BITTERSWEET PART 3: ARMATA AND CALISTA

Calista

The morning light streams through my bedroom window, bouncing off the array of designer bags

and shoes that populate my sanctuary. I'm scrolling through my social media feed, double-tapping

on photos that barely hold my interest, when there's a knock on my door. It's probably one of my

existing bodyguards, reminding me of some mundane errand I have to run today.

Instead, the door creaks open and my father steps in. His aura fills the room like a cloud of stern

disapproval. “Calista, we need to talk,” he says, the weight of his authority in each syllable.

I roll my eyes. “I'm busy, Daddy.”

He strides across the room, ignoring the clutter, and sits on the edge of my bed. “This is important,

Calista. More important than whatever party you're planning to attend tonight.”

“Highly unlikely,” I quip, but he’s not laughing.

“I've arranged for a new bodyguard to join your team,” he says, not a hint of humour in his eyes.

I snort. “Another one? I already have two. What's wrong with Nikos and Yianni?” I ask, putting my

phone down. “I already have the two of them tailing me everywhere I go, ruining my life. What's he

going to do, carry my bags? I don't need another one!” My voice rises, the pitch nearing frustration.

I snort at the thought.

Even though he’s probably the most attractive man I've ever laid eyes on, my pride won't allow me

to admit I was wrong.

“Calista, meet Armata, your new bodyguard.”

For a moment, I'm too stunned to speak. Then, regaining my composure, realising this man is

named after a frigging Russian tank. What a fitting name.

“Well, you certainly look menacing enough, but I still don't think I need a babysitter,” I snap,

standing up. “Especially not some broody, lumberjack-wannabe.”

“Calista,” my father warns.

The corner of Armata’s mouth twitches, like he's stifling a grin. He meets my gaze, his eyes dark and

intense, and for a second, I feel a shiver run down my spine. There's something in those eyes, a

shadow I can't identify.

“ assure you, my purpose isn't to babysit, but to protect,” he says, his voice a deep rumble that

somehow fills the room.

I roll my eyes and scoff. “Well, I already have protection, as you can see. So don't get too

comfortable.”

He just nods, unfazed by my brattiness, and that irritates me even more. I'm used to getting

reactions, to bending people to my will, but this guy stands like a fortress, immovable and towering.

Turning my heels sharply, I storm out of the office, letting the door slam behind me. A bodyguard

may be able to intimidate, but I'm not some damsel in distress who needs constant watching over.

This man may be a sight to behold, but as far as I'm concerned, he's just another prison guard in a

life that's increasingly becoming a cage.

Still, as I walk away, I can't quite shake the sensation that erupted within me when our eyes met. It's

a feeling that tells me Armata isn't like the others, that he carries something dark and intense within

him. And whether I like it or not, that makes him far more dangerous than any faceless threat.

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