Liam
The alarm buzzed quietly on the nightstand. I rolled over, already wide awake. Sleep hadn't come easily last night, not after the interview with Harley Smith. Her sharp eyes had studied me like she already knew I was more than just another bodyguard candidate. But she had hired me anyway, and by the end of the meeting, I'd walked away with a contract and instructions to be at her place by 7 a.m.
It was 5:30 now. I had time.
Sliding out of bed, I stretched my arms behind my head and let the cold floor shock the sleep from my bones. Today was the start of the mission. And though the job description was clear—protect her, drive her, assist her—it was the hidden layers that mattered more. Harley had no idea who I really was or why I'd asked to be her bodyguard. To her, I was Mr. Fraser. Quiet. Reliable. Efficient.
But to me, this wasn't just a job.
I showered quickly, dressed in a black suit with a pressed white shirt, and pulled on my leather gloves. My father used to say that power often lies in subtlety. Don't show everything. Let people wonder. I looked in the mirror. No trace of the man I used to be. Just a clean, sharp version of the weapon I'd become.
By 6:15, I was on my way to pick up the car Harley had arranged for me—sleek, black, armored, of course—and made sure everything inside was as pristine as her reputation. The scent of her perfume still lingered in the passenger seat from yesterday's drive I assume. A faint vanilla and mint combination that shouldn't have stuck in my memory but did.
At exactly 6:55, I parked in front of her building and stepped out to wait. Her building screamed wealth—high-rise, minimalist exterior, private entry. I checked my watch. 6:59.
The front door opened and there she was—Harley Smith, dressed in a cream pantsuit that hugged her form like it had been sewn on her body. Her hair was curled to perfection, flowing around her shoulders like waves of silk, and her lips were painted a deep plum. She didn't smile, but she gave a curt nod.
"Morning, Mr. Fraser."
"Morning, ma'am. Ready when you are."
She slipped into the back seat and I got behind the wheel.
"How was your night?" I asked as we pulled into traffic.
"Unremarkable," she said, her tone clipped. "Yours?"
"Restless," I admitted.
She glanced up from her phone. "You're not allowed to be tired on this job. Sleep better tonight."
A small smile tugged at the corner of my lips. "Yes, ma'am."
"Coffee," she said suddenly. "Iced Caramel Macchiato – Light on the ice, extra caramel drizzle, with a double shot of espresso and oat milk.Remember that."
"Got it."
She gave me her schedule for the day. First up, a meeting with Gabriella Dupont, a prominent designer she was collaborating with on an upcoming fashion event. It was taking place at the Vincenzo headquarters downtown.
I dropped her off at the entrance and then parked, watching as she walked inside. No detail of her went unnoticed—not just because I was assigned to protect her, but because I couldn't stop noticing. The way she walked, straight-backed and graceful. Like she owned the world and dared anyone to challenge her claim.
Inside the conference room, I stood near the door as instructed while Harley and Gabriella spoke with their team. Swatches of fabric covered the table—silks, chiffons, sharp blacks and bold reds. Models walked in and out, some taking measurements, others quietly observing.
"The opening outfit must command attention," Gabriella said. "It must say, 'This is not a fashion show. This is war.'"
Harley nodded, tapping her pen against her notebook. "Structured shoulders, heavy embroidery, dramatic length. I want people to remember the first model and forget every other one."
Their team murmured in agreement, and Gabriella smirked. "That's why I like working with you. You don't think like a designer. You think like a general."
"This isn't art," Harley replied, her voice low but firm. "This is reputation."
I watched her carefully as the meeting progressed. Calm, poised, but I could see the weight she carried in the tightness of her jaw, the way her fingers occasionally flexed like she was fighting the urge to punch something. Or someone.
Then my gaze moved to Jaden Diaz, another designer at the table. He laughed a little too loud, leaned in a little too close. I didn't like him. Not because he seemed suspicious—but because I knew who he really was.
Jaden Diaz was laundering money through his fashion empire, using high-end events to clean millions at a time. What Harley didn't know was that her father was involved in all of it. And worse, he had once been my father's business partner.
They had built an empire together, until greed poisoned everything. When they betrayed my father, they thought he was weak. They thought he had no heir. They were wrong.
My name isn't really Levi Fraser.
It's just the name I use while I work from the inside.
My real name is Liam Donovan. Son of the man they tried to bury. And this mission? It's not just about Harley. It's about justice.
As the meeting dragged on, my earpiece buzzed softly. I pressed a finger to it.
"Update," my contact who was also my cousin whispered. "Diaz moved fifty thousand through the Paris event last month. Trying to repeat it here. The boss wants you to move quicker."
I clenched my jaw. "Copy."
The meeting wrapped, and Harley walked out without acknowledging me until we were in the car again.
"That was efficient," she said.
"It looked productive."
"Gabriella's good. But Jaden Diaz... something about him is off."
I kept my face blank. "What do you mean?"
"He's always too eager. Too slick. I don't trust him."
Interesting.
"Want me to look into him?" I offered carefully.
She hesitated. "Not yet. Just keep an eye on him."
"Yes, ma'am."
