Page 18 of The Bodyguard Situation

“Tomorrow?” I repeat. Panic bubbles inside me again.

“Baby girl, aren’t you ready to make me the happiest man on the planet?”

“Of course,” I lie with a smile, trying to understand why he’s pushing this so hard and so fast.

It’s clear Micah’s after something, but we’ve not signed a prenup. My inheritance won’t be available until I’ve been married for at least one year, and my father won’t sign off on releasing it early. On paper, nothing is accessible; my penthouses, apartments, vacation homes—they’re all protected. Micah’s assets aren’t. If he forces this marriage, I’ll take everything he has.

He reverses out of the parking space abruptly, and I check the side-view mirror, scanning for vehicles following us. Nothing seems out of place, but I know Brody is out there somewhere—close, waiting, ready to intervene if Micah crosses a line. At least, I hope.

We drive a few short blocks, stopping at a grocery store on the corner. After parking, Micah’s hand finds my thigh, as if he’s staking a claim, reminding me who I belong to.

“Dreams are coming true,” he says, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. But it’s not kind. It’s not gentle. It’s cold.

This isn’t a dream at all. It’s a living fucking nightmare, and I’m wide awake.

As Micah unbuckles, my mind frantically replays the conversations we’ve had over the past few weeks—at dinners, during pillow talk—and I see every question he asked about Billie in a new, horrifying light. He wasn’t interested in our friendship dynamic or casual details. He was systematically gathering private, personal information about her.

Nausea rises again. How did I miss so many glaring red flags?

I remain frozen in my seat.

“You’re joining me,” he says firmly, leaving no room for debate.

“I’d prefer not,” I reply. My voice is steady, but my pulse quickens.

I want to open this door and scream for someone to help me. But every instinct begs me to wait for Brody to intervene. This isn’t fun anymore.

“Harper,” he snaps, my name coming out like a warning shot. His eyes narrow dangerously as he gives me a sideways glance. His tone and body language have shifted into something I can’t ignore.

I’m not the naive girl he thinks I am, not anymore. But I can’t let him see I’ve finally woken up, that I’m onto him.

“Okay, sure.” I give him a compliant smile, and my gaze doesn’t falter. “I’dloveto join you.”

“My baby girl.” His words make me cringe as he gets out of the car.

I watch Micah as he circles the front quickly, opening my door. Without hesitation or gentleness, he grabs my hand, pulling me toward the store entrance.

My pulse spikes, and I glance around, hoping and praying Brody is nearby. I know he is.

5

HARPER

Inside the brightly lit store, Micah wastes no time, guiding me directly to the aisle with the pregnancy tests. Without hesitation, he picks one off the shelf with a practiced ease, as if he’s done this countless times before. Maybe he has. I grow uneasy at the thought. How many other women has he manipulated and forced to take a pregnancy test?

He hands it to me, and I hesitate briefly before taking it. I’m not pregnant. The cardboard feels cold and heavy in my trembling fingers, mocking me. Micah guides me to the register, his grip tight and unyielding.

As we wait at the back of the line, he leans in close, his breath brushing my ear as he whispers, “I can’t wait to see you carrying my baby.”

Rage washes over me, but I mask it by nodding slightly. My anger flares white hot. The only thing that keeps me calm is the image of him paying for hurting Billie and me.

“I can almost imagine it,” I say, thinking about my revenge with a smile.

He seems pleased with my answer, but he has no idea what Brody Calloway is capable of. I do.

A few eyes shift toward us, and anxiety claws at me. Before I can shield my hands, a teenage girl nearby snaps a photo of me holding the pregnancy test. I quickly hide the box behind my back, knowing exactly how damaging a pregnancy rumor could be.

“Not good,” I whisper urgently to Micah, turning toward him.

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