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.

“I’m not sure why I have to be babysat,” I mutter as I re-enter the living area, adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder. My father looks up then, his brow furrowing ever so slightly. It’s his version of disapproval, though he rarely expresses it outright.

“It’s not babysitting,” he says, his tone firm but not unkind. “It’s exposure. You’re lucky to have these opportunities.”

I bite back a retort, sinking into the couch opposite him. He doesn’t understand—or maybe he does and chooses to ignore it. Traveling the globe, attending conferences, and witnessing breakthroughs firsthand might be thrilling to him, but to me, it often feels like gilded captivity.

“I’ve told you already,” my father says, his voice carrying a hint of exasperation as he leans back in the armchair. “This is a significant event, and there are people who don’t want me speaking at the Summit.”

The G20 Summit, an exclusive gathering of global leaders, innovators, and policymakers, is indeed a prestigious affair. Just thinking about it stirs an ache of longing in me. It’s a reminder of my strange limbo—I’m a researcher in all but name, contributing to my father’s groundbreaking projects without official recognition or compensation. To the world, I am invisible, a nameless cog in the machinery of his genius.

I slump back further into the plush leather couch, letting out an exaggerated sigh, and toss my legs onto the mahogany coffee table in front of me. The ornate table, polished to a mirror finish, reflects the restless energy in my posture. “Who?” I ask, my voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and disbelief. “Who are these people so desperate to stop your appearance?”

My father glances at me over the rim of his glasses, his expression both tired and resigned. “Some group who doesn’t want science interfering with food,” he replies, shrugging as if to downplay the gravity of the opposition.

I sit up straighter, my brow furrowing. “But don’t they realize you’re developing technologies that could feed millions? That this could solve world hunger?” My voice rises, carrying the passion I feel every time we talk about his work. I’ve seen the data, run the calculations, even helped refine the models. The potential impact is staggering—life-changing for so many.

He takes off his glasses with a practiced motion and begins meticulously cleaning the lenses with a soft cloth. The small, deliberate action feels like a metaphor for his approach to life—methodical, precise, and unwavering, even in the face of resistance. “They fear what they don’t understand,” he says after a moment, his tone almost wistful. “That’s why I need to present my data in a way that even a two-year-old can grasp. Simplify the science so it’s not intimidating.”

I cross my arms, leaning back into the couch with a huff. “Well, I think your speech is brilliant,” I say firmly, as though my approval carries the weight of the Nobel committee.

A rare smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, that familiar crooked half-smile I’ve come to associate with his rare moments of pride. “Thanks, peanut. You’ve always been my biggest supporter.”

I laugh softly, the sound breaking the tension. “Well, I’m smart too, remember? And I can take care of myself. I don’t need a babysitter.”

He gives me a pointed look, his smile fading into something more serious. “It’s not about babysitting, you know that.”

But the words hang between us, unspoken: It’s just the two of us. It always has been.

I flash him a grin. “Besides,” I add, “I’ll bet you anything your speech is so good even the people protesting you will want to take notes.”

He chuckles softly, shaking his head as he puts his glasses back on. “Maybe. But I’m not taking any chances.”

As he picks up his tablet and begins scrolling through his presentation notes again, I lean back on the couch, studying him. Despite the weariness in his features, there’s still a spark of determination in his eyes. He’s carried the weight of the world’s expectations for as long as I’ve known him, and yet, he never falters.

It’s inspiring. And infuriating.

While other young women my age chatter over coffee about weekend plans or the latest gossip, I’m deep in research papers, conferences, and lab work. At twenty-two, I boast a Master’s in Molecular Biology and am neck-deep in my PhD research. Few can match my academic achievements, and I take pride in that. Socially inept? Perhaps. I wouldn’t know. My understanding of normal human behavior is cobbled together from TikTok videos and predictable rom-coms. Relationships, small talk, or even casual friendships seem like foreign concepts to me. But in science, I excel. Corny as it sounds, my passion for it consumes me—it’s my purpose, my identity, and, occasionally, my escape.

“You can bring your jewelry and make some of your creations,” my father says absentmindedly, fiddling with the knot of his tie as he paces near the window of our suite. His gaze is distant, already halfway through his mental checklist for the day.

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?

“I hired a security company,” my father explains, his tone measured as if anticipating my reaction. “One of the best in the world. There’ll be a man assigned to keep you safe.”

I sit up straighter in my seat, my pulse quickening. “How serious are these threats?” My voice trembles slightly, and I curse myself for letting the fear show. My eyes fix on him, watching the subtle tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders seem locked in place, the telltale signs of a man under immense pressure.

“It’s nothing to be alarmed about,” he replies, his voice carefully even. He tugs at his tie—an uncharacteristic gesture for someone so composed. “Everything will be fine.”

I narrow my eyes, studying him like I’m trying to decipher a code. “I don’t believe you,” I say finally, my words soft but heavy with suspicion. My father isn’t a man prone to unnecessary precautions. If he’s gone to the lengths of hiring one of the best security companies in the world, the danger must be real.

