The Heiress And The Bodyguard

Victoria Sinclair had always believed danger was something that happened to other people. People without money. People without guards. People without the Sinclair name stamped across half the city like a warning. She leaned against the balcony rail of the penthouse, champagne flute dangling loosely from her fingers, the city burning gold beneath her. Thirty floors down, traffic moved like veins of light. Above her, music throbbed—expensive, loud, careless. Laughter spilled from inside the apartment, the kind that meant no one here had ever worried about consequences. Victoria smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She wore black tonight. A silk dress cut too low, too daring—her quiet rebellion against a father who controlled everything except the way she breathed. Her hair fell loose down her back, glossy and intentional, every inch of her designed to distract the world from the truth. She was bored. She was lonely. And she was very, very good at pretending she wasn’t. “Vee!” someone called from inside. “Your father’s looking for you.” That wiped the smile clean off her face. She took one last sip of champagne and turned back toward the party, heels clicking against marble floors that cost more than most people’s lives. This was a Sinclair event—elite investors, politicians, power brokers. The kind of men who shook her hand a little too long and looked at her like an asset instead of a person. Her father stood near the bar, tall and immaculate, silver threading through his dark hair. Richard Sinclair didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. When he spoke, people leaned in. “Victoria,” he said coolly when he saw her. “You disappeared.” “I was getting air,” she replied. “Last time I checked, that wasn’t a crime.” His jaw tightened. “You don’t wander off alone.” She scoffed. “I’m not a child.” “No,” he agreed. “You’re a liability.” The word hit harder than she expected. Before she could respond, a sharp crack split the air. Not loud enough to be music. Too sharp to be fireworks. Glass exploded behind her. Someone screamed. Victoria barely had time to turn before hands seized her—strong, unyielding—dragging her backward as another shot rang out. She felt it before she understood it: the sudden weight of a body shielding hers, the heat, the force of impact as they hit the ground. “Down!” a man shouted. Her cheek pressed against marble. Her heart slammed so hard she thought it might shatter her ribs. Chaos erupted. People ran. Security shouted. Somewhere, glass continued to rain. Victoria tried to move—but she couldn’t. The man above her held her pinned, his arm locked across her back, his body curved protectively around hers like a human shield. “Don’t move,” he said lowly, directly into her ear. His voice wasn’t panicked. It wasn’t loud. It was lethal calm. Another gunshot echoed—closer this time. The man cursed under his breath. Victoria’s fingers trembled against the floor. “Who—who are you?” He didn’t answer. Instead, he moved. One moment she was pressed beneath him, the next she was hauled upright and dragged toward the hallway. He moved with brutal efficiency, one arm locked around her waist, the other holding a gun she hadn’t seen him draw. They ducked into a side corridor just as a body hit the floor behind them. Victoria gagged. Blood smeared the white walls. The man slammed a door shut and shoved a heavy table against it. Only then did he turn to face her. And Victoria Sinclair forgot how to breathe. He was tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in black that looked less like fashion and more like armor. His face was hard—cut sharp with discipline, dark eyes scanning her quickly, assessing, calculating. There was blood on his knuckles. Not his. “You’re hurt?” he demanded. “No,” she whispered. “I—I think not.” Good. That single word carried more weight than her father’s entire presence. “My name is Leo Martins,” he said. “From this moment on, you do exactly what I tell you. No arguments. No attitude. If I say run, you run. If I say hide, you hide. If I put my hands on you, it’s to keep you alive. Understood?” She bristled. “You don’t get to—” A bullet punched through the door. Leo moved instantly, yanking her down as splinters exploded above their heads. He pinned her to the floor again, his hand firm at the back of her neck, forcing her head down. “Do. You. Understand?” he repeated, voice dangerously quiet. Her heart pounded wildly. “Yes,” she breathed. His grip loosened—but he didn’t move away. For half a second too long, they stayed like that. Her body pressed against his. His breath warm against her skin. Something electric snapped between them—fear tangled with something far more unsettling. Desire. He noticed it. She knew he did. Leo pulled away sharply, jaw clenched. “Stay here,” he ordered. “Where are you going?” “To end this.” He kicked the door open and vanished into the smoke and screams before she could stop him. Victoria curled in on herself, shaking. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Sinclairs didn’t get attacked. Sinclairs didn’t bleed. Sinclairs didn’t need saving. Minutes later felt like hours. When the noise finally died down, the silence was worse. The door creaked open. Leo stepped back inside, his shirt stained red, his eyes darker than before. He locked the door behind him and leaned against it briefly—just long enough for Victoria to realize he wasn’t invincible. “You killed him,” she said softly. “Yes.” No hesitation. No apology. Something inside her cracked open. Security finally arrived. Her father. Medics. Police. Questions flew like knives. But Victoria’s eyes never left Leo Martins. The man who had covered her body with his own. The man who had killed for her without blinking. The man her father now spoke to in low, urgent tones. “This changes everything,” Richard Sinclair said. Leo nodded once. “Yes, sir. It does.” Victoria swallowed hard. Because she already knew one thing with terrifying certainty— Her life would never be the same. And neither would her heart