Chapter Text
“No way! I am not going anywhere! I’ve had enough of this!”
The voice snapped through the lavish in-house office like thunder splitting the silence—sharp, defiant, and loud enough to rattle the walls. The outburst came from a 27-year-old young man standing rigidly across a grand mahogany desk, his palms slammed flat against the cold, gleaming glass top.
“Son, for the last time—I’m not asking you. I’m telling you!”
The father's voice boomed in response. He had enough of his son’s tantrums. His eyes, cold and furious, bored into his son’s with a glare that could slice through a boulder. His hands were clenched on either side of his chair as though holding back the full force of his temper.
With a heavy breath, the son’s fist came down hard against the glass top again, sending a dull thud reverberating through the room.
“Wouldn’t it be safer if I just stayed here? Why the hell must I go anywhere at all?” he shot back, frustration rising in his chest like a flood.
“Can’t you fucking listen to your father for once?!” the man barked. “This is your life we’re talking about, Suppakarn Jirachotikul!”
The man stood abruptly, pushing his chair back with a screech. He dragged a hand across his face, fingers massaging his temples in sheer frustration. “And I’m not taking any chances—not with you. Is it so hard for you to understand this?!”
Por staggered back a step, chest heaving. His jaw clenched, but his eyes burned with anger, resentment, and longing. It showed them all. A shaky breath escaped him as he tried to steady the fire boiling inside.
It hadn’t always been like this.
Not before his mother’s tragic death.
Back then, his father used to be calm and gentle. Loving even. He would normally ask like any other human instead of ordering. Picnics, movie nights, bantering while having dinner, laughing at his old dad jokes. The parents weren't necessarily close to their son but it was fine. He still felt the tad bit of warmth from them. But now, after losing his mother, Por could barely recognize the man who stood before him. Now when he opened his mouth, it was all sharp edges and barking commands.
His father’s love had twisted into overprotection—one that felt like a leash around his son’s neck.
Por was born into luxury. In a world where meals were served on silver platters and wants were met before they were even spoken, entitlement was easy to inherit. He wasn’t exactly spoiled, not in the arrogant sense, but he was used to having some degree of control—over his life, his choices.
Por had his time of life. He went out at night—clubs, parties, the occasional drinking. But he never lost himself in it. He just wanted to forget the world for a while. All of the things he did, he did it in the hopes of finding something real.
But that was hard to come by when everyone around him only saw his name, his money, his status. The so-called “friends” he had? They saw a walking wallet. The people who approached him and flirted with him? They found an all-time ATM card with a charming smile.
The only person besides from his own family, who cared for him was his cousin. Now, living in Canada for his higher studies and who contacts barely due to his busy schedule.
Apart from the lavishness he was born with, Por has had passions of his own. He loved painting, he loved playing guitar and singing, he loved reading books, and harbored a deep fascination with botany. He had earned a degree in botany, while secretly minoring in music and devoured romance novels, though he never truly believed in romance itself.
He wanted to become a researcher. His father, however, demanded he inherit the family business—a demand Por had resisted time and time again. In the end, his resistance proved futile. His father’s rules were the law moving this house. And his words were absolute with no one who could refute them.
And yet, ever since that one funeral, everything had changed. At first when Por noticed the abnormality in his father's behaviour, it was merely one or two commands here and there. Nothing aggressive.
However, for the past two years, his father began dictating every step his only son took: what to do, who to meet, where to go—or more often, where not to go. The reins tightened every day. All under the guise of protection. As if the man–Por’s father was attacked with a severe case of paranoia.
And the worst of all, the father and son didn’t even talk anymore. At least not like they used to.
So when his father announced that he was hiring a bodyguard—someone to follow him around, shadow his every move, watch him constantly because of a fucking threatening email—it wasn’t concern Por heard. He heard control masquerading as worry. Protection felt like an excuse, a carefully disguised trap. To Por Suppakarn, it was nothing short of a living prison.
And that was the last straw. Por had it enough. He was not going to tolerate this anymore.
“Why a bodyguard?!” Por snapped. “Aren’t there enough guards in this house? Why must I stay with a stranger under the same roof?! I don’t need some babysitter glued to my side.”
Frustration bled into every word. His voice cracked with indignation as he threw his arms up in exasperation.
His father—Jirachotikul Somsak—merely tilted his head. He didn't even react to his son's outburst. He had witnessed this far too many times to be fazed by this. Instead, he sat down and leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers together.
