My Babysitter is an Assassin

​The dust in the abandoned refinery smelled like rust, old oil, and bad decisions. ​I was crouched twenty feet above the concrete floor, balanced silently on a crossbeam in the shadows. Below me, five men moved in formation. Heavy boots, open tactical jackets, guns drawing line-of-sight across every dark corner. In the center stood the target—a high-profile CEO who thought buying up old industrial property was just business. He had no idea his rival was paying me seven figures to make sure he never left this walkthrough alive. ​Five guards. Three armed with submachine guns. Two with handguns. ​Simple arithmetic. ​I waited until the rear guard stepped directly under my beam. I dropped. ​Before he could even register the rush of air, my boots slammed into his chest, taking him to the floor. The snap of his neck was muffled by the thud of his body. I rolled instantly, whipping out my silenced pistol and taking down two guards before the third could scream. ​"Intruder—!" ​I didn't let him finish. I sprang forward, twisting his gun arm back until the bone popped, slamming his head into the concrete pillar, and grabbing his belt knife in one fluid motion. ​The last guard fired off a wild spray of bullets. Sparks showered the dark room as metal hit metal. I slid beneath the gunfire across the dust-slicked floor, popped up behind him, and swept his legs out. As he hit the ground, I drove my blade straight through his throat. ​ Four down. Clean. Efficient. ​I wiped the blood off my cheek and slowly turned to the CEO. He was backed up against a cracked pillar, hyperventilating, his expensive suit ruined by cold sweat. ​"P-please," he stammered. "I can double whatever they're paying you—" ​ I didn't answer. Words were a waste of oxygen. I stepped into his space, grabbed the back of his neck, and ripped my dagger across his throat before he could finish the offer. Warm crimson sprayed across the concrete. I held him until his body went limp, lowered him quietly to the ground, and melted back into the shadows. ​Just another night at the office. ​By 7:00 AM, I was sitting at my parents' dining table in a crisp satin blouse, sipping black coffee. ​"You were out late again, Cammie," my mother said, not looking up from her iPad. "Your father and I were discussing it. All these martial arts classes, the late-night joint-force military training... it was cute when you were eighteen, sweetheart. But you're an Ashton heiress. You could literally take over the family enterprise tomorrow." ​"I like earning my own cash," I replied smoothly, taking a slow sip. ​They thought my disappearances were just an obsessive hobby—martial arts, taekwondo, high-intensity survival bootcamps. Personal interest. A phase. I let them think whatever they wanted. As long as they believed I was out at some late-night gym throwing kicks at a punching bag, they weren’t asking real questions. ​Then my phone buzzed with an alert. A post from my uncle—an old family friend and long-time business partner of my dad. ​Hiring: Personal Handler / Security Specialist. ​My eyes scanned the details. His twenty-six-year-old son, Jacob Anderson, had pulled one too many reckless stunts. The family was putting him under strict house arrest, and they needed a 24/7 handler to watch him, keep him in line, and stop him from ruining the family name. ​Jacob Anderson. ​I remembered him vaguely. I’d seen him once when I was sixteen—just a quick glance years ago before I took my first life and became what I am today. Rich. Arrogant. Spoiled. A complete nightmare for anyone trying to manage him. ​A slow smile touched my lips. ​It was the ultimate cover story. ​If I took the job as Jacob's personal handler, my parents would finally get off my back. Every late-night disappearance? I’m keeping Jacob out of trouble. Every sudden travel request? Jacob wanted a weekend trip. Every random bruise or cut? Jacob’s security detail got chaotic. ​I picked up my phone and sent the application message right from the breakfast table. ​Watch a spoiled rich kid? Keep him from doing anything stupid? Easiest assignment of my life. ​I had no idea that in less than a month, I’d be forced to choose between executing the target on my screen... and protecting the annoying, reckless guy who somehow found a way past my defenses. the next day ​I was hired to tame the ultimate brat: Jacob Anderson. ​After his latest high-speed stunt finally pushed his wealthy family past their limit, Jacob was handed a strict ultimatum: house arrest under 24/7 supervision. That's where I came in. Hired as his handler, my job was to keep the rich, arrogant, and reckless twenty-six-year-old mouthy heir under control inside his own luxury loft. ​But Jacob didn't do authority. He viewed my presence as a personal challenge, using constant defiance, lazy smiles, and sharp-tongued provocation to see just how fast he could break my composure—or force me to put him in his place. ​What he didn't know was that I didn't take this job because I cared about babysitting spoiled rich men. I took it because it was the perfect cover for what I really do. ​I'm an assassin. And apparently, my cover assignment was keeping the most troublesome man I'd ever met alive. ​The floor of Jacob's industrial loft was littered with the fallout of his latest disaster: a discarded leather jacket smelling of burning rubber, an overturned glass of scotch, and a neon-lit amp humming with static. The police report from three hours ago was still sitting on his kitchen counter—a polite reminder of his reckless midnight drag race through the financial district that finally pushed his family’s legal team over the edge. ​He was sprawled back on his low-slung velvet sofa, bare-chested, leather choker loose around his neck, black silk shirt unbuttoned and trailing over the side. One arm was thrown over his face to block out the harsh morning light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows, while the other dangled a half-empty energy drink over his expensive rug. ​When the heavy oak door clicked shut and my footsteps crossed the concrete floor, the only response I got was a slow, heavy-lidded glare as he pulled his arm away from his eyes. His jaw twitched, lip ring catching the sunlight as he tilted his head back against the cushion, looking down his nose at me with a slow, infuriating smirk. ​"Well, well. Look who the Anderson family sent to play babysitter." ​He let out a low, raspy laugh, deliberately swinging his boots onto the glass coffee table with a loud, ringing clack. He didn't budge an inch as I walked further into the room, his eyes tracking every move I made, sharp and assessing despite his lazy posture. ​"Don't look at me like that, sweetheart. The car isn't even totaled—just a little scraped up. My dad’s lawyers overreacted, like they always do, and now I’m stuck with you enforcing my little home-arrest sentence." ​He slowly raised his right hand, resting his elbow on the couch arm, and casually flipped me off with a wicked, unbothered grin. His eyes sparkled with purely intentional provocation, testing my patience before I'd even had a chance to drop my coat. ​"So, what's the plan? Are you gonna stand over there trying to look intimidating, or are you actually going to come over here and make me behave?" ​I didn't flinch. I slowly set my tactical bag on the counter, unbuttoned my coat, and looked at him—the lip ring, the smirk, the middle finger—with the exact same icy detachment I used when sizing up a target. ​"First rule, Jacob," I said, my voice dangerously calm as I stepped closer, looking down at him. "Get your boots off the table... before I give you a reason to actually call those lawyers." He had scoffed, slowly swinging his boots off the table while offering a fake, dramatic apology. Now, an hour into watching him roam his loft like a caged tiger, my patience was wearing paper-thin.