POV Noelle
Angel.
I'm his fucking angel.
When I asked why he called me that, Owen got this look… Like someone just cracked him open and found something soft underneath all that controlled violence.
"Because you're the only thing in my life that isn't completely destroyed," he'd said, voice rough as sandpaper. "Every time you look at me, I see who I could be instead of who I am."
Then he'd brushed his thumb across my bottom lip.
"You make everything better just by existing. Like having a guardian angel, except she's real and she's mine."
I'd basically melted into human goo right there.
But now I'm sitting at my desk, supposedly analyzing market trends for Professor Harrison's economics hellscape, but really just replaying that moment while Jamie provides color commentary through my AirPods.
"Still can't believe you actually banged your bodyguard," Jamie's voice practically vibrates with glee. "You're living every forbidden romance novel ever written."
"That wasn't the point."
"Please. The point was getting him fired so you could escape your golden prison. Instead you're over here doodling his name like some lovesick middle schooler."
I glance down at my notes. Shit.
There it is: "N + O" surrounded by hearts next to a supply-demand curve that looks like it was drawn by a drunk toddler.
"I'm not lovesick."
"Babe, you're terminal. On a scale of one to ten, how's the dick?"
"Jamie!"
"What? I'm conducting vital research. I need to know if the whole 'experienced older man' thing is real or just propaganda."
My face burns hotter than a California wildfire. "I’ve told you, we're not discussing this."
"We absolutely are. Your master seduction plan backfired spectacularly. Instead of gaining freedom, you're more trapped than ever. Except now you actually want to be trapped."
He's annoyingly accurate.
The plan was surgical. Seduce Owen, make him look unprofessional, get him fired, reclaim my independence. Instead I've caught feelings for the man whose literal job description is controlling my entire existence.
Classic me. Even my rebellion is a fucking disaster.
"I'd rather be caged with Owen than free without him," I admit.
"Jesus Christ, you've got it bad."
"Sometimes the heart wants what it wants."
"Sometimes the heart is a complete moron with terrible decision-making skills."
My stomach interrupts with a growl that could register on seismic equipment. "I need food. Call you back?"
"Only if you promise to get more details about his thick d—"
I hang up before he can finish because some things are sacred. Even to me.
The house feels like a museum after closing hours as I pad downstairs toward the kitchen. I'm halfway down the marble hallway when Owen's voice stops me cold.
"—of course I don't love her."
The words hit like a sniper's bullet to the chest.
"She's nothing to me," Owen continues, voice flat and professional. The tone I haven't heard in days. "Noelle Morris is just a spoiled brat who thinks daddy's money can buy whatever she wants."
Each word is a sledgehammer to my sternum.
"You want to know the truth? She's completely delusional if she thinks this means anything real. I'm getting paid to keep her alive, not to care about her."
I can't breathe. Can't think.
Can't process what I'm hearing because it doesn't match the man who called me his angel.
"Look, she's a decent fuck, I'll give her that. But let's be honest here—she's daddy's little princess playing at being rebellious. The second she gets bored, she'll move on to the next shiny toy."
My hand flies to my mouth to stop the sound trying to escape, something between a sob and a scream.
"I've dealt with entitled rich girls before. They're all the same—desperate for attention, thinking they're special because they've got trust funds and daddy issues. This one's no different."
Hot tears blur my vision, and my chest feels like it's collapsing in on itself.
"She actually thinks I give a shit about her beyond keeping her breathing long enough to collect my paycheck. It's pathetic, really."
I turn and run, taking the stairs three at a time. Not caring who hears my footsteps or sees me completely falling apart like some pathetic teenager who just discovered her crush thinks she's human garbage.
But this isn't a crush. This is so much worse.
This is me realizing that the first person I've ever actually loved thinks I'm nothing more than a spoiled brat with daddy's credit card and abandonment issues.
I slam my bedroom door and slide down it until I'm sitting on the floor, Owen's words echoing in my head like psychological torture.
She's nothing to me.
Spoiled brat.
Decent fuck.
Pathetic.
I pull my knees to my chest and let myself shatter. Ugly, devastating sobs that feel like they're ripping me apart from the inside out.
Because the worst part isn't even the betrayal.
It's that he's not entirely wrong.
I am spoiled. I am naive. I did think I could buy myself a happily-ever-after with a man who murders people for a living.
I built this entire fantasy where Owen saw something special in me, something worth protecting beyond his contractual obligations. Where his gentle touches and whispered endearments meant I was different from every other rich girl who'd crossed his path.
But I'm not different.
I'm exactly what he said—entitled, delusional, pathetic.
A twenty-two-year-old virgin who confused good dick with genuine affection.
The realization cuts deeper than any of his words. I'm not just heartbroken—I'm humiliated. Because somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew this was too good to be true.
Knew that men like Owen don't fall for girls like me.
They just fuck us and collect their paychecks.
I cry until my throat is raw and my eyes are swollen shut. Until there's nothing left but the echo of his voice calling me pathetic and the crushing weight of knowing he's absolutely right.
Because apparently I'm not his angel after all.
I'm just another paycheck with legs.