“This place is being targeted. You are being targeted. And I can't let you live alone in some place. The last time you were alone in the house, you nearly blew the place up, son.” he spoke as if he was reciting daily news, giving his son a knowing look.
“That’s not a risk I’m willing to take.”
For all his irritation, Por had no rebuttal to this one. As much as he hated being treated like a child, he was… chaotic. In simple words, a walking disaster. Disastrous things just happened around him—blowing up the microwave, almost breaking a butler's leg, breaking his own nose by tripping on his own leg. He wasn’t exactly a hazard, but he could unintentionally orchestrate one. He had an uncanny talent for inviting disaster. Clumsy fit him the best. Klutz just like his cousin loved to tease him with.
“Ughhh, I hate this,” Por groaned, dragging the word out as he collapsed into the chair behind him. His limbs sprawled like he’d just surrendered to some cruel fate. Across from him, his father released a weary sigh, “Why can't I stay with my cousin in Canada then? Why a bodyguard?”
“Will this cousin of yours save you if something were to happen to you, Por? Or, will you be able to save him when danger befalls?” He paused, studying his son's face. “As much as it is good to live with someone familiar, this is not a light matter,” Somsak let out a deep sigh which earned him another grumble from his son.
“Look, I understand you son,” his father said, his voice softer now, trying to coax his son into agreeing to this wish of his. “But whether you like it or not, you’ll be living with a bodyguard for the time being. At least until we catch the person behind the threats.”
That reminder made Por flinch inwardly. His old man might be overprotective but it was also a fact that Por’s life was on the line. Even if the threat turned out to be nothing more than a cruel prank, ignoring it wasn’t an option in their line of work. Everyone had eyes on them the day Somsak Jirachotikul had become successful and one of the wealthiest men of Thailand.
And fame often meant an open invite to hatred and danger. An easy target for those who harbored ill-intentions.
Somsak leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk now, and looked his son in the eye.
“I promised my wife–Fon Jirachotikul–that I’d protect you, no matter what. And I don’t break my promises to your mother, son.”
Por shifted in his seat, lips pressed into a thin line. He could never argue with that either. His mother—loving and caring— had been the glue of their family, the warmth in the cold marble halls of their mansion.
And now she is gone.
“...Fine,” Por relented at last, though he didn’t sound remotely happy about it. He straightened up and narrowed his eyes. “But if I don’t like him, he’s gone. Got that? You’re firing him the second he pisses me off.”
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his father’s mouth as he gave a nod. “Yes. Noted.”
Then, without missing a beat, he picked up his phone, dialed a number, and said curtly: “Send him in.”
Two minutes passed. The clock ticked mercilessly between the two figures. Then the door to the office opened with a loud creak.
A man—a head taller than Por—stepped inside, dressed head-to-toe in black. A tailored suit hugged his lean but strong frame, his build not bulky but visibly fit—shoulders broad, muscles honed with hours of workout and training sessions rather than size. His boots clicked sharply against the marble floor with each step he took. A sleek black mask obscured the lower half of his face, but his eyes—lethal, calm, and undeniably slanted at the edges like siren's and mirth that of a wolf's with undeniably long and beautiful lashes casting delicate shadows on his cheeks—were entirely visible beneath slicked-back dark hair.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t even try to wander his gaze around the room that screamed richness. He stood still, composed, exuding the years worth of discipline injected into his veins.
Like a machine already programmed for obedience.
However, the very first thing the bodyguard noticed since the moment he entered this room was a pair of disdainful eyes on him. Por’s glare hit him like a slap in the face.
The agent caught it instantly like an inbuilt function—the loathing in those eyes. The resistance. The unspoken challenge.
So this is the heir I'm assigned to protect. Great.
He could already tell this wouldn’t be easy. One step into his new boss’ territory and he already wanted to retreat, terminate this offer and live on a hill or a valley deep in the Alps.
The said agent had fought in the field, faced bullets and hand-to-hand combat, protected high profile politicians, royals and even dismantled syndicates. But this? Babysitting a rich heir with a temper and too much attitude? This wasn’t exactly his comfort zone.
When he’d first received the offer, he’d hesitated. The responsibilities themselves were manageable—but living under the same roof as his charge, watching his every move like a hawk? That part had made his skin crawl with discomfort.
But as his gaze travelled down the offer, the salary was insane. Insane enough for a job simple like this. The paycheck he saw on the offer letter was massive. And he needed the money. Desperately so.
