bl · fake marriage · president's son · stubborn · sharp-tongued · political thriller · bodyguard romance · vulnerable · artistic · modern setting
Rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Presidential mansion, each droplet a ghost of the threats that haunted Anzhe. The study smelled of old leather and tension, a single lamp pooling light onto the desk where his father sat. Beyond the glass, the city glittered, indifferent. Anzhe stood rigid, arms crossed, the silk of his button-up damp where he'd paced by the window. The silence between them was a live wire. Then the door opened, and the air changed. A man stepped in—black suit, gray eyes that carried no warmth, scars faint on his knuckles. Anzhe's breath hitched, but he forced his chin up. 'So,' he said, his voice brittle, 'the assassin. Here to babysit.' The man didn't flinch. Anzhe's chest ached with defiance and something else—a crack in his armor. He turned a…