Page 1 of The Bodyguard

Chapter One

Sophia

Mission: Lose virginity.

How hard can it be? I’m young, healthy, have been called pretty before, and I’m willing. I’m also smart, but I guess my astuteness wouldn't matter in this situation.

I just have to find a nice man, and then lie there until my virginity is… lost. Easy. I can do this with my eyes closed. In and out.

I groan at the thoughts in my head, which are not making this any easier for me.

The blinding lights, pounding music, and the concoction of perfume and sweat swirl around me. Gyrating bodies bump into each other, fruity-alcohol-laced drinks are spilled everywhere, and no one cares as long as they’re swaying to the thunderously loud beat vibrating from the walls around me.

I’m torn between standing straight and proud, folding my body inward so I’m not bumped into, and fiddling with the hem of my skirt, pulling it down, trying to do the impossible of stretching clearly unstretchable fabric. It’s not even my skirt. Nowhere in my closet would you find an item of clothing like this.

No, my wardrobe is as modest as I was raised. Pastels and beiges. Skirts and dresses that fall demurely to my knees and not a smidgen shorter. All of them are lined with silk inners. Not a panty line in sight for a photographer to zoom in on. My reputation is that pristine.

My heels aren’t higher than three inches because I’m not married yet, which means I’m wearing an unassuming 2.75 inches right now. Yes, according to the Strohamden royal handbook, the height of your heels denotes your marital status.

Sexy doesn’t feature in my vocabulary, in my wardrobe, or on my person.

The red leather miniskirt I’m wearing right now belongs to my friend Keira Spencer, or in English aristocracy, Lady Keira Spencer as she’s better known.

We’re on the outskirts of Strohamden, at a nightclub called Epsilon, where Keira batted her eyelashes so hard, they barely looked at our IDs. Just as well because the ones we’re using are fake.

It didn’t take us long to come up with the plan. Well, I should say it didn’t take Keira long. Me, I’m still too naïve, too innocent, too obedient to have ever tricked my parents this way or to have had the initiative to fool my security detail.

But Keira is a pro at it, and when I called her, she hopped onto her private jet, fully prepared to execute Mission: Lose Virginity. She even brought along her very own decoy.

Right now, in my room, is Keira’s cousin, pretending to be fast asleep in my bed, while I stroll out in a disguise that resembles said cousin. I’m only getting away with this because Igor, my primary bodyguard who has known me almost all my life, wasn’t on duty.

I can't believe how effortlessly Keira pulled this off. Years of practice she said, trying to outdo her own parents’ overprotectiveness.

I find myself almost sad that I never once thought of doing this in my teen years, and now I am going to be twenty-three years old already. I’m practically ancient, but hey, I have a flawless reputation.

I was too busy being the perfect daughter, the perfect princess, the perfect ambassador. Doing everything right and properly and primly and never stepping out of line or giving my parents any reason to be disappointed in me. I understood my role in life. I was a public figure. I belonged to a country and not to myself.

Until now.

Guilt shreds me in half. Once I do this, I can’t take it back. It’s not like when something is lost, there’s a chance you can find it again. This will stay lost forever. And change the course of my life.

“Have another drink,” Keira yells in my ear as she hands me a goblet filled with icy-blue liquid. “And stop fidgeting with the skirt,” she continues. “You’re making even me nervous. And for goodness' sake, stop standing up like you’re the future queen of Strohamden. You’re drawing unnecessary attention. Lose the primness and slouch a little, like a normal person.”

I’m wearing a wig and thick makeup, and no one would ever suspect that Princess Sophia of Strohamden had left her castle to come to a nightclub frequented by a young, hip crowd and is, by far, the most fashionable thing to do in Strohamden. I’ve heard vaguely of Epsilon, but until now, obviously, I’ve never set foot into the dance club.

But Keira is right. We just got here, and I do look nervous and out of place. If I don’t start blending in, I’m going to blow my cover. I try to relax, drop my shoulders, try to stand the way Keira is: hip jutted out a bit, her head tilted to one side, so she can keep flipping her hair. I fail miserably and come off comically.

“I don’t think I can pull this off,” I shout into her ear.

Sensing my imbalance, Keira grabs my hand and steers me up a staircase and onto a balcony that overlooks the city.

The music is a bit quieter here but not completely inaudible. There’s a poker game going on at one end of the massive room. A few people are sitting at the bar, and others are draped on a few couches having lively, deep conversations.

“You don’t have to do this,” Keira says at the same time as I think again that this isn’t going to work. My inner voice is trying to sabotage me. I close my eyes, but I can’t shut out the warning.

I take a sip of my drink instead. But I don’t stop there. I gulp the whole thing down, and in that time, my whole future flashes before my eyes.

I’m so angry at my dad that I want to scream. He kept it from me and then he chooses to tell me everything two weeks before my life will be upended, and I’ll be sent spiraling into oblivion. And I don’t have a say in the matter.

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