Bloody Rose

chapter 2

Cheyenne's POV:

I sat on my couch, hugging my knees tightly, still shaken after my dad rescued me from that terrifying encounter at the club in downtown Miami.

Just as I thought I needed some solitude, a woman walked into my beachside apartment. She stood about 5'9" tall, with captivating chocolate brown eyes that drew me in. A scar on her left shoulder hinted at a painful past, possibly a gunshot wound.

Her black button-up dress shirt and skin-tight jeans accentuated her athletic figure, while military-style combat boots exuded confidence. Two M1911 pistols rested on her hips, one on each side.

As my gaze returned to her eyes, I noticed a flicker of pain and anger. It was a look I understood all too well.

"Who are you?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

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Ronnie's POV:

As I entered the luxurious penthouse apartment, my gaze fell upon a girl around my age sitting on a plush white leather couch. Her black glitter dress sparkled, but one torn strap hung limp, hinting at a struggle. Tears had dried on her face, leaving behind a trail of sadness.

Her hair cascaded down, slightly disheveled, as if someone had grasped it forcefully. My instincts screamed to comfort her, to wrap her in a warm embrace and chase away the pain. But I couldn't afford to let emotions cloud my judgment. I had to maintain a businesslike demeanor.

I approached her calmly, taking in the details of her fragile state. "Hey, are you okay?" I asked softly, trying to keep my tone neutral.

She lifted her gaze, and our eyes met. Hers were pools of vulnerability, filled with a deep sadness. I felt a pang in my chest, but I pushed it aside, focusing on the task at hand.

"Who are you?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I'm Ronnie," I replied, extending a hand. "Your father sent me to...take care of you."

Her eyes narrowed slightly, and I sensed a hint of wariness. I couldn't blame her. I would feel the same way if I were in her shoes.

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Nigel's POV:

I stepped into my daughter's living room, where Xavier's daughter, Ronnie, already waited. Her sharp gaze met mine.

"Ah, good, Ms. Ramirez. You're here. Let me brief you on the details," I began, gesturing for her to sit.

My daughter, Cheyenne, snorted, rolling her eyes.

"Your father and I are business partners. I asked him for a favor – to find my daughter a bodyguard I can trust. You see, Cheyenne is my only heir, and I want to ensure her safety."

Cheyenne's expression turned bitter. "All I am to you is the heir to your empire. You never consider my feelings."

I frowned, my tone firm. "Listen, child. You'll understand when you have kids of your own someday. But for now, I cannot have anything happen to you."

Ronnie's eyes narrowed. "I understand your concerns, Mr. Bennett. But perhaps we should discuss the specifics of my role and the potential threats to Cheyenne?"

I nodded, grateful for Ronnie's professionalism. "Yes, of course. Let's review the security measures."

As we discussed the details, Cheyenne's displeasure grew. Her arms crossed, and her jaw clenched.

"Cheyenne, this is for your own good," I reassured her.

"But why Ronnie? Why not someone else?" she protested.