My Bodyguard

Chapter 2: fighting to win

A week had passed since Emma had left her father’s house, the company, and everything she once held dear. She had walked away from the people she had trusted most. Now, the only thing that filled her heart was a burning thirst for revenge.

She would make them pay—no matter the cost. Even if it meant drawing her last breath, she would see to it that Victor and Bianca faced the consequences of their treachery. They weren’t just ordinary people; they were greedy, power-hungry opportunists who would stop at nothing to take what didn’t belong to them. That’s how cheap and vile they were.

Sitting in the corner of a shabby hotel room—what little her meager savings could afford—Emma’s thoughts drifted back to the past, to the days when she had first met Victor and Bianca in college. They had been inseparable friends before she’d joined them, forming what she thought was an unbreakable trio. She had ignored the subtle warning signs, the moments when something felt off between the two of them. She had crushed those instincts, blinded by her naïve affection for Victor—a love she had confided in Bianca, only for Victor to suddenly ask her to be his girlfriend not long after.

How could she have been so blind? So stupid? So utterly naïve?

Emma wiped her tears for what felt like the hundredth time that evening. The divorce papers lay on the battered table in front of her, a stark reminder of her broken life. She stared at them, her vision blurred by tears. She hadn’t done anything to deserve this. She had given her heart, her trust, her everything—and yet here she was, broken, helpless, and nearly penniless.

A fleeting thought crossed her mind: *Should I go back and beg for them to take me in?* The idea made her stomach churn. She quickly crushed it, shaking her head in disgust. She would rather starve on the streets than grovel before those two snakes.

Her gaze darted around the room until it landed on a lone pen lying on the floor. She grabbed it with trembling hands and scrawled her signature across the divorce papers, her movements sharp and deliberate. Once done, she sent the papers flying across the room, their fluttering descent a pitiful echo of her shattered life.

Gripping her hair, Emma let out a frustrated cry. Her mind was a chaotic mess, spinning with anger, sorrow, and an overwhelming sense of betrayal. She paced the tiny room, searching for a solution, desperate for a way out of the darkness.

Then, suddenly, it hit her.

A memory surfaced—her father’s voice, low and serious, from a conversation years ago.

Flashback

“Dad, I don’t see the point,” Emma had whined, her arms crossed in defiance.

“You don’t have to see the point for it to be useful,” her father had replied, his tone calm but firm. It was the voice he used when he wasn’t open to negotiation.

The discussion was about opening a subsidiary company—something separate from the main family business. To Emma, the idea had seemed unnecessary, redundant even. Why diversify their wealth when they already had more than enough?

“Dad—” she had started to argue, but he had cut her off.

“Emma, just do as I say, okay?” he had said, his voice softening slightly.

Emma had pouted but nodded reluctantly. As she turned to leave the room, her father called out to her again.

“And, Emma… keep it a secret. Can you do that for me?”

She had frowned but agreed, though she hadn’t understood why it mattered.

End of Flashback

Now, standing in her dingy hotel room, Emma realized the significance of that moment. It had been over four years ago, on her eighteenth birthday. She had opened the subsidiary as her father had asked, but over time, she had forgotten all about it.

Her heart raced as she grabbed her phone and dialed an important number, her fingers trembling. As the line connected, Emma’s jaw clenched, and her eyes narrowed.

She spoke into the receiver, her voice sharp and resolute. “Let’s start the show.”

……

Two years later.

The sleek glass doors of Emma’s new office building gleamed under the city lights, casting reflections of the bustling crowd gathered for the grand launch of her subsidiary company. It was a night of celebration, a carefully orchestrated unveiling that screamed triumph. Whispers of admiration rippled through the well-dressed guests, their faces a blend of curiosity and awe.

Emma stood in front of a massive banner, her cherry-red gown shimmering under the spotlight. The high ponytail accentuated her sharp jawline, her olive eyes glittering with a mixture of resolve and restraint. She was every bit the picture of confidence, but beneath the poised exterior lay a storm she refused to acknowledge.

This wasn’t just about the launch. It was about proving a point.

Her father’s words echoed in her mind, the memory tinged with both wisdom and bitterness: *“Keep the subsidiary separate. Make it your own. You’ll need it one day.”*

She hadn’t understood the depth of that advice back then, but now it was her lifeline. The subsidiary had become her sanctuary after the betrayal, the foundation of her rebuilt life. It had allowed her to claw her way back, piece by piece until she stood here today—not as a victim, but as a force to be reckoned with.

