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.