Page 7 of The Forbidden Bodyguard

But I haven’t finished my story yet.

You won’t envy me soon.

“There we go,” my stylist pulls off the black jacket and shakes the hair off. “Gorgeous as always, Stella.”

I fluff the curls, smile, and reach for my purse. “Beautiful, thanks, Jasmine. Can you check my booking for next month?”

“It’s in there.” She follows me to the counter, and we process my payment.

Thank goodness. I’ll be on time to meet Charlotte.

Charlotte Kensington and I met at school and have known one another all our lives. She’s now a fashion designer and living a fabulous life. I envy her.

I’m an author published by the biggest publishing house in the world, thanks to my family name. Despite that, my novels are not very successful. Even with the vast marketing budget that indie authors could only dream of—including a Times Square billboard—they aren’t doing that well.

I know they want to drop me, but my terrifying father’s reputation likely keeps me on their books. The fact that they haven’t chased me for my next final draft speaks volumes.

Pun intended.

“If you need an extension, that’s fine,” Rebecca says every time I ring her.

I’ve written two books. This third one has taken me eight months to write four chapters. I hate it and want to toss it all out.

As a young girl dreaming of being an author, I thought writing would be more fun. As an English lit graduate, I imagined pacing my glamorous office as ideas flowed so fast I’d have to race back to my computer where I couldn’t type it all fast enough.

I let out a snort as I put my wallet away.

I truly thought that my characters and I would go on an adventure as I brought them to life on the page.

Mine don’t. They feel flat.

It all feels forced.

Right now, nothing is flowing. Which is understandable under the circumstances.

My bodyguard follows me out of the building and across the sidewalk into the waiting black car. He climbs in front after my driver shuts the door, and we head to The Carlyle.

Inside Bemelmans, the dark redwood ambience is moody with its dim lighting and intimate tables. It’s not busy, which I like. A bartender pours whisky for a customer and gives me a cursory glance.

When I see Charlotte, my face breaks into a smile.

She’s so busy in her successful life that I don’t see her enough. I miss her. For all I know, soon I won’t see her much at all.

“Charlotte.” I feel tears prick my eyes but blink them away before we straighten from our hug.

“Your hair looks amazing, girl. And oh my, I love this dress.”

We both grin.

It’s one of her designs that she sent me at the start of the season. A long-sleeved utility belted midi-dress in black with puff sleeves that cuff at the wrist. The neck has a black sheer lace detail showing a hint of cleavage. I’m wearing black patent Christian Dior stilettos and three diamond bangles which match the large studs in my ears.

“This old rag. I nearly threw it out.” I sit at our regular table as Charlotte faux-gasps.

She knows I love it. I’ve been photographed in it by the paparazzi and landed on the front page of the tabloids. Their attempts to catch Victor Voss’ daughter at something illegal or dating a playboy have been an utter failure. Not for lack of trying, trust me.

That I became a fiction author must have burst their bubble tremendously. There’s not a lot they can claim I do while sitting at a computer screen all day long in my penthouse.

Not that I do a lot of writing.