The rest of the day passed in a blur of appointments—fabric suppliers, lunch at a high-rise rooftop restaurant, three wardrobe fittings, and a factory inspection. I opened every door, stood by every elevator, and drove her across half the city while watching every shadow.
We didn't talk much until the last meeting. She sighed as we pulled up to her office again.
"Long day," she muttered, stepping out.
I followed her up to the floor and stood by her office door as she went inside. She turned and looked at me.
"Tomorrow. 7 a.m. sharp again."
"Yes, ma'am."
She stared for a moment longer, as if trying to figure something out about me.
I held her gaze, but said nothing.
Then she shut the door.
Mission, Day One: Complete.
But I was nowhere near done.
~~~
I leaned against the door of the meeting room, coffee cup warm in my hand, Harley's order written in looping cursive on the label—Iced Caramel Macchiato – Light on the ice, extra caramel drizzle, with a double shot of espresso and oat milk.
She was particular, and I liked that about her. It made things predictable. In a life where I'd lived on edge for so long, predictability was a strange kind of comfort.
It had been three weeks since I started working for her. Three weeks of early mornings, long drives, tight schedules, and watching her navigate her world with a kind of confidence that most people had to fake. Harley Smith was a force—smart, stylish, and sharp-tongued when she needed to be. She was also unknowingly tangled up in a web that could bring everything crashing down.
Every day with her brought me closer to the truth I needed.
I knocked softly and pushed open the door, stepping into the room just as Gabrielle DuPont was sketching something across a giant presentation board. Her team surrounded her—stylists, digital artists, fabric consultants—all buzzing around with the urgency that only high-end fashion events seemed to demand.
Harley sat at the center of it all, notebook in hand, brows drawn together as she scribbled something. She didn't even glance up when I stepped in. But I caught the way her fingers paused when she heard my footsteps. That pause—it wasn't fear. It was familiarity. That small, quiet recognition.
I placed her coffee on the table beside her, careful not to spill it on the fabric swatches spread out like a color explosion. "Your coffee, Miss Smith."
"Thanks," she said without looking at me, then sipped it and finally met my eyes with a brief nod of approval.
Gabrielle was talking fast, her Italian accent thickening as she grew more excited. "The collaboration must feel like a fusion, no? You bring the modern edge, the power vibe. I'll bring the heritage, the timeless flair. We combine that for the show. We headline Milan. We make a statement."
"I like statements," Harley said, crossing her legs. Her blazer cinched neatly at the waist, her heels tapping rhythmically against the polished floor. "But it has to be flawless. No slip-ups. This is our face to the international buyers."
Gabrielle nodded. "Agreed. And your team—"
"My team will be ready. I'll personally oversee the fittings."
As they talked, I scanned the room, letting my eyes drift to everyone in there. No one stuck out as a threat yet, but then again, snakes rarely slithered in plain sight. Gabrielle's team looked efficient, focused, but that meant nothing. I'd already encountered two of my targets—Harley's assistant, Mia, who'd let slip that she once overheard Jayden Diaz's name in a conversation with her father. And a supplier who had fake shipment papers linked to Diaz's laundering ring.
I was getting closer. Too close, maybe.
But Harley—Harley was innocent. And I had to keep reminding myself of that.
She turned to me suddenly. "Levi, did you confirm the car will be ready to take us to the garment district at three?"
"Yes," I said, snapping out of my thoughts. "I had them switch the tires too. Roads near the factory are rough this week."
She gave me a brief smile. Not quite warm, but not cold either. "Good."
Gabrielle leaned over, whispering something to her stylist. Harley excused herself from the table and walked toward me, sipping the last of her coffee.
She nodded, thoughtful. Then turned back to Gabrielle and rejoined the conversation.
I remained by the door, eyes drifting, ears open. Every movement, every name dropped, every whispered conversation—it all fed into the bigger picture I was building. The picture of who was laundering money through this empire of silk and leather and rhinestones.
Harley didn't know that her father, the man who smiled on glossy magazine covers, had betrayed mine. That he'd sent him to prison while pretending to help him build a future. They thought my father didn't have a son. That's why they did what they did. That's why they underestimated him.
Big mistake.
I wasn't here just to protect Harley. I was here to find justice. To expose Jayden Diaz. To make her father fall.
And yet, every time she smiled at me—real or calculated—I felt something shift. Something I wasn't expecting.
The meeting wrapped an hour later. I followed Harley and Gabrielle down the glass hallway, sunlight streaming through the high windows. Harley walked with confidence, heels clicking, hands tucked into her coat pockets.
"Get some rest tonight," Gabrielle said to her as they hugged. "Tomorrow we finalize the collection."
Harley nodded, then turned to me. "Let's head to the car."
I opened the door for her, then climbed into the driver's seat.
As I drove, she was quiet in the backseat, scrolling through her phone.
"How was your coffee?" I asked.
"Exactly how I like it," she murmured, then glanced up. "Thanks."
I nodded once.
In the rearview mirror, I caught her watching me. I didn't look away. Neither did she.
Whatever game we were playing— I liked it a little too much.