I started in the expensive limo that came to pick me up. The car looked insanely luxurious, and the driver? He was dressed like he was about to chauffeur royalty—wearing a flawless tuxedo that screamed class. It was a long, sleek black limo, the kind that made even me pause mid-cry to stare in awe.
I glanced over at her—yeah, she noticed too. I could see the mix of confusion and a hint of jealousy in her teary eyes before she went right back to crying.
Eric turned toward her then, stepped closer, and pulled her gently into his arms. She sobbed against his chest, and he just held her. Yeah… they're gonna be okay. They just need time—and each other.
As the car pulled away and we drove off toward the house, I couldn't help but watch them through the tinted window, knowing they'd figure it out.
After hours....like literal hours...of driving, I was starting to think we were heading to the ends of the earth. Who the hell is this man? Galactus himself? Dude drove all this way just to pick me up from a hospital? What is he, living in heaven?
At some point I must've dozed off, 'cause next thing I knew, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I opened my eyes to see the driver—still looking like a GQ cover—leaning slightly into the car.
"We're here, sir," he said smoothly.
I stepped out, squinting at the massive structure in front of me. Home? This wasn't a home. This was a mansion. No, scratch that—it looked like the headquarters of a billion-dollar company disguised as a luxury estate. Glass walls. Wide driveways. Ultra-modern design. It screamed rich people business.
There weren't bodyguards exactly, but there were definitely people men in sharp suits with earpieces, doing that quiet security stance thing. You know the look. One of them turned his head slightly, probably alerting someone through the mic. And then, she appeared.
She walked out like she owned gravity.
Long red hair, emerald green eyes, a face that said "don't waste my time," and a fitted suit that gave elegance with just a splash of tomboy energy. Her hair flowed behind her like it was on a damn runway. She peeked over her glasses, sizing me up.
Then she raised a hand and shook mine, firm grip. "Hi. I'm Azazel. Mr. Han's personal manager."
"You're the personal manager?" I said, a little surprised.
"And you are?" she quirked an eyebrow.
"Tyler. Tyler Lockwood."
She gave the faintest smirk. "I see. I hope you're exactly how he said you were." Then she turned, not waiting for a reply. "Come."
I followed her into the house. The doors opened like they knew she was coming. The inside? Majestic. Three levels. A staircase so long and elegant it probably had its own fan club. Golden chandeliers. Fancy-ass chairs. Gold-rimmed glass everywhere. Clean. Modern. Tush, even.
As I was still soaking it all in, Azazel's voice snapped me back to reality.
"Are you aware of the kind of job you're here to do for Mr. Han?"
"I was told I'd be his bodyguard," I replied.
She chuckled. "You're not just going to be his bodyguard. You're going to be his most personal bodyguard. That means you're closer to him than anyone else."
I blinked. "Why? I don't even know how to protect myself half the time."
"That's where I come in," she said casually. "I'll be the one to train you."
"…Can I ask something?" I said, narrowing my eyes.
She turned to me with an arched brow. "Go on."
"If you're good enough to train me, why aren't you the one protecting him?"
She smirked. "I'm booked and busy, Mr. Tyler. I've got a company to manage and a lot of new innovations to oversee. I don't have time to babysit Mr. Han. That's your job now. And I hope you survive my training. If not, you'll be considered unfit, the contract voided, and you'll be expected to pay the price."
A chill ran down my spine.
Wait. Pay the price? That wasn't in the contract. That sneaky devil—
I clenched my fists, jaw tight. Azazel turned and gave me one last look.
"Don't worry about yourself," she said coolly. "I can see what he sees in you. I just hope… you don't lose it."
Okayyy, let's roll out the red carpet for Mr. Tyler
She led me down a long hallway—quiet, echoing slightly with every step we took on polished marble floors. The scent in the air? Expensive. Like cedarwood, leather, and something vaguely threatening but sexy.
Then she stopped in front of a tall, matte-black double door and pushed it open like it was nothing.
"This will be your room," she said, stepping aside.
Room was an understatement. This was a damn penthouse suite inside a mansion.
The floor was polished dark wood, gleaming under the soft, golden light of a crystal chandelier that probably cost more than my entire existence. The king-sized bed sat at the center, covered in silky black and deep emerald sheets, with pillows fluffed to presidential standards. The headboard was tall, tufted, and upholstered in dark velvet—because of course it was.
Across from the bed stood a massive floor-to-ceiling window, showing off a breathtaking view of the city skyline. Motorized blackout curtains framed it like a movie scene.
To the left, a sleek fireplace flickered beneath a mounted TV the size of a small theater screen. To the right, a minimalist glass desk sat perfectly staged—complete with a high-end laptop, an untouched leather notebook, and a pen that looked too fancy to actually use.
There was a private bathroom through an open archway, and from the glimpse I caught, it had a walk-in rain shower, a soaking tub big enough for sins, and marble everything.
A small wet bar was tucked neatly in one corner, stocked with sparkling water, whiskey, and wines that probably required pronunciation lessons.
Azazel glanced at me with a knowing smirk. "Try not to mess it up, pretty boy. This isn't a hotel."