Beyond Priority
Bodyguard!Leon x First Daughter!Reader Enemies to Lovers
Chapter 2
❌18+ MDNI❌
thanks so much for all the support you guys have given this fic already! i appreciate all the returning readers and the new ones 🫶 enjoy!
Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4
shoutout @sammimi19 @12soap34 @theebladestar for proofreading ✨
“Oh, honey… You look beautiful.”
You trust your mother, you really do, but you don't really feel beautiful at the moment. Or at least, you don't truly feel like yourself as you eye your reflection in the mirror, your form covered in a long-sleeved glittery gown. The sequins on the fabric itch, and you have to stop yourself from constantly readjusting it so as not to irritate your skin.
Standing in your spacious bedroom filled with antique furniture, you feel as though the dress makes you look just as dated as the place. Everything around you is ancient, and now you look old too, in your old gown and your old shoes. No twenty-one year old would be caught dead wearing this.
“Uh, thanks, mom,” you mutter, unconvinced.
She sighs from her spot on the bed, her green eyes filled with empathy. “Look, sweetheart, I know you didn't want this… But your father… He’s just trying to do what's good for you—for us. It's election year, we have to support him and stand together.”
“Right,” you scoff in barely contained sarcasm, “because hijacking my birthday to invite sponsors is us standing together.”
“Honey…”
“I know, I know. Big smile and calm posture,” you huff, parroting the words she always repeats.
She shakes her head with a fond smile before standing behind you, squeezing your shoulders reassuringly. “You will do great, sweetie. You always do.”
Heels click on the marble tile of the long hallway as you approach the president whose back is facing you. Your mother links her arm around yours, pulling you forward before calling out a soft ‘honey’ to the man.
He turns, expression neutral, though there is a coldness in his blue eyes that you have come to learn never leaves him. “Barbara,” he mutters in acknowledgment. “There you two are—you had me waiting.”
“You said seven,” you retort in a grumble. “It is seven.”
The look he gives you has the blonde woman beside you intervene in a soft murmur. “Alright, you two, don't start.”
You raise your hands in surrender, refusing to meet his gaze, before he finally turns to lead the way. The three of you walk until you reach the double doors of the East Room, two staff members ready to open the gate at the president’s signal.
He nods, gesturing for them to do so, but not without throwing a quick glance your way.
“Behave.”
It’s simply infuriating. He didn't even wish you a happy birthday yet, only muttering orders of what you should and shouldn’t do during this joke of an event. You wish you could argue, snap, or flat out refuse to do as he says, but you know the consequences would be so dramatic, you would rather not poke the bear.
You’re met with warm lights, quiet chatter, and classical music once you enter the room, the guests turning their attention towards your family as you make your way inside. Very quickly, the onslaught of greetings and small talk begins when the invitees call for your attention one by one.
You move from one group to another, from businessmen to politicians alike, all present under the guise of attending a private, casual dinner when it is anything but. The worst part is you weren't even allowed to invite your friends, even though it's supposed to be your birthday. So now you're forced to entertain guests, internally cringing at every tone deaf joke and inappropriate gaze from old men that have nothing in common with you.
When you grab a second flute of champagne after finishing the first one, hoping that alcohol will soothe your nerves, your mother gives you a stern look from across the room that has you setting the glass back down. In that case, you’ll just settle for food.
You smile politely to random people whose names you don't know as you weave your way through fancy suits and expensive gowns, until you reach the long, elaborate buffet table. Hors d'œuvres, amuse bouches, and every other fancy fucking french word for bite sized treats are piled on ornate silver plates. Your hand hovers, unsure of what to pick, when you let your eyes trail to the chocolate fountain set on the far end. Maybe sugar will do.
Walking over, you grab a sliced strawberry from a fruit plate, then dip it into the cascading melted chocolate. Your mouth is already watering, but before you bite into it, you turn your back to the party so no one witnesses the possible mess of smudged dessert on your face—you’re self-conscious enough already.
Once certain no one is paying too much attention, you shove the entire berry in your mouth, filling your cheeks with sweet and tart goodness. You exhale from your nose in contentment, bringing a finger to wipe at the stained corners of your lips, when you suddenly pause at the feel of eyes on your profile.
You turn your head slowly to face the onlooker with the demeanor of a child who got caught with their hand in the cookie jar, only to choke on the damn strawberry down your throat at the sight of the person.
