Chapter Text
The flashing lights were blinding. A sea of cameras clicked in rapid succession, each one desperate to capture Caitlyn Kiramman’s signature poised smile. She stood in the center of it all, draped in a sleek, midnight-blue gown that clung to her figure in all the right places. The gown’s delicate embroidery shimmered under the spotlight, perfectly complementing the sapphire earrings that adorned her ears.
She was breathtaking—graceful, poised, untouchable.
The red carpet beneath her heels stretched forward like a path of adoration, lined with fans who screamed her name, their hands reaching out, desperate for a moment of her attention. With the ease of someone who had mastered the art of charm, Caitlyn turned slightly, giving the cameras a coy smile before waving at the crowd.
“Caitlyn, over here!”
“Caitlyn, can we get a statement on your upcoming film?”
“Caitlyn, do you have a date tonight?”
The reporters bombarded her with questions, each one more invasive than the last. But Caitlyn didn’t falter. She merely offered a polite chuckle, expertly dodging personal questions as if they were second nature.
“No date tonight,” she answered smoothly, voice as rich as honey. “But I do hope my performance in Starlit Reverie will be enough to steal your hearts instead.”
The crowd erupted into cheers. Caitlyn allowed herself a small, knowing smirk before stepping forward, her team swiftly guiding her through the chaos.
This is her life now—spotlights, interviews, appearances. A symphony of adoration that never seemed to end. And she played her role flawlessly.
The moment Caitlyn stepped past the velvet curtains, her shoulders dropped ever so slightly, the weight of her performance pressing down on her like an iron cage. The glamorous façade she upheld outside melted away, leaving behind something raw, something exhausted.
Her assistant, Margot, was already waiting with a bottle of water, her expression tight with concern. “You were brilliant out there,” she said, but Caitlyn could hear the worry laced in her voice.
“I know,” Caitlyn muttered, accepting the bottle with a graceful nod before taking a slow sip. Her throat was dry, her head slightly throbbing from the flashing lights and incessant noise.
Margot hesitated before speaking again. “We need to talk about the threats.”
Caitlyn sighed, rubbing her temple. “Again?”
Margot handed her a tablet, the screen displaying a flood of messages, some filled with admiration—others, far more sinister.
"You think you're better than her? Watch your back, bitch."
"No one wants you in this industry. Disappear."
"I know where you live."
Caitlyn exhaled sharply, handing the tablet back without another glance. “It’s nothing new,” she muttered.
“But it’s getting worse,” Margot pressed. “This isn’t just online hate anymore. We intercepted a letter at the studio today. It was... graphic.”
For the first time that evening, Caitlyn’s mask cracked. She met Margot’s gaze, something unreadable flickering behind her striking blue eyes. “Who’s it from?”
Margot hesitated. “Most likely fans of Vivian D'Arcy.”
Caitlyn scoffed. Vivian—her so-called rival in the industry. The media had fabricated a rivalry between them from the moment they both debuted, spinning stories of jealousy and competition. Vivian certainly played into it, making snide remarks about Caitlyn’s "privileged upbringing" in interviews, feeding the flames of hostility between their fanbases.
And now, it had escalated into something dangerous.
Margot folded her arms. “The studio is insisting on increased security. Non-negotiable.”
Caitlyn frowned. She’d always resisted the idea of a personal bodyguard. It felt suffocating, unnecessary. She could handle herself.
“I don’t need—”
“Yes, you do.” Margot cut her off, firmer now. “Caitlyn, someone out there wants to hurt you. We can’t take that risk.”
A tense silence hung between them. Caitlyn stared at the floor, jaw tight. She hated feeling controlled, but more than that—she hated the thought of being weak.
Margot softened, placing a hand on Caitlyn’s shoulder. “Please. Just let us do this for you.”
Caitlyn let out a slow breath, closing her eyes for a moment. The exhaustion was creeping in again, curling around her like a vice.
“Fine,” she relented. “But I’m choosing who it is.”
Margot nodded, relief washing over her face. “Agreed. I’ll set up some interviews with candidates tomorrow.”
As Margot walked away, Caitlyn lingered, staring at her reflection in the mirror.
The poised, elegant woman in the glass stared back, perfect as ever. Untouchable.
But beneath it all, Caitlyn felt like she was slowly unraveling.
And she had a feeling this bodyguard would be the beginning of something she wasn’t prepared for.
THE BRAWLER'S ARENA
The air was thick with sweat and blood. The scent of iron clung to the underground fight pit, mingling with the smoky haze from cheap cigars and the stale stench of alcohol. The crowd roared, fists pounding against metal railings, voices merging into a cacophony of shouts, bets, and curses.
At the center of it all stood Violet.
