Chapter 2

At sixteen, I was kidnapped by a rival family.

I managed to escape at night—only to find myself in the middle of a slum. Trash and cigarette butts everywhere, sewer rats squeaking in the dark. Under a flickering streetlamp, a drunk stumbled into my path.

Then a boy pulled me behind him, shielding me.

It was Owen. Eighteen years old.

He wore a faded black T-shirt, washed so many times it had gone thin. His arms were lean and strong. When he took a bottle to the head for me, he didn't even let out a grunt.

Back then, I had no idea it was a setup. I thought it was just a classic case of a girl falling for her hero.

So I turned to my father when he showed up and said: "You said you'd get me a bodyguard? I want him."

"Bodyguard" was just a title. Back then, Owen had nothing but his strength. I needed an excuse to keep him close.

My father liked him too. Said the kid had a fire in his eyes—he'd go far.

And Owen delivered. Two years later, we got into the same college together. The day he got his acceptance letter, his eyes went red.

"Aubrey, I owe you and your dad everything. If I can, I want to stay by your side forever."

He'd wake up at six every morning, take an hour-long bus ride, and stand in line just to get me those specialty bagels that sold out before noon. He'd blow his whole paycheck on a pretty brooch I once casually complimented. His bag was always stocked with painkillers, band-aids, umbrellas, tampons—because I was a disaster and he knew it.

He was so good to me that even my dad couldn't find a single thing to criticize.

The year we graduated, Owen asked to join our family business. My dad hesitated—told him he didn't owe us anything.

But Owen dropped to his knees. "I know I'm not worthy of her. But I love Aubrey. And I want to earn the right to stay by her side."

I never knew what my father said to him in that study. They talked for hours. When they came out, Dad placed my hand in Owen's.

"Then you keep her happy. Keep her clean. Keep her proud."

By twenty-five, I'd finished grad school. Owen had worked his way up to become a core figure in the family.

The higher he rose, the stranger he got.

Once, while I was sketching, he just sat there staring at me. Then he said, out of nowhere: "Sometimes I want to give it all up. For you."

But when I pressed him, he wouldn't explain what he meant.

Jordan cut in at that point: "Wait—was he saying he actually loved you? That he wanted to drop the undercover act?"

I shook my head. "I don't know. And it doesn't matter."

A moment of hesitation, a flicker of guilt—none of it changed where his loyalty really stood.

At twenty-six, Owen proposed. We got the license first, then planned the wedding.

The day arrived. Big. Grand. I was in white.

And right there, in the middle of it, Owen pulled out his badge and cuffed my father.

Jordan winced. "The wedding day? That's brutal. Please tell me you punched him."

I shook my head again. "Didn't get the chance. He left with my maid of honor."

"Maid of honor? Who?"

"His current wife."