Stay Hard, My Bodyguard
Description
After a viral scandal in Paris, 22-year-old Emilia Torres returns home to finish college-only to find her father's best friend, the emotionally armored and infuriatingly hot Vincent Black, cooking breakfast in her apartment. Sent as her private bodyguard after an anonymous threat, Vincent is supposed to protect Emilia. But the real danger isn't outside-it's the past they both buried. Vincent remembers her as a wild teen with a crush. Now she's all grown up, mouthy, rebellious, and absolutely off-limits. Emilia? She has no intention of playing the good girl. She wants power, control, and maybe revenge. What starts as a defiance game spirals into something darker: obsession, punishment, need. The closer they get, the more dangerous their dynamic becomes-especially when the threats turn real, secrets unravel, and Vincent's past threatens to destroy them both. He's here to guard her. She's here to make him break. And neither of them is ready for what happens when control slips-and passion takes over.
Chapter 1
Sep 26, 2025
Emilia
“WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK—”
My suitcase hits the floor like a bomb, and honestly? Perfect sound effect for this absolute shitshow I just walked into. Twenty-six hours of travel hell—screaming babies, airport security that apparently thinks my deodorant is a weapon, and airline food that tasted like cardboard—and this is my homecoming gift?
Vincent Black. In my kitchen. Cooking eggs like he fucking lives here.
My brain does this weird stutter-step thing where reality just… breaks for a second. Because Vincent Black isn’t supposed to exist in my actual life anymore. He’s supposed to be a locked-away chapter from my teenage years when I was stupid enough to think my daddy issues could be solved by crushing on his best friend.
And what I felt for him back then wasn’t really a crush—it was more like projection. From twelve to seventeen, he represented everything I thought I needed. Safety, confidence, purpose. Someone who moved through the world like he knew exactly who he was and didn’t apologize for it.
I’d sit through those long summer barbecues listening to him and Dad talk shop—half the time I didn’t understand a word, but I nodded like I did. Wore lip gloss I wasn’t allowed to have, tried to sound smarter than I felt. Practiced conversations in the mirror like I was prepping for a role.
He had the kind of presence that made you believe things could be okay, even when they weren’t. Strong. Steady. Just... adult in a way no one else in my life was.
Sure, there were obvious reasons it was never going to be anything. He was my dad’s age, knew me when I still wore braces and got grounded for sneaking out past ten. But that didn’t stop my teenage brain from latching onto the idea of him—not him, really, but what he stood for.
That version of me believed if I could just grow into someone he might respect, maybe I could finally respect myself, too.
I haven’t seen him in four years. Last I heard, he’d gotten married and fucked off to Australia or somewhere equally far from my disaster family. Yet here he stands, looking exactly the same except for silver streaks in his dark hair that are honestly offensive because they just make him hotter.
“What the hell are you doing in my apartment?” The words come out sharp and mean.
He doesn’t even glance up from those stupid eggs. “Good morning to you too, Emilia.”
That voice—still rough, still makes my stomach do these ridiculous flip-flops I refuse to acknowledge.
“Don’t ‘good morning’ me. How did you get in here, and why are you making yourself at home in my space?”
“Your father requested private protection. An anonymous threat arrived while you were abroad.”
I actually laugh. It’s this bitter, ugly sound that bounces off my kitchen walls. “My father? You mean Sebastian Torres, tech mogul extraordinaire? The brilliant asshole who created ConnectSphere and revolutionized how people overshare their breakfast photos while simultaneously destroying his relationship with his only daughter?”
Because that’s exactly who my father is. The guy who shows up in tabloids with different twenty-something blondes every month—women who could literally be my sisters if he’d ever bothered having more children.
“The same father I haven’t spoken to in two years? The one who might as well be dead to me except I keep seeing his face on Forbes covers? That father suddenly gives a shit about my safety?”
Vincent’s expression stays perfectly neutral. The man’s face is like emotional Switzerland. “That would be the one.”
“Get out.” I point toward the door, my finger trembling with exhaustion and pure fucking rage. “Just get the hell out of my apartment.”
“That’s not happening.” He says it like he’s discussing the weather instead of completely upending my life.
And that’s when I completely lose my shit.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” My voice climbs to what my college friends call my “unhinged banshee” register. “My father doesn’t give a single shit about me! He never has! The last time we spoke, he forgot my birthday—again—and tried to buy forgiveness with a designer handbag that cost more than most people’s rent!”
Vincent continues cooking like I’m not having a complete meltdown three feet away.
“Is there another scandal brewing? Did he get caught with another intern? Maybe tax evasion? Let me guess—playing the doting father is fantastic PR, right? ‘Look how much Sebastian Torres loves his daughter!’”
I grab a dish towel and hurl it at his head. He dodges without even looking, which pisses me off more.
“Fuck this. And fuck you.” I flip him off with both hands for good measure, then storm toward my bedroom, slamming the door hard enough to make the windows shake.
From behind the door, I hear him say with infuriating calm, “Breakfast will be ready in five minutes.”
I scream into my pillow instead of answering.
But it’s not enough. The rage won’t burn off. It sits heavy in my throat.
I shove the door open again.
He turns slowly, wiping his hands on a towel. “I think you want a reaction.”
“Oh, fuck off—”
But I don’t get to finish. In two strides, he’s in front of me, and suddenly we’re too close, breathing the same air. My heart thunders in my chest, the fury crashing headfirst into something hotter, sharper.
“Then do something,” he murmurs. “Hit me. Scream. Whatever you need.”
I shove him. Hard.
He barely moves, but the air shifts. His eyes flash, not with surprise, but with something darker—like he’s been waiting for this.
“You don’t get to show up like this,” I snap, “and pretend it’s just about me. We both know why you’re really here.”
He doesn’t deny it.
“Did he send you to check if I was still breathing? Or just to keep me from going off-script again?”
His jaw tightens. “I came because I didn’t want someone else to.”
“Well, congratulations,” I hiss. “You’re just as much his pawn as I am.”
I shove him again, more to break the tension than to hurt him, but this time he grabs my wrists—not hard, not gentle. Just enough.
The contact sends a jolt through me. We freeze there, locked in place, every nerve in my body screaming for release.
I tear my hands free, chest heaving, eyes stinging. “Get out of my way.”
And this time, when I leave the kitchen, I don’t slam the door.
I leave it wide open.
Stay Hard, My Bodyguard
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