She rolled her shoulders, feeling the weight of her opponent’s body slump against the cold, cracked concrete. He wasn’t moving. Not yet, at least. The ref counted down, but Violet already knew—she had won. Again.
The thrill of the fight still buzzed through her veins, adrenaline pulsing in her ears. Her fists ached, bruised knuckles smeared with blood—some hers, mostly not. Her lip stung where a punch had split it earlier, but the pain barely registered. She thrived in this. Here, in the depths of the underground, she wasn’t a washed-up kid from the Lanes trying to make it in a world that never gave a damn about people like her. She was Vi—the undefeated. The one they all feared and respected.
The ref barely finished the count before the announcer yelled, “AND STILL THE CHAMP—VIOLET!”
The pit exploded into deafening cheers, people pushing forward, reaching out, eager to touch the legend they had just watched dismantle another poor bastard in under five minutes.
Violet spat blood onto the floor, rolling her wrists as she stepped back. The high of victory was already fading, leaving behind that familiar hollow ache in her chest.
It was always the same.
She fought, she won, she went home.
And tomorrow? She’d do it all over again.
Backroom of the Arena - After the fight
The underground’s backrooms were just as gritty as the pit—cramped, dimly lit, and reeking of sweat. Violet sat on an old metal bench, lazily wrapping her knuckles with fresh gauze. Her fingers were steady, practiced.
“Still fighting like you got something to prove,” a familiar voice drawled.
Violet didn’t look up. “Loris.”
Loris leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, his dark eyes sweeping over the mess of bruises and dried blood decorating her skin. Unlike Vi, he didn’t fight often anymore. His life had taken him elsewhere—some big security job up in Hollywood. Suits and VIPs. Not Vi’s thing.
He whistled low. “Damn. You know, normal people go out for drinks when they’re stressed. Not beat a man into unconsciousness.”
Violet smirked, tying off the last of the bandages. “Normal people are boring.”
Loris chuckled, stepping further inside. “Yeah, well, I didn’t come here to watch you break noses. I got a job offer for you.”
Vi scoffed. “Not interested.”
“You haven’t even heard what it is yet.”
“I don’t need to.” She leaned back against the wall, tilting her head toward him. “Every time you show up, you’re either trying to get me to ‘go straight’ or drag me into some corporate bullshit. Not my scene.”
Loris sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Vi, just listen, alright? It’s a personal security gig. Big client. A celebrity.”
That got a reaction. Vi’s eyes narrowed, her lips curling in distaste. “Oh, hell no.”
Loris raised a brow. “What, too good for a steady paycheck?”
Vi scoffed. “You think I wanna spend my days babysitting some stuck-up rich kid who throws tantrums if their coffee’s the wrong temperature?” She shook her head. “Celebrities disgust me. They act like they’re gods or something.”
Loris smirked, unsurprised. “That's why you never watch movies?”
Vi rolled her eyes. “That, and they’re all garbage.”
“Alright, I get it.” Loris held up his hands in mock surrender. “But hear me out—this one’s different.”
Vi snorted. “They’re all the same.”
Loris ignored her, stepping closer. “The pay is good.”
Silence.
Vi’s smirk twitched slightly. “How good?”
Loris leaned against the lockers, crossing his arms. “Enough that you wouldn’t have to step into this shithole for a whole year.”
Vi stared at him. The dim, flickering light above them buzzed faintly, filling the quiet space between them.
A year. No underground fights. No cracked ribs. No cheap stitches.
She clicked her tongue, glancing at her bandaged hands. “…Who’s the client?”
Loris smirked, sensing her hesitation. “Caitlyn Kiramman.”
Vi frowned. “Who?”
Loris let out an exaggerated sigh. “Jesus, Vi. She’s one of the biggest rising stars in Hollywood. You really don’t pay attention to anything outside of this fight pit, huh?”
Vi shrugged. “I got better shit to do.”
“Well, she’s famous, gorgeous, and, according to her team, in danger.” Loris’s tone turned serious. “Death threats. Stalkers. The whole deal.”
Vi exhaled through her nose, weighing the offer.
Fame didn’t impress her. Celebrities? Even less. But money? That was a different story. She wasn’t stupid. She knew she couldn’t fight underground forever.
Loris grinned, seeing the gears turning in her head. “So? You in?”
Vi rolled her shoulders, sighing like this was the biggest inconvenience in the world. “When’s the interview?”
“Tomorrow.”
Vi groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “Of course it is.”
Loris clapped her on the back. “That’s the spirit.”
Vi scowled. “If this turns out to be a waste of time, I’m kicking your ass.”
Loris just laughed. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”
As Loris left, Vi leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
Babysitting some rich girl? Yeah, this was gonna suck.
She had no idea just how wrong she was.
Vi groaned as the first sliver of sunlight cut through the window of her tiny apartment. She rolled over, face buried in the pillow, trying to ignore the insistent buzzing of her phone.
