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)
The mention of jewelry tugs at something warm inside me. It’s one of the rare activities we bond over—creating intricate pieces, a hobby we both enjoy but rarely have time for. Rising from my seat, I step closer to him and tug at the tie, straightening it with the ease of someone who’s done this a hundred times before. His collar is slightly wrinkled, and I smooth it down, my hands working on autopilot.
“I plan on it,” I reply, my voice soft but tinged with an underlying frustration. As much as I love these shared moments, his comment is a reminder of how confined my world still is. “I just want to know when you’ll trust me enough to be on my own.”
His expression tightens, and for a brief moment, he looks at me—not the brilliant scientist, not his capable assistant, but as his daughter. “We can discuss that later,” he says firmly, though there’s an edge of evasion in his tone that I know too well.
I finish the Windsor knot with practiced precision and drop my hands. “I’d like to talk about it now,” I insist, unable to keep the hint of impatience from creeping into my voice.
“Tory Ann Malser, end of discussion,” he declares, his tone final as he turns away, effectively shutting me down. It’s a tactic he’s mastered—a wall of silence that leaves no room for negotiation.
I cross my arms, my frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “Technically, we haven’t even started discussing anything,” I mutter, my retort half-directed at his retreating back. But as usual, my words bounce off the impenetrable barrier he’s built around this topic.
Letting out a quiet sigh, I gather my bags and sling them over my shoulder, the weight of them almost comforting in its familiarity. Striding purposefully toward the door, I toss a glance over my shoulder. “Ready to go meet... this caregiver?” My tone is sharp, masking the vulnerability beneath.
My father, briefcase in hand, sighs audibly but nods. He follows me out of the suite without another word. As we step into the hotel lobby, the shift from air-conditioned coolness to the oppressive heat of Saint Pierce’s balmy breeze hits me like a wall. The sticky humidity clings to my skin, making the air feel heavier than it should. Even in September, the sun here feels merciless, as if it’s determined to melt everything in its path.
We cross the parking lot, the asphalt shimmering with heat waves. My father’s pristine Buick stands out in the lot, its sleek black exterior polished to a mirror-like finish, gleaming under the unforgiving sun. It’s a car that matches his image—flawless, composed, and unyielding. Sliding into the passenger seat, I immediately regret it as the leather sears against my legs. The heat seems to cling to everything, including my hastily thrown-together ponytail, which does little to keep the sweat from dampening my neck.
The air inside the car is stifling, and I quickly fumble to roll down the window, craving even the faintest breeze. My father settles in beside me, his movements brisk and methodical as he adjusts the rearview mirror. As the engine hums to life, I stare out at the tropical scenery, my thoughts swirling between the familiar tug of duty and an unshakable longing for independence.
The initially warm air conditioning blasts into my face, a rush of heat before the cool relief kicks in. I lean closer to the vent, letting the promise of cold air wash over me as I press my damp palms to my thighs. Outside, the relentless sun continues to blaze, turning everything into a hazy mirage of sweltering humidity.
“I wish you wouldn’t think of this man as just a babysitter,” my father remarks suddenly, his voice slicing through the tense silence. His words pull me out of my thoughts, and I swivel my head to look at him, frowning. It takes a moment for the weight of what he’s said to sink in. This man?
“A man?” I ask, my tone sharper than I intend. Surprise ripples through me. My father rarely introduces anyone new into our tightly controlled, carefully curated circle.
“Yes,” he confirms with a curt nod, his expression unreadable, though his fingers drum lightly against the steering wheel. “He’s a professional security specialist. Someone I trust implicitly to ensure your safety while I’m occupied.”
The idea settles uneasily in my chest. I’ve never been alone with a man before. My past “caretakers” have always been women—usually the type with ambitions of becoming the next Mrs. Malser. Not that I could blame them. It wasn’t just my father’s good looks, though he’s undeniably handsome for his age, with his sharp features and perpetually crisp appearance. It was his notoriety, his power, his money. They all wanted to be part of the world he commands with effortless authority.
“What man?” I ask again, this time barely above a whisper. A million questions whirl in my mind, each more frantic than the last. Who is he? What does he look like? Is he armed?