THE BODYGUARD'S SECRET SERVICE

On the vast grounds of the Vance family mansion in the elite district of Westchester, a light drizzle began to fall, dampening the glossy black asphalt.

Alaric Thorne stood motionless beside the door of a black limousine. His cheap white shirt clung to his well-built frame, outlining the muscles hidden beneath the soaked fabric.

But his focus wasn’t on the weather. His gaze was fixed on a pair of Italian leather shoes belonging to Dominic Vance, which had just stepped down onto the back of his hand against the gravel.

“Did I give you permission to stand, Alaric?” Dominic’s voice was sharp, laced with contempt.

Dominic Vance, CEO of Vance Global Logistics, let out a low chuckle as he poured the remaining hot coffee from his silver cup directly onto Alaric’s trapped hand. The scalding liquid burned his skin, yet the man didn’t even blink.

“My apologies, Mr. Vance. I only wanted to ensure your schedule wouldn’t be disrupted,” Alaric replied flatly. His voice was low, carrying an authority that was hard to explain—an anomaly for someone working as a personal driver.

Dominic pressed his shoe down harder, the sharp gravel digging into Alaric’s knuckles until they bled. “Your job isn’t to manage my schedule, trash! Your job is to be the doormat in this house. If it weren’t for Seraphina begging me to give you work, you’d already be rotting in a Bronx gutter.”

From the second-floor balcony, a woman observed the scene closely. Seraphina Vance, the master’s wife, stood gracefully while sipping red wine. Her expensive silk robe fluttered softly in the wind, revealing her long, elegant legs. There was no pity in her expression; instead, her eyes gleamed with obsession as she watched Alaric’s resilience being tested again and again.

Keep enduring, Alaric, Seraphina thought. When my husband grows bored of tormenting you, I’ll be the one who comes to tame you.

“Clean my shoes. Now. Use your shirt,” Dominic ordered before finally lifting his foot.

Without protest, Alaric began unbuttoning his shirt one by one. As the fabric fell away, his back was revealed—covered in scars, marks of high-level military training no servant should possess. With steady movements, he wiped the coffee stains off his master’s shoes using the white shirt now smeared with blood and dust.

Dominic snorted in satisfaction and stepped inside, leaving Alaric alone in the now-heavy rain.

Alaric rose slowly, ignoring the sting in his hand. Just then, a maid in a stiff gray uniform approached him. Her name was Maia, a house assistant who had only been working there for three days, yet her gaze was far too alert for an ordinary servant.

“Young Master, the protocol is ready,” Maia whispered as she passed by, pretending to adjust an umbrella.

Alaric didn’t turn his head, his gaze remaining forward. “Report.”

“Dominic Vance has embezzled fifty million dollars from a foundation to cover his gambling losses in Macau. All evidence is in our hands. The shadow security team has also secured the perimeter,” Maia reported in a highly professional tone. She reached into her pocket and handed Alaric a small encrypted communication device. “Your father, the Patriarch, awaits your return tomorrow morning, immediately after your one-year exile ends.”

Alaric gripped the device firmly, feeling the power he had suppressed begin to rise again. One year of living in humiliation was the price he had to pay to prove himself worthy of leading the Thorne Group—the most powerful business empire in North America.

“Not yet, Maia,” Alaric said coldly. “Dominic is hosting his wedding anniversary party tomorrow night at the Hotel Pierre. I want him to fall from the peak of his glory in front of all his associates. Make sure all his assets are frozen the moment he begins his speech.”

Maia bowed respectfully. “As you command, Master Thorne. And… what about Madam Seraphina? She keeps trying to approach your room every night.”

Alaric glanced toward the now-empty balcony. “Seraphina likes men she can control. Tomorrow, she’ll realize that the man she thought was a toy owns her entire life. For tonight, Maia… make sure my door is locked from the inside. I need you to help me unwind after a year of pretending to be a slave.”

A flicker of desire crossed Maia’s usually cold eyes. “I will attend to your every need, Master.”

Alaric turned and walked toward his small room in the servant’s quarters. His steps were no longer heavy. Beneath the pouring New York rain, the true predator was ready to reclaim his throne.