Then, suddenly—she sat up.
Her phone screen blinked aggressively. 9:43 AM.
The interview was at ten.
"Shit!"
Vi practically threw herself out of bed, tripping over the pile of clothes she’d left on the floor the night before.
She sprinted into the bathroom, splashing water onto her face, barely looking at her reflection. No time for showers, no time for—fuck, she didn’t even own anything professional.
She grabbed the nearest tank top and jeans, jammed her feet into her boots, and ran.
No breakfast. No coffee. Just pure, unfiltered panic.
By the time she reached the Kiramman estate, she was out of breath, sweating slightly, and definitely not making the best first impression.
But she told herself the same thing she always did—
If I don’t get the job, underground’s still there.
The air inside the Kiramman estate’s private conference room was thick with tension. A long, polished mahogany table stretched across the room, where a handful of well-dressed applicants sat, backs straight, eyes sharp. The walls were adorned with minimalist but expensive art, the kind that whispered old money without trying too hard.
At the head of the table stood Margot, woman currently responsible for making sure Caitlyn didn’t get murdered in her sleep.
She exhaled sharply, flipping through the list of names in her hand. Everyone was present except for one.
"Alright," she said, her voice clipped as she adjusted her glasses. "I’ll be calling names. When I do, state your name and experience."
She scanned the list and called out the first name.
"Marcus Steele."
A broad-shouldered man in a crisp black suit stood. "Fifteen years in private security. Former military."
Margot nodded. "Good. Next—Ren Ito."
A lean man with sharp features responded, "Ten years in executive protection. Trained in evasive driving and close combat."
One by one, the candidates introduced themselves—former military, high-profile security specialists, all of them polished and professional.
Then Margot reached the final name.
"Violet."
Silence.
Margot frowned and looked up. The chair assigned to this "Violet" was empty.
She cleared her throat. "Violet?"
Still nothing.
One of the applicants coughed, shifting in their seat. Margot’s jaw tightened. Unprofessional. If this Violet couldn’t even show up on time, there was no point in—
The door burst open.
Everyone turned toward the sudden noise as a figure stepped inside, slightly out of breath.
Violet.
She was a mess.
Her short, choppy pink hair stuck up in random directions, as if she’d just rolled out of bed. A gray tank top hung loosely over her frame, exposing the toned muscles of her arms. Her dark jeans were ripped—not the stylish kind, but the I-don't-give-a-damn kind. And her boots? Scuffed to hell.
Compared to the clean-cut, suit-wearing candidates, she looked completely out of place.
Vi ran a hand through her hair, as if that would somehow fix the disaster that was her appearance. "Uh—yeah, that’s me. Violet. Or Vi. Whatever."
Margot closed her eyes for a brief moment, inhaling deeply through her nose. "You’re late."
Vi shoved her hands into her pockets, rocking back on her heels. "Yeah, uh—alarm didn’t go off."
That was a lie. She didn’t even set an alarm. She woke up, saw the time, and thought, shit.
Margot looked her up and down, unimpressed. The other candidates exchanged glances, some smirking, others shaking their heads.
"Do you even own a suit?" Margot asked, voice laced with irritation.
Vi shrugged. "Didn’t think I needed one to break someone’s nose."
A beat of silence.
Margot exhaled slowly. "Right. Have a seat, Miss Violet."
Vi plopped into the empty chair, slouching slightly, legs spread apart in a way that screamed I don’t belong here, and I don’t care.
Margot pinched the bridge of her nose. This was going to be a long interview.
Margot surveyed the room, regaining her composure. "Alright. We’ll proceed with questioning."
Vi leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, waiting for the inevitable rejection.
And then the door opened again.
Caitlyn Kiramman walked in.
Every applicant sat up straighter—except Vi.
Vi, still slouched, lazily flicked her gaze toward the woman she was supposed to be protecting. And she had to admit…she hadn’t expected this.
Caitlyn was gorgeous.
Not in the fake, over-polished way Vi assumed all celebrities were. No. This was the kind of beauty that commanded a room.
Deep blue eyes, sharp and calculating, scanning the room with practiced ease. Her dark blue hair was pinned back elegantly, not a strand out of place. She wore a tailored navy suit, the kind that screamed money, paired with a subtle but unmistakable air of confidence.
And then Caitlyn’s gaze landed on Vi.
She paused.
Vi could see the exact moment Caitlyn took her in—the messy hair, the casual clothes, the way Vi sat completely relaxed, unlike every other applicant who looked ready to salute if asked
A flicker of something unreadable crossed Caitlyn’s face. Then, she turned to Margot.
"Let’s begin, shall we?"
Vi exhaled through her nose, already feeling an itch of irritation crawl under her skin.
This was gonna be fun.