Thorne Princess
L.J. Shen
“Hell sent us the most evil disease and we humans called it love.”
—Conny Cernik
L.J. Shen delivers a charged, addictive standalone about a tabloid princess who is desperate to self-destruct…and the grumpy bodyguard who saves her.
I landed in hot water with the tabloids one too many times.
What can I say? My nipple wanted to come out and say hi to the paparazzi.
After that, my father presented me with an ultimatum—either he cuts off the gravy train and stops paying for my lavish lifestyle or I agree to have a live-in bodyguard.
And by bodyguard, I mean a sexy, formidable, out-of-this-world babysitter who just happens to be good at breaking spines.
Ransom Lockwood, ladies and gentlemen.
Now he is forcing me to try all kinds of weird stuff. Stop partying, clean up my act, get a job…
A part of me wants to tell him to get lost. I’m past saving.
But the other part? The other part wants to save him.
For Pang, who asked for this book. And for all the people who didn’t ask for it, but need it.
Author Note
This book contains dark themes and a few upsetting, uncomfortable scenes some may find triggering. Please note that this book deals with the following subjects: rape, non-con, dub-con, and CNC （consensual nonconsent）。
Thank you for taking a chance, and I hope you enjoy.
HALLION THORNE CAUGHT IN THE ACT!
By Anna Brooks, Yellow Vault Contributor
She’s kept a high profile since the controversy surrounding her latest boyfriend, baller Kieran Edwards, suddenly coming out of the closet two months ago. Now, Hallie Thorne is letting it all hang loose on a night out on the town. That’s right, my little Vaulters! You’re seeing correctly. Here is Hallie Thorne showing off her nipple. And with none other than cable TV’s most beloved hunk on her arm.
Next station? Has-been Celeb Rehab, if you ask me.
She may be a hit with Hollywood’s men, but whispers on the street are saying Daddy Dearest cannot stand her.
Okay. Wait a minute. Pause. Don’t make a judgment.
I know it looks really bad. Not my nipple—my boobs are awesome, they’re probably my best feature—but I swear I can explain all the other stuff.
So, this is the story of my downfall.
Of how every household in America got to see my nipple.
Go back to a year ago when my nip-slip picture was plastered all over internet websites, magazines, tabloids, and social media accounts. At some point, I wondered if I should get it an agent and a tiny pair of dark film-noir sunglasses. That’s how crazy things got.
Not that I had anything to hide. I was, as the media pointed out, curvylicious. With wide hips, D-cup breasts, and a butt worthy of every one of Lil Wayne’s heart-wrenching poems.
The problem was…my nipple wasn’t just a nipple.
It was the nipple of the first White House baby. I was the First Daughter on a few levels.
America was obsessed with the fact that I, Hallie Margaret Thorne, the first child to be born to a sitting president, was also a royal fuck-up.
The tattoos, cherry-red hair, thick eyeliner, and community college I’d dropped out of one semester into my studies provided a certain easy-to-hate optic…
Everyone thought I had it easy. All I had to do was literally not screw up. But I did. Constantly.
And this last time? I’d taken it one step too far.
Yellow Vault wasn’t lying. My parents had had enough of me. Desperate times called for desperate measures for their pretty, loose cannon in need of protection, a mental slap in the face, and a wake-up call.
Enter Ransom Lockwood.
Formidable, forbidding, frightening, and…excuse me, but fuckable to a fault. My new bodyguard.
Sorry, close protection officer.
The devil who blew up my life and annihilated whatever was left of my self-esteem.
The ornery protector who stole my heart, smashed it into pieces, then handed me back the broken shards with a lopsided smirk.
They called him The Robot, but I didn’t think that’s what he was.
He had a heart, somewhere under all those layers. Dusty and scarred, but still beating.
So all you need to know is that in some ways, that nip slip did destroy my life. But it also saved me. Or at least, one part of me.
The part that was worth saving.
The part that survived.
When Princesses Fall
My corseted little black dress was a mistake.
I knew as soon as I slipped into the back seat of my driver’s Cadillac, my upper face covered by a sequined, red masquerade mask.
My best friend Keller was already perched on the opposite side of the seat, rearranging a stray hair in his perfect blond mane, his phone’s camera serving as a mirror. He had a beautiful, golden Roman mask on.
“Hey, Den! The Chateau Marmont,” I instructed my driver, rearranging the underwire of my dress.
Keller tucked his phone into the pocket of his Prada suit, throwing me a glance. “Honey, the corset looks like it’s about to launch itself out of the Milky Way. What size is this dress?”
Sitting upright, I shot him an offended look. This garment was the kind of claustrophobically tight that would later need to be surgically removed.
“Balmain only makes stuff up to size twelve,” I mumbled defensively.
“Well, the zipper is probably one hors d’oeuvre away from filing a restraining order against you, so I suggest you go back and change.” Keller smoothed an invisible wrinkle on his cigar pants.
Dennis glanced in the rearview mirror to see if he should turn around and drive back to my house. I shook my head. Absolutely not. I was a size twelve. Sometimes I was even a size ten （though definitely not between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Or Easter. Or while PMSing）。
The problem with designer numbers was that they were made exclusively for trim people. I loved my body. Every curve and hard-earned cellulite cell. I knew, logically, designers rarely made true-to-size garments. Their ten was an eight, their twelve was a ten, and their fourteen was…well, nonexistent. But I never bought anything off the rack. To keep it eco-friendly, I always shopped in secondhand stores for gowns, but that limited my options pretty significantly.
“The dress stays,” I announced.
“Not for long, if your tits have anything to say about it,” Keller muttered.
“You’re just bitter because your eyes are baggy.”
“My eyes are baggy?” Keller thundered, ripping his gaze from his phone.
Grinning, I shrugged. “No, but now you know what it feels like to be dissed by your best friend. Doesn’t feel too good, does it?”
Twenty minutes later, Dennis stopped by The Chateau. I squeezed my driver’s shoulder from behind, squishing my cheek against his. “Thanks, Den! You can take tonight off. I’ll Uber it home.”
“I think I’ll stay,” sixty-five-year-old Dennis said wearily. “Your parents aren’t gonna like the Uber idea.” He’d been my driver since I was eight, and knew my parents better than I.
Mr. and Mrs. Thorne did not like it when I left the house—not because they so enjoyed my company. My mere and flawed existence caused them embarrassment by proxy. The nicest thing my mother had ever said about me in an interview was that I added texture to the family. Texture. Like I was a decorative wallpaper. And so, I didn’t particularly care what they’d approve of.