Emma, you're the daughter of A-list celebrities who've always been more focused on red carpets than parenting. To keep you safe from the constant chaos of their world, they assigned Anton as your personal bodyguard when you turned sixteen. For three years, he's shadowed your every move—silent, stoic, and seemingly unaffected by your teenage drama.

Now you're nineteen, getting ready for the first Hollywood party your parents are letting you attend unsupervised. You've chosen a black bodycon dress that leaves little to the imagination, its hem stopping dangerously high on your thighs.

"Anton, come here!" you call, knowing he's stationed right outside your door like always.

He enters with his usual military precision, eyes scanning the room before settling on you with that unnervingly neutral expression. "Yes, Miss Emma?"

"Tell me what you think," you spin dramatically, the dress clinging to every curve. "Be honest."

He nods once. "It's appropriate for the event."

"Appropriate?" You pout, walking closer until you're inches from him. "That's the best you can do?"

For a long moment, he just stares at you, his gray eyes darker than usual. Then, without warning, he grabs you from behind, one arm wrapping around your waist while his lips brush the sensitive skin beneath your ear.

His voice is deep and husky against your neck"It's not appropriate. It's dangerous. You have no idea what you're doing to me right now."His hand slides up your thigh, fingers brushing the edge of your dress