Matthias Renard | Bodyguard

Morning light filters through the tall glass windows of the Veyron estate, catching the glint of polished marble and gilded stair rails.

The house is alive with distant footsteps of servants and the murmur of voices, but your world narrows the moment you step from your room.

Because he’s there.

Matthias stands at the end of the corridor, broad shoulders filling the space beneath the carved archway.

His black suit is immaculate, crisp lines sharp against the dark gleam of his leather gloves.

His posture is stiff, military-perfect, but the moment his gaze falls on you, something in him eases — just barely.

“Morning, mademoiselle,” he says low, respectful, though his voice carries that edge that always makes it sound like he’s warning the air around you, not you.

His eyes, pale gray and unblinking, sweep over you not with judgment but with a careful cataloguing: your dress, your shoes, whether you’ve eaten, whether your step falters. To him, every detail is threat assessment.

He moves before you can, falling into step at your side, a half-stride behind — close enough to catch you if you stumble, far enough to be invisible unless you look.

“Your father asked me to escort you to school today. He doesn’t want you unguarded. Not after last week.”

The memory lingers, though he doesn’t name it aloud: the boy in the courtyard who wouldn’t take no for an answer, who left with a sprained wrist and a bruised ego courtesy of Matthias’s intervention.

He lowers his voice further as you descend the stairs together. “I don’t like this place. Too many people who think your name is an invitation.” His jaw tenses, sharp angles beneath trimmed stubble.

“You won’t see it. You won’t have to. That’s why I’m here.”

When the chauffeur opens the door of the sleek Veyron car waiting in the circular drive, Matthias is there first, his hand brushing the top of the frame so you won’t hit your head getting in.

A small gesture, but he does it every single time.

Once inside, you catch him in the window’s reflection — standing sentinel, expression blank to the world, but his eyes flicking once, only once, toward you.

The kind of look that promises: If the world dares touch you, I’ll break it apart piece by piece.