Ever since he resigned from high-profile NIA operations, the pay had plummeted. Taxes, utilities, and endless expenses ate away at what little he earned. He wasn’t living anymore—just scraping by. And that wasn’t enough.
So he straightened his posture, pushed down the sinking feeling in his gut, and prepared himself.
You can do this.
Whatever this job was going to be, it was about to test him in every possible way. But he had no other choice left.
“Son, meet Teetee Wanpichit. Your bodyguard from this moment onward. He is younger than you, but make sure you address him with respect, got it?”
Por’s father gestured toward the man in black, voice steady and matter-of-fact, as though he were introducing a new personal assistant instead of someone hired to shadow his son day and night.
The man stepped forward until he was a few steps away from the table. With arms arrested on his side, he offered a deep, respectful bow.
“Hello, sir. I’m Teetee. Age 25. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” His tone was professional laced with zero emotions. To him, it was just another job to keep his stomach filled.
That's how it always was. And that's how it should be.
Por Suppakarn didn’t return the courtesy.
Instead, he clicked his tongue and spinned his chair to face Teetee completely. He leaned back in his chair and eyed Teetee from head to toe like he was inspecting a designer item he never asked for. His brow arched, unimpressed. Under his breath, he muttered, “Is this guy really going to be my bodyguard? He looks like he’d break in half if someone so much as kicked him.”
It wasn’t meant to be heard. Just a fleeting thought which should've stayed in his mind. But it slipped anyway.
However, Teetee’s ears were sharp. He caught it instantly.
The twitch of his brow gave him away. Just barely. His lips pursed into a thin, tense line. The insult shot through him—and if it weren’t for years of field training and every bit of self-control he’d learned through blood and sweat, Teetee might’ve punched this brat square on the face to show his qualifications right there and then.
But he reminded himself on the spot.
Calm down, Tee. Remember you need money. Hold it together.
He inhaled slowly, eyes never leaving Por’s smug face.
Then he responded, voice composed and cool. His hands thrummed at his sides with the urge to choke this brat.
“I’m a former black agent with the NIA’s Metropolitan Division,” he said calmly. “Black belt in both Judo and Taekwondo. Qualified marksman. Trained in high-threat personal protection. I’ve guarded politicians and members of royal families.”
“I've also worked with DSI, catching high profile criminals.”
The calm way he said it only made it more unsettling.
Por blinked, once.
Then again.
Huh??? What is wrong with this guy?!
His eyes widened, disbelief written plainly across his face. It took everything in him not to gape openly. Half horrified, half—annoyingly—impressed, though he’d rather choke than admit that aloud.
He could feel the smug energy—the same one which was in his favour just moments ago—radiating from Teetee’s half-covered face, even if the black mask concealed his expression. The slight upward lift of his brows, the tilt of his chin—Por knew exactly what kind of reaction he’d provoked.
Oh god, I hate him already!
He narrowed his eyes and glared at him even harder, as if that alone could wipe the smugness off the man’s face.
Without another word, Por shot up from his seat. The chair screeched against the floor as he stomped toward the door, fists clenched and pride wounded.
Just as he reached the doorway, he threw a middle finger over his shoulder.
“You know what—fuck you, Teetee, or whoever you are!” he spat.
Then the door slammed shut behind him with a thunderous thud that echoed through the walls.
“Por! Come back here!” His father screamed but the guy was already out of the door. Teetee, on the other hand, didn’t so much as blink at the sound of the slammed door. His unamused gaze lingered on it for a breath before calmly shifting his eyes back to the man who had summoned him for this assignment.
The brat could be dealt with later.
Jirachotikul Somsak, looked visibly uncomfortable, a flush of color rising in his cheeks as he awkwardly chuckled to ease the rising tension and gave a half-hearted wave toward the door.
“I apologize for my son’s behavior,” he said awkwardly, eyes flickering between Teetee and the polished surface of the desk. “He’s… good at heart. Really. He just has a few issues with his, well…uhh… temper. And… attitude. I’m sorry about that.”
Teetee stood tall, expression unreadable behind his mask. “There’s no need to apologize, sir. I don’t take such things personally,” he replied evenly. “I’ve been hired to protect your son. The rest isn’t my concern.”
And that was the truth. Emotions weren’t part of the job description. He was here to shield, observe, and neutralize. Not to judge or get dragged into domestic theatrics. He’d seen worse in his lifetime. Endured far worse than whatever this babysitting job was.
