The flashing lights of the paparazzi were the only thing Isabella Vance hated more than the silent, hulking men in suits who followed her every move.
"Smile, Bella! Look over here!"
Isabella ignored the shout, smoothing the silk of her floor-length emerald gown. At twenty-four, she was the crown jewel of the Vance Tech empire—a billionaire heiress whose face was plastered on every magazine from New York to London. To the world, she was a pampered princess. To her father, she was a liability that needed to be managed.
"Stay close, Miss Vance," one of her current guards, a man named Miller, grunted into her ear. "The threat level is high tonight."
Isabella rolled her eyes, her diamonds catching the light of the ballroom. "The threat level is always high, Miller. That's what happens when your father owns half the satellites in the sky."
She stepped into the gala, the scent of expensive perfume and champagne hitting her like a wall. This was her life: a series of beautiful rooms that felt like prison cells. She scanned the crowd, her heart hammering a rhythm of pure boredom until she saw him.
He wasn't like the other guards. He didn't look like he belonged in a suit.
Standing near the arched mahogany doors was a man who looked like he had been carved out of granite. He was tall—easily six-four—with shoulders that strained against the fabric of his dark blazer. His hair was cut short, military-style, and a faint, jagged scar ran from the corner of his left eye down to his jawline.
He wasn't looking at the celebrities. He wasn't looking at the art. His eyes—cold, slate gray, and predatory—were locked on the exits. And then, they locked on her.
Isabella felt a shiver travel down her spine that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. It was the look of a man who didn't see a princess. He saw a mission.
"Who is that?" she whispered to Miller.
Miller glanced toward the door and stiffened. "That's Elias Thorne. Ex-Special Forces. Your father brought him in from the private sector. Word is, he's the best—and the most expensive—shadow money can buy."
"He looks like he's planning a war, not a party," Isabella remarked, trying to regain her composure.
"In his world, Miss Vance, there's no difference."
Isabella turned away, determined to ignore the heavy gaze of the new bodyguard, but the night had other plans. Ten minutes later, the lights didn't just dim—they died.
The music cut out, replaced by a haunting, heavy silence. Then, the screaming started.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
The sound of suppressed gunfire shattered the glass of the grand chandelier. Panic erupted. Miller reached for Isabella's arm, but a dark shape moved faster.
Before Isabella could scream, a massive hand clamped over her mouth, and she was yanked backward into the shadows. She fought, her heels skidding on the marble floor, until a low, gravelly voice vibrated against her ear.
"Stop moving, Princess. Unless you want to find out what a 9mm feels like."
The scent of sandalwood and gunpowder filled her senses. It was him. Elias.
"They're in the north hall," Elias spoke into a comms unit on his wrist, his voice calm even as bullets whizzed past them. "I have the package. Moving to the secondary extraction point now."
"I am not a package!" Isabella hissed, pulling his hand away from her mouth.
Elias didn't look at her. He swept his gaze across the darkened ballroom, his hand moving to the holster concealed under his jacket. "Right now, you're a target. If you want to live to see your trust fund tomorrow, you do exactly what I say."
He didn't wait for her to agree. He grabbed her hand—his grip like iron—and pulled her toward the service stairs.
The gala was over. The nightmare had begun. And as Isabella looked at the cold, hard profile of the man leading her into the dark, she realized the kidnappers might be the least of her problems.