From Mob Princess to Mugshot Photographer novel Chapter 2

**Storm Behind Sleeps by George Orwell 2**

**Chapter 2**

At the tender age of sixteen, I found myself ensnared by a rival crew, their intentions cloaked in shadows and deceit. The night was thick with tension, and I managed to slip away, only to land in the city’s most wretched corners—garbage strewn across the streets, rats scuttling through the alleys, and streetlights flickering like dying stars in the oppressive darkness.

As I stumbled through this dismal landscape, a drunken man suddenly lurched into my path, his grip like iron as he seized my arm. Panic surged through me, heart racing, as I braced for the worst.

But just then, a figure emerged from the shadows, stepping in between us with a confidence that was both startling and reassuring. It was Zachary Hart, only eighteen but carrying an air of maturity that belied his age.

He wore a black t-shirt, so worn and faded that it was nearly a ghostly gray. His arms were lean but strong, muscles honed from a life of hard work and struggle. When the drunken man, in a fit of aggression, shattered a bottle against Zachary’s back, he didn’t flinch or cry out. I stood frozen, bewildered, unaware that this was all part of a meticulously crafted plan.

In my youthful naivety, I felt as though I had stepped into a cinematic tale—here I was, the damsel in distress, and there was my knight in faded armor, ready to save me from peril.

When my father finally arrived, his face a mix of concern and authority, I seized the moment. “You wanted to hire me a bodyguard? I want him,” I declared, pointing at Zachary with a conviction that surprised even me.

The term ‘bodyguard’ was merely a façade, a clever cover for what was really happening. At that time, Zachary had nothing to his name—not a penny to spare, nor a glimmer of a future. All he possessed was a fierce determination and a strong back, ready to bear the weight of his aspirations.

I needed a reason to keep him close, to weave him into the fabric of my life. To my surprise, my father saw a spark in Zachary as well. He remarked that the kid had fire, a potential that could ignite into something remarkable.

He was right, of course.

Zachary poured himself into his studies with a fervor that made it seem as though his very existence hinged on it. Just two years later, the day his acceptance letter from the same college I attended arrived was etched in my memory forever. I could see the glimmer of tears in his eyes as he exclaimed, “Wren, I owe you everything. You and your dad. My entire life.”

“If I could… I’d never leave your side,” he added, his voice thick with emotion.

Every morning, without fail, Zachary would rise at six, embarking on an hour-long bus ride just to stand in line at a quaint little bakery. He did this so that I could find a warm croissant waiting for me on my desk before my eight a.m. class. It was a simple gesture, but it spoke volumes about his devotion.

He would spend his entire paycheck on a delicate brooch I had casually mentioned liking once, while he continued to wear the same tattered sweater for three long years, a testament to his selflessness. His backpack was a veritable survival kit—filled with Advil, band-aids, an umbrella, tampons—everything I might forget in my chaotic life.

Zachary was so incredibly kind to me that even my father struggled to find fault with him.

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