Chapter 3 My granddaughter's bodyguard
Michael hadn’t realized how loud silence could be until he stepped back into his apartment.
Four days since the hospital, and the place still smelled like dust and instant noodles. Every sound, the creak of the door, his boots on the floorboards, the sigh of the cracked window, echoed like someone else’s life.
He tossed his jacket on a chair and stared around. Same peeling wallpaper. Same unpaid bills. Same moldy coffee mug in the sink.
Home.
He gave a dry laugh and sank onto the couch. It groaned under his weight, like even it was tired of him.
Too quiet. Too much space for thoughts.
He’d replayed that night a hundred times, the crash, the fire, the screams. The smell of gasoline. His own hands burned as he pulled the man from the wreck. That wasn’t supposed to be his night.
That night, he was supposed to drag his father out of another gambling den.
He could still hear that call, his father’s drunk voice begging for cash, slurred and pitiful. Then the fight that broke out. Police sirens. Chaos. Someone is yelling about a car crash down the street.
One wrong turn, and everything changed.
His father blew through Michael’s tuition money that night. Every dollar he’d saved. College gone, dream gone, just like that.
Now he sat in the dark, rubbing a hand over his face. “Some luck I have,” he muttered.
He reached for his laptop. The fan wheezed like it was dying. Still, it loaded. He typed in the name:
Alasdair Whitmore.
The screen is filled with headlines. Billionaire industrialist. Chairman of Whitmore Group. Philanthropist.
Photos of him at charity galas, shaking hands with presidents. The same old man Michael had pulled from a burning car.
He leaned back, whistling under his breath. “Figures.”
He fished the ivory business card from his wallet, smooth, gold-embossed, nothing like his world. For a second, he thought about tearing it up. Then he sighed and dialed the number.
It rang twice.
“Chairman Whitmore’s office,” a crisp voice answered.
Michael hesitated. “Uh… this is Michael. I, uh, helped the chairman during the accident.”
A pause. Then the man’s tone changed, respectful now. “Ah, Mr. Michael. We’ve been expecting your call. The chairman said to take care of you. Name your price.”
Michael blinked. “My price?”
“Yes. Anything you want.”
He stared at the cracked wall in front of him. “I don’t want money.”
“Then what do you want, sir?”
“I just want to meet him.”
“…Meet him?”
“Yes. That’s all.”
Another pause, then: “Very well. I’ll send the address.”
~
The next day, Michael stood at the gates of the Whitmore mansion.
It looked unreal. Miles of trimmed lawn, a fountain shaped like a swan, and gates taller than the buildings in his neighborhood. Even the air smelled different, clean, and expensive.
A man in a dark suit approached. “Mr. Michael. The chairman is expecting you.”
Michael nodded, following him through the garden. Roses everywhere. Glass sculptures catching the sun. The house itself gleamed like it was built from money and pride.
Inside, it was silent, except for the crunch of cereal.
And then he saw her.
The girl from the hospital. Daphne Whitmore.
She was curled up on a couch the size of a car, wearing an oversized sweatshirt, pink-streaked hair tied up messily, eating straight from the box.
Michael froze. So this was the famous Whitmore heiress, the one tabloids called the hurricane.
She looked up. Their eyes met. Her spoon stopped midair.
“You,” she said flatly.
He blinked. “Me?”
She frowned. “Are you stalking me? Because that’s, like, creepy.”
He blinked again. “What? No.”
“Then why are you here?”
Before he could answer, the assistant stepped in smoothly. “Miss Daphne, this is Mr. Michael. The chairman’s guest.”
Her tone dropped a few degrees. “Oh. The hero.”
The word hero sounded like an insult. She turned back to the TV.
Michael clenched his jaw. He’d faced tougher people than this girl. Still, he said nothing and followed the assistant down the hall, the sound of cartoon laughter echoing behind him.
~
The study was all dark wood and silence. Shelves from floor to ceiling. The air smelled like paper and old money.
Alasdair Whitmore sat behind his desk, thinner now but alert. Sharp eyes, steady hands.
“Michael,” he greeted. “You came.”
“You told me to.”
The old man smiled faintly. “Most people would’ve asked for a house. Or a car. You asked for a meeting.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“Then what do you want?”
Michael took a breath. “A job. Any kind.”
The assistant lifted a brow. “Do you have any qualifications?”
“No degree,” Michael said. “None. Just… boxing.”
The man looked unimpressed.
Alasdair’s expression didn’t change. “Boxing?”
“Self-taught. Keeps me alive.”
“Honest,” the chairman said quietly. “That’s rare.”
“Doesn’t pay the bills, though.”
Silence stretched. Michael could feel the weight of it, the same hopelessness creeping back in. He turned to go. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have come.”
“Work for me, then.”
He stopped mid-step. “What?”
“You said you wanted a job. I’ll give you one.”
The assistant’s eyes widened. “Chairman…”
“Quiet, Liam.”
Michael frowned. “Doing what exactly?”
The old man glanced toward the window. Outside, faint laughter floated through Daphne's voice.
“As my granddaughter’s bodyguard.”
Michael blinked. “Her what?”
Alasdair’s lips curved slightly. “You saved my life once. Let’s see if you can save hers too.”
Liam almost choked. “Sir, Miss Daphne doesn’t…”
“She needs something,” Alasdair said simply.
Michael hesitated. A spoiled heiress. A bodyguard job. Him?
He should’ve said no. But the old man’s tone wasn’t asking. It was commanding.
He sighed. “When do I start?”
Alasdair smirked. “
Tomorrow morning.”
Michael nodded once and turned to leave.
Under his breath, he muttered, “A spoiled princess as my boss. Yeah… what could possibly go wrong?”
