Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 46078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 230(@200wpm)___ 184(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 230(@200wpm)___ 184(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
I hate risk.
My approach is always calculated, every move measured. So despite Tory’s allure, I won’t let temptation cloud my judgment.
We file out of the room, except for Asher, whom Dean asks to stay behind for further instructions.
“We all need to catch up soon,” Boone says in the lobby, his voice echoing in the spacious corridor. “It was fun last time. Maybe once I’m done protecting this girl from her ex, we can have a guy’s poker night.”
It feels like it’s been ages since I’ve hung out with the guys, and Boone’s suggestion resonates. “I’m down with that,” I chime in, a smile tugging at my lips.
They all laugh. They remember who won all the money last time.
Me.
“What’s so funny? I’d love to take more of your money,” I quip.
“No, I’m not playing poker with this guy again,” Lincoln says, shaking his head with mock seriousness. “Besides, I don’t know when I’ll be free, because my job isn’t an easy one.”
I slap Lincoln on the shoulder playfully. “I figured when Dean pulled you aside before everyone else, it was something serious.”
Lincoln sighs, a shadow crossing his features. “It’s Isabel. She’s been receiving threats.”
“Who’s behind it?” Boone asks, his tone now serious.
Lincoln shrugs, frustration evident. “Not sure yet. Dean has some leads. I’m just supposed to keep Isabel safe while he investigates.”
“Good luck with that. She can’t be too thrilled about being watched,” Orion comments, his expression sympathetic.
At that moment, the distinctive sound of Isabel Maddox’s heels clicking down the tiled hallway interrupts our conversation. We glance at each other and scatter toward the elevator, leaving Lincoln to deal with Isabel on his own.
“I’m out of here,” I announce to no one in particular as I press the elevator button, its soft ding announcing its arrival. “I’ve got a beauty to protect.”
As I step into the elevator, my thoughts drift back to Tory and the task ahead. I’m sure it won’t be easy to protect someone who’s already having some sort of weird effect on me, but it’s the job. Somebody’s gotta do it.
Chapter 2
Tory
“We’re leaving here in five minutes,” my father announces from the plush sitting area of our hotel suite, his voice clipped and precise, as always. He doesn’t even glance up from his tablet, where streams of complex data scroll across the screen.
I push my red-rimmed glasses further up my nose, torn away from my reading. The paragraph on behavioral epigenetics had been enthralling—exploring how historical traumas like the Holocaust or China’s Cultural Revolution might influence inherited DNA. Amazing stuff. No, seriously.
“I’m coming,” I call back reluctantly, my voice tinged with resignation. With a heavy sigh, I toss the Epigenetics textbook into my leather tote, its well-worn edges disappearing into the abyss alongside a clutter of highlighters, sticky notes, and half-filled notebooks.
For a brief moment, I close my eyes and imagine the quiet comfort of a university library, where the muted rustle of pages and the gentle hum of distant whispers create a cocoon of focus. I crave the sanctity of a secluded corner, surrounded by towering bookshelves, where time dissolves into the thrill of discovery. But my reality is a far cry from the college life I once dreamed of. Instead of lecture halls and lively campus debates, I have private tutors—an obligatory luxury bestowed upon me as the daughter of the world’s most eminent scientist.
I did, however, go to a real high school. An experience I wouldn’t let my father take away from me. I’d wanted to be normal, although once in high school I realized how far from normal I truly was. While other girls my age cared about football and shopping at the mall, I was nose-deep in my science textbooks studying molecular biology and quantum physics.
My father, Dr. Frederick Malser, is a walking encyclopedia with an impressive array of accolades: Nobel Prize, Abel Prize, Turing Award, and a dozen others whose names I can never quite recall. His brilliance has inspired reverence from nations and the envy of academic peers. Some call him the smartest man alive. I call him Dad.
Living with someone of his stature is both a privilege and a constraint. It means I’ve grown up with front-row seats to groundbreaking research, endless intellectual stimulation, and a life of extraordinary experiences. But it also means my days are dictated by his rigorous schedule, my own aspirations often taking a backseat. Most of the time, I can appreciate the opportunity to immerse myself in learning. But there are moments, like now, when the weight of his shadow presses heavily on me, suffocating the vibrant independence I long for.
With a pang of frustration, I zip up my bag and head toward the bathroom, hastily gathering my toiletries. My reflection stares back at me from the mirror—faint dark circles under my eyes from late-night reading, a loose braid falling over one shoulder. I don’t look like the jet-setting daughter of a celebrated scientist; I look like a tired twenty-two-year-old with too many thoughts and too few outlets.