Chapter 1
ANYA
She ran her fingers through his blond hair, sighing against his well-drawn lips. He had the bluest eyes she had ever seen, and they ate her up. His gaze ran down her lithe form, her small waist, her flat stomach, then it raced back up to her full, perky...
No. God, no. What am I writing? This is agonizing.
Slamming the heels of my hands into my eyes, I release a grunt.
This is ludicrous. No one will want to read this.
It’s so fake, and every writer knows we must tell the stories that ring with the truth inside us.
Things we believe in with all our hearts.
I lower my hands to my lap, gaping at the computer screen. The more I reread the brief paragraph, the more I hate it. Honestly. It makes me nauseated. And if I think it’s bad, there’s no way the judges at the contest will like it. They would set it on fire if they came around to read it.
I’ve always adored reading romance. My bookshelves are stuffed full of them, and it’s still the best feeling in the world to swoon and squeal into my pillows when I read a new one.
Of course, it’s so hard to find books where the heroine looks like me, but skinny girls are what sell, right?
And the thing is, as much as I don’t mind being curvy and adore the idea of falling in love, I have never felt that way.
Butterflies and shivers only come when I imagine myself in the scenes the books describe. No man ever caught my eye like this.
How am I going to write a romance if I never fell in love? How am I going to write one good enough to win the contest and nail the publishing deal if I can’t even fake the feeling?
Time off. That’s what I need. A break, some tea, a snack.
Then I can go back to fixing this manuscript.
I close my laptop and shoot up from my working desk.
Every time I stand, my gaze lands on the diploma above my computer.
My creative writing major taught me many things, from structure to vocabulary and flow, but never how to fake my feelings.
Maybe my imagination isn’t rich enough. It doesn’t matter. I’ll find a way around it, and I’ll make my name as an author.
My slippers make a soft sound against the hardwood floors as I leave my room and brave the condo toward the kitchen.
When Dad said we’d be leaving the house I grew up in in favor of a condo downtown, closer to his work as a senator, I thought we would have to squeeze ourselves into a smaller place.
I hoped for it. A cozier house could finally mean home.
It could mean my parents and I would spend more time together.
Nope. Didn’t happen. The condo is bigger than the house, and it’s almost a marathon to go from the rooms to the kitchen.
One of the kitchens, since we have two: the one we snack and drink coffee in and the one the cook effectively uses.
Mom hates the sight of servants around the house, so they have to go through their work either out of her sight or when she’s away.
At least Mom doesn’t complain about my writing as much as Dad does. He thinks I should go after a real job. Mom lets me be, even if she thinks this is just a hobby while I wait for a husband.
I shake my head, quickening my step. The more I think about my family, the heavier my stomach feels.
I don’t like how they treat me, and what they expect of me, and this writing contest might be my last shot.
If I fail, I’ll have to find a job my father approves of, or he’ll kick me out.
He made that much clear. That, or find a rich husband. It doesn’t sound much better.
After making myself a strong Chai with a splash of milk and finding some cookies, I turn to leave the kitchen. Edward, the butler—because yes, Dad has a butler—enters just as I’m about to leave, and I have to jerk to a stop to avoid bumping into him.
“So sorry, miss,” he starts, his bushy eyebrows shooting up his forehead.
“It’s alright,” I tell him, stepping away so he can move into the kitchen. He doesn’t.
“Your father asked you to meet him in his office.” He takes a beat, pressing his lips. “Now.” That word, I’m pretty sure, my father forced Edward to add. Dad always wants everything right now. He doesn’t believe in waiting.
“Thanks, Edward.” I dip my head in gratitude, then exit the kitchen once he steps away.
Sipping from the hot tea, I make my way to the other side of the condo, toward Dad’s office.
This is where my father meets his colleagues, so it’s way fancier than where I live.
Dark wood, tapestries, thick rugs. There are even accents of gold in the upper walls.
I knock on the door, and it opens in a swift move. A man I don’t recognize, short but stocky, stands there. He’s in a two-piece suit, and my gaze shoots to his earpiece, the wire disappearing inside his shirt.
A bodyguard?
“Finally,” Dad’s voice calls. I raise my head to see him sitting behind his desk, a huge piece of rosewood covered in intricate details. “Come in, Anya. This won’t take long, and you can go back to your work.”
The way he says it makes heat travel across my cheeks. I enter his office, and I don’t know if it’s the dark shelves or the way Dad looks at me, but my throat clenches. The cup trembles in my hold.
Mom sits on an easy chair next to the window. There’s another man there, standing by her. Dad’s assistant, a girl not much older than me, sits close to him, her eyes on her computer. Worry eats up at my stomach. What’s going on?
“Yes, Dad?”
He spreads his fingers on the table, where several sheets of paper are scattered. “You know your father is a very important man. I’ve worked hard to be where I am, and in my life, I ended up amassing several enemies. People who would rather see me out of power. Or dead.”
I swallow hard. “Is someone threatening you?”
“Yes. It’s not the first time, but they’re getting more persistent and invasive.
” Dad intertwines his fingers in front of his face, his hard eyes on me.
“They’ve sent pictures, threatening not only my safety but yours and your mother’s.
Which is why I reached out to a security company.
” He motions for the suited-up men around us.
“They’re the best in the business. You don’t need to worry about a thing.
This is just to let you know you’ll have a bodyguard from now on. ”
My stomach plummets. “What?” Like, at all times?
How am I going to work like this? I can’t write under someone’s supervision.
Under someone’s gaze. He would be another person wondering why I didn’t have a real job.
Another person snickering at me. Another man ready to judge my routine, what I do, and when.
God, no. My mouth drops, but I can’t come up with an excuse. I don’t need a bodyguard. No one would come after me, and even if they did, I don’t think Dad would miss me much. The dark thought makes me snap my jaw shut.
Dad goes on, uncaring about my internal dilemma. He lifts a finger, indicating somewhere behind me. “This is Sebastian. He’ll stay with you at all times. As I said, don’t worry, they’re the best in business.” He takes a beat, then lowers his hands. “You’re dismissed.”
I turn around, too used to being sent away, and my gaze lands on a man I hadn’t seen. The man my father pointed at. Sebastian.
He’s tall, taller than the others, and not stocky, but big.
Huge, strongly built, powerful like a bull.
My eyes go round, watching the muscles of his arms curl and uncurl as he shifts his weight between his feet.
He’s also in a two-piece suit, but they’re so tight, so snug around his body, it’s almost vacuum-made.
Dark eyes fasten on me, freezing me to the spot.
Black hair, kept in a short buzz, and a hard jaw complete the look. He’s all angles, a man built of rock.
Butterflies set off inside my stomach. My feet take me closer to him. I’m enthralled, hypnotized by this man. Then he looks away. His face betrays nothing, an expression so empty it’s like he doesn’t even see me.
A shiver of embarrassment rolls down my spine.
I swallow hard, then aim for the door, the cup quivering harder between my fingers.
I take a long gulp as soon as I leave the office, and though his steps are soft, he’s too big not to make a sound as he tags along.
He follows me to my bedroom, then stands next to the door as I lock myself inside.
My entire body shakes when I drop into my computer chair.
What just happened?