He slows to a stop at a red light and turns his weary green eyes toward me. They seem older somehow, filled with an exhaustion that goes beyond sleepless nights. “I promise, everything will be okay,” he says softly. “This company comes highly recommended by a colleague.”

I lean back into the seat, attempting to mimic the ease I want to feel. But anxiety blooms in my chest and spreads outward, a dull ache creeping into my limbs. A heaviness lodges itself in the pit of my stomach, refusing to dissipate. “What about you?” I ask, my voice barely audible. “Will you have security too?”

“Yes,” he replies as the light turns green and the car rolls forward. “There’s top-level security at these meetings.”

His reassurance does little to fully calm me, but I exhale a shallow breath of relief, releasing some of the tension coiled tightly between my shoulder blades. “You’ll call me every night,” I say, trying to cling to some sense of normalcy in all of this.

His lips curl into a smile, a rare and gentle one that momentarily softens the lines of his face. “And every morning too,” he promises.

His words help, if only a little. I let my gaze wander out the window, fixing on the endless stretch of turquoise ocean in the distance. The frothy white waves crash against the shore with rhythmic certainty, a soothing lullaby against the chaos in my mind. The sun, impossibly bright, reflects off the water, casting sparkling shards of light that dance across the horizon.

Traffic thickens as we approach the heart of Saint Pierce, a bustling city that manages to blend its tropical charm with urban chaos. Brightly colored storefronts blur past, interspersed with palm trees swaying lazily in the warm breeze. I should feel calmer now, surrounded by this paradise, but my thoughts remain restless, circling back to the unknown man who will soon become a part of my life.

For the first time, I wonder what it will feel like to share my space with someone so unfamiliar. To have my world—small and isolated as it is—disrupted.

“Where are we going?” I ask, my voice tinged with curiosity and a hint of apprehension as I glance at my father.

“We’re meeting him at a building downtown,” he replies matter-of-factly, his focus fixed on the road ahead.

“Does he have a name?” I press, hoping for some detail that will make this feel less surreal.

“Ranger Cole,” my father says, his tone clipped and professional. It’s the same tone he uses when discussing lab protocols or presenting at conferences. He has a way of boiling people down to their function, forgetting they’re human first.

I let the name roll around in my mind, imagining what kind of person would be attached to it. Ranger Cole . It sounds rugged, like a character ripped from an action movie. But reality rarely matches imagination. I’m sure he’ll be some middle-aged, overweight man with a clipboard and a power trip. It’s fine—I have enough jewelry supplies in my bag to keep me occupied for hours. And my textbooks.

As we pull into the back lot of a towering glass building that seems to kiss the sky, my palms begin to sweat. My father shifts the car into park, and before he can even open his door, a figure steps into view.

Not just any figure.

A man.

A towering man.

He’s dressed in a tight black T-shirt that hugs his broad shoulders and impossibly defined chest, paired with fitted black jeans that make him look like he walked out of a tactical gear catalog. His arms are massive, bulging under the hem of his sleeves, each muscle defined like it was sculpted in marble.

He lifts a single finger in a commanding gesture, motioning for me to stay in the car. The motion is fluid, confident, and sends a clear message— wait . My breath catches as my gaze trails upward, from his rock-solid chest to his sculpted jaw, dusted with scruff that looks as sharp as it does effortless. Then, I meet his eyes—dark, penetrating, and assessing me with an intensity that makes me freeze.

Is this the man?

This isn’t a man. This is a gorgeous freak of nature , a genetic anomaly that defies science and logic. He shouldn’t exist. Every biological rule I’ve studied seems inadequate in explaining how someone could look like this .

My father steps out of the car, his usual reserved demeanor firmly in place, and shakes hands with him. They exchange a few words I can’t quite hear through the closed window, but my father’s nod in my direction makes it clear what’s coming next.

I can’t stay with this man. Alone.

He’s not what I pictured when my father said security . I was expecting a mall cop with a chip on his shoulder—not someone who looks like he moonlights as a superhero.

My father gestures toward me, beckoning me to exit the car. “Tory Ann, come here. I want you to meet Ranger Cole. He’ll be keeping you safe.”

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry as I pull the door handle and step out. My legs feel like jelly beneath me, every step toward him shaky and uncertain. His presence seems to pull all the oxygen out of the air, leaving me light-headed.

When I finally stop in front of him, his dark eyes lock onto mine, sending a shiver down my spine. Up close, he’s even more overwhelming—his sheer size, the effortless way he carries himself, the faint scent of something clean and masculine lingering in the air.

I extend my hand, hesitant and unsure, and his swallows mine completely. His grip is firm but not crushing, his skin warm and rough against my own. The moment our hands touch, it’s like a lightning bolt shoots up my arm, electrifying every nerve in my body.

There aren’t enough gigawatts in the world to measure the energy coursing through me.

“Miss Malser,” he says, his voice a deep rumble that resonates in my chest.

I manage a shaky nod, my words stuck somewhere in my throat. My father continues speaking, but his voice fades into the background, eclipsed by the overwhelming presence of Ranger Cole.

I don’t know how I’m supposed to survive being alone with this man. Not when every cell in my body seems hyper-aware of him, as if he’s rewired my biology in an instant.