea. This was her husband?

Then, the front passenger door opened.

A mountain of a man unfolded himself from the vehicle. He was dressed in a black tactical suit, an earpiece coiled behind his ear, dark aviators covering his eyes. He stood a head taller than everyone else.

He didn't move like a driver. He moved like a weapon.

Clay rushed forward, shaking the balding man's hand. "Mr. Blackburn! An honor. Truly."

The balding man-Finn-didn't take off his leather gloves. He just grunted. "Let's get this over with. This place smells like desperation."

Alivia stood by the stairs, trying to make herself invisible.

She felt it before she saw it. A gaze. Heavy. Physical.

She looked past the "husband" to the bodyguard.

He was standing by the car, arms crossed over a chest that looked like it was carved from granite. Even through the sunglasses, she knew he was looking at her. Not at her father. Not at Kacy. At her.

They moved into the living room. The "husband" sprawled onto the antique sofa, putting his muddy shoes on the coffee table. The bodyguard stood silently in the corner, blending into the shadows.

"Tea, Alivia!" Clay barked, snapping his fingers.

Alivia hurried to the silver service tray. Her hands were shaking. The proximity to the "husband" made her skin crawl.

She picked up the teapot. As she turned, her foot caught on the edge of the rug.

The tray tipped. Boiling water and fine china plummeted toward the floor.

A hand shot out from the shadows.

It was a blur of motion. The bodyguard caught the tray inches from the ground with one hand, effortlessly stabilizing it.

His other hand gripped her forearm to steady her.

Zap.

The contact sent a jolt of electricity straight up her arm, seizing her heart. It wasn't static. It was recognition.

Alivia gasped, looking up.

She was inches from the bodyguard's face. Up close, he smelled of rain. And cedar. And ice.

The smell from the hotel room.

He didn't let go. His thumb pressed into the soft skin of her inner arm, right over her pulse point.

"Careful," he whispered.

The voice. It was the same deep, gravelly baritone that had threatened to kill her last night.

Alivia stared at her own reflection in his aviators, her mouth falling open.

"Is this swill?" Finn spat, pushing the teacup away so hard it rattled against the saucer. "I thought the Clemons family had taste. Apparently, bankruptcy takes everything, including the ability to brew tea."

Clay turned a shade of purple usually reserved for bruised fruit. "My apologies, Mr. Blackburn. I'll have the staff-"

"Forget it," Finn waved a gloved hand dismissively. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick document, slapping it onto the coffee table. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the silent room. "Sign. The funds transfer upon signature."

Alivia stood frozen near the fireplace, clutching the handle of a worn, vintage leather suitcase-her mother's. Its scuffed corners told more of a story than anything new ever could. She could feel the bodyguard's presence behind her like a heat source. She hadn't dared to look at him since the tea incident. Her mind was a chaotic whirlpool.

The voice. The smell. Why is the bodyguard the man from the hotel?

Clay didn't even read the first page. He flipped to the back, uncapped his fountain pen, and scribbled his name. He was selling his daughter for a liquidity injection, and he looked relieved.

"And the girl?" Finn asked, leaning back, his eyes raking over Alivia with deliberate, exaggerated lewdness. "Come here. Let me see what I bought."

Alivia's stomach churned. She didn't move.

"Alivia!" Clay hissed. He grabbed her shoulder and shoved her forward. "Show some respect!"

She stumbled, the heels of her worn-out boots skidding on the hardwood. She was going to fall right into Finn's lap.

A hard arm banded across her stomach, arresting her momentum instantly.

She was hauled back against a chest that felt like a steel plate. The bodyguard. Again.

This time, he didn't release her immediately. He held her there, his arm a solid bar across her midsection, her back pressed against him. She could feel the slow, powerful thud of his heart against her shoulder blades.

"She's not a dog," the bodyguard said.

The room went dead silent.

Clay looked affronted. "Excuse me? You're just the help. Speak when spoken to."

Finn, surprisingly, didn't reprimand his employee. He just smirked. "He gets protective of my property. Don't mind him."

The bodyguard leaned down. His lips brushed the shell of Alivia's ear.

"Breathe," he commanded. It was barely a sound, just a vibration of air. "They can't hurt you anymore."

Alivia looked up at him, her eyes wide behind her glasses. He wasn't looking at her. He was staring at Clay with a look of such concentrated malice that Alivia feared for her father's life.

"Right," Finn stood up, dusting off his suit. "We're done here. Grab your trash bag, sweetheart. We're leaving."

"Alivia," Brenda called out, her voice dripping with fake syrup. "Be a good wife. Don't embarrass us."

Alivia looked at the people who had raised her. The father who sold her. The stepmother who hated her. The sister who tormented her.

She felt the bodyguard's hand shift to the small of her back. A gentle, guiding pressure.

"Let's go," he said.

And for the first time in her life, Alivia obeyed a command without hesitation. Not because she was afraid, but because the man issuing it was the only thing standing between her and the abyss.

She walked out the front door, the cool autumn air hitting her face. She climbed into the back of the middle Escalade.

The bodyguard didn't get in the front. He climbed into the back seat, right next to her.

Finn took the jump seat opposite them.

As the heavy door slammed shut, sealing them in, Alivia pressed herself against the window, as far away from both men as possible.

She was trapped.