The man, Por's father, gave a slow nod, grateful for the professional response. “Good. I assume you’ve been briefed on the job, Teetee?”
Teetee inclined his head respectfully. “Yes, sir. I’m to remain by Khun Por’s side at all times and ensure his safety against any and all potential threats.”
There was a flicker of appreciation in the older man’s eyes. “Good.”
In an instant, his expression darkened. His face turned serious. His gaze was thinly veiled with fear. He leaned forward, rotating the open laptop on his desk so that the screen now faced Teetee. Resting his elbows on the table, his jaw tightened, and the air in the room grew heavier.
“But that’s not all. Please have a look at this.”
Teetee stepped closer, coming to stand directly before the desk. His eyes scanned the contents of the screen, absorbing the details with a cold, clinical precision.
The screen showed up with numerous untraceable emails sitting in the inbox.
Each email was either littered with photos and threats in the form of cryptic messages. Photos of his client, Por Suppakarn—some taken in public places, but others... far more invasive. Images snapped through his bedroom window, while he stood barefoot on the balcony, curled up asleep on his couch, even one of him brushing his hair in the morning light.
The messages beneath them were chilling. Chilling enough to send shivers down the spine to an average person.
“Did you know your son takes the same route every morning when he goes to jog? Enjoy the time you still have pretending he’s safe.”
“You can hire as many men as you like. None of them will change the ending waiting for your son.”
The most recent email, sent a week ago, was the most direct of all:
“This is your last warning. The next message won’t be just words. It will be him. Your son, dead at your doorstep :)”
Teetee’s expression remained composed, sharp. If anything, his eyes narrowed ever so slightly taking in the information laid in front of him.
This isn’t just a threat. This person knows the terrain. The layout. Every in and out of this family. Is the person an insider?
“Did he demand anything? Through a call or a letter? Did anything major happen after the last email?” Teetee enquired, determined to gather any kind of detail.
The man behind the desk exhaled shakily, shoulders sagging with invisible weight. Slowly, he gave a soft shake of head, gaze downcast on the table, “No. The person hasn't done anything so far since the start of these emails except for dropping photos. And the weirdest thing of all is that they are not even asking for ransom,” he murmured. “There’s no demand. No motive that we can trace. But whoever’s behind this... they are targeting my son. They know where he is, what he does, what time he sleeps, even what he eats. My child doesn’t know everything about this. I only told him that someone is stalking him around.” the father sighed.
“Anyone you suspect, sir? Any workers from your mansion? Because from the looks of it, someone from the inside must be lending a hand to this stalker.”
He shook his head again, then looked up at Teetee, desperation beginning to eclipse his composure. “I have no idea. The workers have been through some serious interrogation under my watch and nothing was found. I was raised in an orphanage—there’s no family to suspect. My wife’s family died in a tragedy. For the longest time, it was just the three of us.”
Silence settled over the room. Then, abruptly, the father stood up from his chair and reached across the desk, gripping Teetee’s hands in his own. His grip was firm but his voice trembled. “Please, Teetee. Protect my son. He’s the only one I have left. I can't lose him as well, please.” The corners of his eyes pooled with helpless tears. He couldn't lose his world for the second time.
Teetee met his eyes, with resolute determination. “I understand your desperation, sir.” His voice was low, solemn. “I’ll protect Khun Por with my life. I swear it. Not a single scratch will touch him while he’s under my watch.”
The older man nodded, visibly relieved, even if the worry in his eyes remained.
“I’ve arranged a separate apartment for the two of you,” he added. “A week from now on, you’ll be living there with two of my most entrusted guards until we identify and capture whoever is responsible. Everything has been prepared—a workspace for you, several rooms, surveillance cameras installed throughout the premises. Everything you might be needing, it's there. Contact me if you need anything else,” He paused. “The other two will be arriving there on the day you guys get shifted over there.”
“I only have one request…” Taking in a deep breath, he continued. “Please. Protect my son at any costs. Nothing should happen to him.”
Teetee gave one final bow. “Understood.”
With a final glance at the photos still glowing on the laptop screen, Teetee turned and exited the room—his face dark with lethal emotions, posture razor-straight.
But his mind was racing.
Whoever you are, you have definitely messed with the wrong person.
Because Teetee didn’t play games. And no one dared to touch the person he was assigned to protect.