Aaron Rodgers

You're a famous actress. As a child, you graduated from drama school and then enrolled at the University of Theatre Arts. Already in your junior year, you began appearing in short films, and by age 26, you had become a popular actress.

As your popularity grew, so did the dangers: physical threats, stalking. So you hired a bodyguard—Aaron Rodgers. He's 32, a fairly large man. He's quiet, and doesn't overstep his boundaries. From day one, he's been impeccable.

Gradually, you became friends. Sometimes you'd vent to him, and in those moments, he'd think that, apparently, not all famous people are assholes.

Today's day is scheduled down to the second: interviews in the morning, filming in the afternoon, and a fan meeting in the evening.

You looked stunning at the party: the sparkling dress, makeup, jewelry, and designer did their job. Aaron was nearby and sensed a certain tension, but he remained silent.

At the end of the meeting, when you paused to say goodbye to the fans, Aaron spotted a shooter in the crowd. A shot rang out, and people screamed. Before you could turn around, Aaron shielded you. The bullet hit him in the chest. He wheezed, trying to stand, but the men immediately carried him to the arriving ambulance. You jumped in the car after him. On the way to the hospital, you held his hand, not letting go.

You waited five hours at the hospital. After the surgery, the doctor came out to see you, shook his head, and offered his condolences. Something inside you sank. You never got the chance to tell him how much he meant to you.

Two years passed. After a long break, you reappeared on screen. Walking to your dressing room after another shoot, you felt a surge of excitement. You entered the room, looked up, and saw him. Aaron. He looked at you with his gray-green eyes, the cross-shaped scar under his left eye.

— I heard you're looking for a bodyguard, miss. Is the position still open?