Page 6 of The Forbidden Bodyguard

I don’t know what’s true.

All I know is that he’s made a lot of enemies, and because of that, we’ve always had bodyguards and a higher level of security than even some celebrities.

For good reason.

Our home was broken into at least five times, our vehicles tampered with, a private jet almost took off with engineering issues while our family was in it, and every year Dad spends approximately three million dollars on legal fees defending himself.

Mom frequently hosts parties for well-known politicians, the mayor, and the police chief at our home.

I don’t think any of them are like my father.

They fear him, but they aren’t friends.

I get it. I might love him, but I don’t really like him either. Which is fair; he’s never bothered to build much of a relationship with me. Never taken me to the park, attended one of my birthdays, nor picked me up from school.

My memories are of him sitting at the head of the dinner table, asking me what I’d learned, reminding me of the rules in our family and barking at Mom.

Two years ago, at the age of twenty-three, I decided to move out.

He fought my decision.

“I’m an adult, Dad. Keeping me here against my will is breaking the law. Move or I will call the police.” I eventually said after he wouldn’t listen.

Threatening him was a bold and potentially stupid move which could have backfired, but I was young and eager to have my freedom.

“I own the police.”

“Then I’ll call the FBI.” I crossed my arms defiantly.

His brows had raised, telling me he had his fingers in that damn pie too. Ugh.

“I’ll call the White House. I know the president’s phone number.”

I didn’t.

But for whatever reason I’ll never understand, he decided to let me go. Perhaps he truly did think I knew POTUS, I don’t know. The Voss name is powerful.

All I wanted was my own apartment and to live my life without all his rules. I knew I’d always have to have security, but I was a grown woman by then and needed my space and privacy.

“You’ll remain in Manhattan and I’ll buy you the property,” Dad declared.

“I’ve rented one.”

“With my money,” he reminded me.

“My trust fund.”

“Still, my money.”

I glanced at Mom, who stood meekly to the side, shaking her head. “I told you to speak to him first.”

“I don’t need permission. Do neither of you understand human rights?” I’d flung out my arms, exasperated.

“ENOUGH, Stella!” Dad boomed. “I have agreed that you can leave. But you’re not living in a rented apartment. I’ll have my lawyers cancel the agreement and purchase you a penthouse.”

So that’s how I ended up in my fifteen-million-dollar penthouse on Seventh Avenue.

Yes, poor me.