The speedometer of the black Escalade read one hundred and ten miles per hour, and the only sound in the car was the high-pitched whine of the engine and the sound of my bodyguard’s jaw clenching so hard I was surprised his teeth didn’t crack.

Liam. His name was a boring, one-syllable thud, just like him. He was a mountain of quiet, coiled muscle and professional disapproval, and for the past six weeks, he’d been my shadow, my jailer, and the primary target of my very creative boredom.

“You know, for a guy who’s supposed to be an expert driver, you’re surprisingly tense,” I said, kicking my stilettoed feet up...