The Langford estate glowed like it thought it was better than the rest of the city.
Three floors of stone, steel, and arrogance perched on a private hill like it was judging the skyline below. Spotlights arced along the curved driveway. The fountain in front never stopped performing. Neither did the people inside.
Golden light spilled through tall windows onto manicured hedges and too-perfect roses.
Aria Langford leaned against the balcony railing in bare feet, cigarette between two fingers, ash trailing toward the lawn. She could still hear the dull hum of conversation behind the glass—billionaires swapping toasts, politicians trading favors in whispers, her father holding court like a bored king.
Inside was power.
Outside was freedom.
She exhaled slowly, letting the smoke burn away the edge of a headache that started three hours ago—about the time some old board member's son had grabbed her waist during a photo op and asked if she was still "too scandalous to touch."
She'd smiled. Then she'd stepped on his foot with her stiletto.
Now she stood barefoot, one heel snapped and discarded beside her, the other foot numb from three hours of pretending to be polite.
A breeze brushed through her hair, cool against her neck.
And with it came that familiar itch.
Someone was watching her.
She didn't turn. Not right away. She just flicked ash off the railing and said flatly, "I thought the point of a security team was to leave me alone."
A pause.
Then, low and deliberate: "You're not as alone as you think."
Her spine stiffened.
The voice was new.
British. Deep. Calm.
But not polished like the men her father hired. Not soft. More… controlled. Like every syllable had been tested, measured, and allowed to live. Like a weapon that knew its own weight.
She turned.
And there he was.
Half in shadow, standing as if the house had summoned him from stone and suited him up in something criminally tailored. Broad-shouldered, clean lines, dark tie loosened just enough to hint at rebellion. His eyes—sharp and still—met hers like he was waiting to be recognized for something she didn't know yet.
She hated that.
"And you are?" she asked, voice cool, but not detached.
His mouth curved slightly. Not a smile. A dare.
"Your new bodyguard."
"Of course you are." She rolled her eyes, taking a drag. "What happened to the last one?"
"Gone."
She raised a brow. "Gone?"
"Quietly."
"Creepy," she said, eyeing him. "Do they train you to sound that ominous or is it natural?"
He didn't blink. "Depends on the threat."
She tilted her head, amusement dancing just beneath her boredom. "So what's your name, soldier?"
"Jaxon."
"Just Jaxon?"
"That's all you need."
Her lip curled slightly. "Arrogant. Are you sure you're not one of us?"
Still nothing. Just that steady, unreadable look. Like he was doing math in his head, calculating something about her down to decimal points.
Most people either avoided eye contact with her, or overcompensated and drowned in it.
He did neither.
He stood there, still and certain, like he'd already seen what was coming and decided to survive it anyway.
Aria hated mystery. Especially in men. Especially when it looked like it could break bones and still walk her to the car without wrinkling a suit.
She turned back toward the railing.
"Fine," she said, flicking ash into the wind. "Just don't expect me to behave."
"I don't."
She blinked.
That was it.
No warning. No thinly veiled lecture about safety. No smug smile about taming the Langford girl. Just… acceptance. The kind that sounded too much like understanding.
Most men tried to fix her.
This one?
He didn't even try.
She wasn't sure if she wanted to punch him—or pour him a drink.
This was going to be fun.
***
stubbed out her cigarette on the stone railing and crushed the butt with her heel. Or what was left of it.
Without a word, she turned and headed back toward the glass doors, the glow from inside spilling across the patio like stage lights.
Jaxon followed, but kept two steps behind.
He moved like shadow—silent, measured, too smooth to be accidental. Not like a guard. Not like a man pretending not to stare. Like something between the two.
She hated how aware she was of him.
The moment they reentered the ballroom, the air thickened. Champagne chatter, fake laughter, expensive perfume—everything too loud and too clean.
She felt his presence behind her like a hand on her back, even though he hadn't touched her once.
Across the room, her father stood near the grand piano, glass in hand, voice low and charming. Their eyes met.
He gave her a small nod—approval, calculation. She didn't return it.
Instead, she headed for the stairs. She was done being his showpiece for the night.
Up the marble steps. Down the velvet corridor. Past gold frames and useless paintings.
She reached her bedroom door, fingers on the crystal knob.
And then she heard him behind her.
One step.
Two.
She turned fast.
"You don't get to follow me in here," she said.
Her voice was soft, but it hit like steel.
Jaxon stopped mid-step. Still calm. Still unreadable.
"That wasn't my intention," he said.
She raised an eyebrow. "Really? Because it looked a lot like you thought you were coming inside."
He didn't look embarrassed. Or apologetic. He just studied her like she was an answer he didn't want to rush.
"I'm assigned to protect you."
"Not undress me."
His jaw ticked—just slightly.
"I don't assume that much privilege," he said.
She crossed her arms, leaning one shoulder against the door.
"You don't get to assume anything. Not with me. Not in this house."
He held her gaze. "Noted."
A long pause stretched between them.
Her chest rose and fell slowly. Controlled. She hated how curious she felt. Hated that he stood there like he belonged, like the idea of walking into a Langford bedroom didn't shake him at all.
"You don't flinch, do you?" she asked quietly.
"Not when I'm doing my job."
She stepped a little closer. Just enough.
"And what exactly is your job, Jaxon?"
His eyes didn't leave hers. "You."
Something flickered across her face—almost surprise. Almost.
Then she smiled.
But it didn't reach her eyes.
"Well, lucky you," she said, hand on the doorknob again. "I'm a terrible assignment."
He nodded once. "So I've heard."
She opened the door, stepped inside, and before closing it, said one last thing—
"No one gets in here unless I want them."
The door shut with a soft click.
He didn't move for a moment. Just stood there, staring at the polished wood, listening to the silence on the other side.
Then he turned, walked back toward the stairs, and muttered under his breath—
"We'll see about that."