Emma’s gaze swept the room, noting the important faces in the crowd: investors, reporters, potential allies. Their applause was a symphony of validation, but it meant nothing to her. Her focus was singular, her heart driven by a thirst for vengeance that consumed her every waking thought.

*Victor. Bianca.*

The names were like poison on her tongue, a constant reminder of everything she had lost. The betrayal hadn’t just taken her trust—it had stripped her of everything she once believed in. Now, the fire burning inside her was the only thing keeping her alive. She would make them pay, no matter the cost.

As the applause quieted, Emma’s assistant, Clara, approached her, her expression careful but her eyes betraying a glimmer of unease.

“Everything’s going smoothly,” Clara said in her calm, measured tone.

“Good,” Emma replied, her voice steady. She adjusted the microphone pinned to her dress and prepared to step onto the stage.

But before she could move, Clara held out an envelope. “This just arrived. Someone left it on the reception desk.”

Emma frowned, taking the letter. The elegant handwriting on the front sent a chill down her spine. She unfolded the paper, her breath catching as she read the message:

*“You think you’re safe now, Emma? You’re not. Watch your back.”*

Her fingers tightened around the note, crumpling it as her mind raced. The words weren’t random. They were a warning—personal, deliberate.

Clara’s voice broke through her thoughts, low and tentative. “Do you think... it’s them?”

Emma didn’t need to ask who she meant. Victor and Bianca. The only people who had every reason to see her fail—or worse.

“Maybe,” Emma muttered, though in her gut, she was certain. This was their doing. Her company had swiftly risen to rival theirs—*her* company. They were trying to intimidate her, assuming she was still the same naive Emma from years ago.

Oh, how wrong they were.

The sharp whistle of an arrow slicing through the air made her freeze. The first one hit the ground just feet from the stage, embedding itself in the pristine marble floor. The crowd erupted into chaos, gasps and screams filling the air as people scattered in every direction.

Another arrow followed, this one striking a pillar near the entrance. Emma’s heart pounded, but she didn’t flinch. Her eyes darted to the rooftop, scanning for any sign of movement. Whoever was behind this wasn’t just sending a message—they were showing precision, skill, and a chilling intent.

The chaos deepened as something fell from above. A dead bird landed on the stage, its wings grotesquely splayed, its lifeless body a macabre centerpiece to the unfolding nightmare.

Emma’s jaw clenched her pulse racing. This wasn’t just a threat. It was a declaration of war.

Clara grabbed her arm, her voice trembling. “We need to get out of here. Now.”

Emma allowed herself to be led, her heels clicking sharply against the floor as security swarmed around them. The crowd continued to scream and scatter, the once-celebratory atmosphere now soaked in fear and panic.

Inside the safety of the car, Emma exhaled sharply, her hands trembling as she clutched the crumpled letter. Clara sat beside her, visibly shaken but trying to maintain composure.

“This is no accident,” Clara said, breaking the silence. “Someone’s targeting you, Emma. And I think we both know who.”

Emma didn’t respond immediately. Her eyes were fixed on the passing cityscape, her mind replaying the night’s events. The arrows, the bird, the letter—it all pointed to one undeniable truth. Victor and Bianca weren’t done with her.

“You need protection,” Clara added, her voice firm. “This isn’t just about business anymore. It’s your life.”

Emma’s lips pressed into a thin line. She hated the thought of letting someone into her personal space, of relying on anyone for her safety. But Clara was right. The situation was escalating, but someone in her personal space was a no for her.

“I don't need any protection.” Her voice was low, her slim fingers pressed to her forehead as her elbow leaned on the car door. “I'm fine”

“But this–” Clara tried to object but Emma cut her off

“I don't need any form of protection, Clara. I'm fine. No bodyguards and that's final.” Then silence filled the car. The event of that swung in their minds, but none of them spoke of it again.

As the car sped through the city, Emma stared at her reflection in the window. The woman staring back at her was unrecognizable—a hardened, sharper version of the naive dreamer she had once been.

“They thought they could destroy me,” she whispered, her voice cold and steady. “But I’m still here. And they’ll regret the day they underestimated me.”

Her grip on the crumpled note tightened. She had lost too much to back down now. If Victor and Bianca

wanted a war, they would get one.

Because this time, Emma wasn’t just fighting to survive. She was fighting to win.