Chapter 2

Isabella

I have a responsibility as the only daughter: get married to the son of another influential family to stack our influence throughout the city. I know what is expected of me, but it doesn't mean I have to like it.

I met my future husband once, and he was a dick. Cocky, self-absorbed, and everything I expected from someone in his family. I met him and disliked him, and then when I found out I had to marry him, I really didn't like him. Hated him, even.

But it is what it is. My name comes with a familial obligation that I must fulfill.

A knock on the door shakes me from my wallowing. The person behind the door is likely the man my father hired to babysit me.

I don't want a babysitter. I don't need one—I can handle myself, just as I always have—but my future husband's family is fucking evil. Shit, my future husband is evil. But this arrangement is for my family's best interest, not mine, and my family comes first.

I scoff, grab the doorknob, and turn it. The man from dinner stands before me, a large suitcase in his right hand.

"Ms. Isabella," he says as he walks past me.

"You can call me Bella. Vance, is it?" I close and lock the door behind him. "Forty-three, unmarried, upstate native?"

He sets down his bag. "You do your research."

"I don't want to sleep under the same roof as someone I don't know," I say, my voice flat.

"Wise. Where am I sleeping?" he asks.

I gesture down the long hallway. "There's a guest bedroom beside my room. First door on the right."

Vance grips his bag again and takes apprehensive steps down the hall. The outline of his pistol lies against his hip. It's black, like the fitted shirt hugging his muscles.

His eyes dart as he walks past every open doorway, as if memorizing my floor plan. My dad said he was the best. He sure looks the part.

I smooth my skirt before grabbing my coat off the rack. My pockets feel too light, and I realize my keys are in the kitchen. My heels clack against the marble floors as I traverse the maze of hallways. When I reach the kitchen, I grip the keyring that holds my BMW fob, my house key, my parents' key, and a few keys that go to things I can't recall. I slip them into my pocket.

The moment I grip the doorknob, the sound of someone clearing their throat comes from behind me. I raise my eyebrow and turn around.

"Where do you think you're going?" Vance asks.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm supposed to watch you, remember? That means at home, little miss."

I laugh. "I'm not a child, Mr. Lore. You're my guard, not my boss. If you want to stay home, go nuts, but I'm going out. Unless you want to piss off my father, I suggest you come along, though."

I rip open the door, let it slam, and take a few steps down the hall. The door whips open behind me, and I smirk. I look back and see Vance putting on his jacket as he follows me, the fabric concealing the pistol on his hip.

"Wait up, Bella," he calls.

* * *

Our family owns this club, so I'm not terribly worried about much more than getting a strong drink and letting myself enjoy the music. The DJ behind the desk is one of my favorites. Her hair is twisted in braids at the top of her head, smashed by her big headphones. She throws me a small wave as I walk in.

I make a beeline for the bar, and Vance remains behind me. He breaks stride and heads to the left, sitting at a table along the wall. I continue to the bar, get my usual vodka cranberry, and meander to the dance floor.

The music pumps in my chest, pushing its life force through my veins. My hips sway to the beat. When I dance, the music lifts me up and the world around me disappears. The lights dull, the people blur, and my worries melt away.

Hands grip my waist, and I turn to see the strong-jawed man who owns them. I smile and let him pull me into his broad chest. It's so fucking attractive.

As I grind against his knee, I look over at Vance, who's risen from his seat. His dark eyes are locked on me—on us—and I can feel the tension in his posture from here. It's like a thread between us, pulled tight and ready to snap. His hand moves to his hip, and I know it's resting on his pistol.

The man in front of me regains my full attention as his touch rises upward. He leans in to kiss me, but I turn my head to let his lips land on my neck instead of my mouth.

I can't fuck anyone, but it doesn't mean I can't have a little bit of fun. Just a little. Just enough to smother the fire that's been burning between my legs for years now.

I've promised to keep it lit for my future husband, but sometimes the heat becomes too much, and the only way to get it under control again is to hump the lap of some dude in the back of my car.

There's no way Vance will let me bring anyone back to my car, and I definitely won't get the opportunity to grind on any laps.

A touch on my shoulder makes me leap back.

"Hey, what the fuck?" my dance partner snarls at Vance, who's trying to get between us.

"You two are done dancing. Let's go," Vance tells me, his hardened expression leaving little room for argument.

The man scoffs. "She can say when we're done. Who the hell are you, anyway? Her dad?"

"By proxy," Vance says before grabbing my arm and dragging me toward the door.

The man grabs my other arm and pulls me backward, and I find myself in a pretty hot game of tug-of-war.

Vance does not share that same sentiment. He stops mid-step and spins around, keeping his hand on me while swinging his other fist at the man. The solid punch to the face knocks the man backward.

"Daddy says it's time for her to go. Fuck off." Vance shakes out his hand and drags me away.

Something tells me I won't be having fun anytime soon. Not with Vance around.