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