It’s him. The hot blonde dude from the previous night. The one that rejected you and bruised your ego in a way you're sure will never recover.
Why the hell is he here? Is he some important guest too?
He notices your wide eyed look of confusion and responds with one of curiosity, a ghost of smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. You swallow hard and reach for a napkin, dabbing your chin in preparation to start your slew of questions, only to suddenly be hit with realization.
Wait…
The suit, the spiraling wire by his neck, the barely concealed gun, and the stance—the fucking clasped-hands-at-the-crotch stance… He’s Secret Service.
“Wh— What is this?” you ask in a scoff once you throw the cloth on the table, marching towards the man in a determined step.
His smile widens, though you catch him quickly biting the inside of his mouth as he feigns ignorance. “What is what?”
“Why are you here? You work here? You’re Secret Service?”
“You could say I am,” he nods with his impassive poker face.
Huffing, you cross your arms in irritation as you come to stand even closer. “What kind of answer is that? Just say yes or no.”
He stares at you for a moment, the annoying little twitch of his mouth starting again, when he lifts a hand to his own lips, tapping the corner where they join with his finger. “You have a little…”
Goddamnit.
You immediately feel your face heat up as you unceremoniously scramble to wipe your mouth of leftover chocolate with the back of your hand. Why does every interaction with this man result in your humiliation?
“Yeah, thanks,” you mutter sarcastically before returning to your accusatory tone. “Why didn't you tell me you’re an agent yesterday? I made a fool of myself talking to you...”
He shakes his head in the picture of innocence, a small pout on his plump lips as he tries to soothe your concerns. “Oh, I assure you you didn't, ma’am.”
“Ma’am?!” you scoff suddenly in a gasp.
It’s the dress isn't it? It’s making you look old as shit in front of the hottest guy you ever met, who also probably thinks you're an idiot by now.
“I— You’re older than me,” you point out, cheeks warm with embarrassment. “Don't call me that.”
“Isn't that what all security detail call you?” he quirks an eyebrow.
Well, he does make a good argument. Your mortification only increases, however, and you throw a glance around just to make sure no one else is witnessing your shame. Behind you, the party continues, people seemingly oblivious to your little conversation. Although, you do catch your father’s icy eyes across the room, and you already know he's internally berating you for not mingling more with guests.
You turn back to the man, your head bowed when you mutter an answer. “Yes…”
He appears to have caught the president’s lingering gaze as well as he straightens his posture, his voice dropping an octave. “So then it shouldn't be a problem… Ma’am.”
Sighing in defeat, you're about to leave when you pause, squinting your eyes in suspicion. “What's your name anyway?”
“Leon S. Kennedy, at your service.” He offers a curt nod.
“Kennedy,” you huff in irony. The name is familiar, of course, the very history of the walls surrounding you imprinted with it. “Alright then, agent Kennedy... Just so you know, I’m going to be asking around about you… Because I don't like this.” You make a vague gesture towards him, gaze filled with skepticism.
He smirks lightly again, before nodding in total ease. “By all means, please do.”
You observe him for a moment before clicking your tongue. “Unbelievable,” you huff as you turn on your heels, ready to join back the party. But before you go far, you hear him throw another comment at your back.
“Happy birthday, ma’am.”
With your eye twitching and your shoulders tense, you walk away in irritation, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response.
By the end of the night, your feet hurt like hell in your heels, and your dress itches so bad you wonder if it didn't scratch your skin raw. But none of the physical discomfort compares to the absolute mortification simmering inside you from your previous interaction with Kennedy.
He's so rude, you wonder how he ever managed to land this job. Although, he does look rather young, so maybe he's a rookie. Then again, his demeanor screamed anything but. He was so unfazed by your skeptical questions, it was a bit intimidating the way he stood his ground. Because of that, you made a conscious effort to avoid him for the rest of the party, and it thankfully worked. Though, you also did not get a chance to ask the other agents about him, too busy entertaining elites.
The thought of him keeps you awake longer than necessary when you finally slip under the sheets in comfortable pyjamas, the events of the two previous meetings replaying in your mind over and over again. It feels so unfair that you never go out to party, and the one time you do, this happens? Life is a cruel joke.
The next morning, you sit at the breakfast table in a simple outfit and barely styled hair. You know your mother might say something about choosing more ladylike clothes, but after masquerading as a middle aged housewife dressed for a holiday party the previous night, you could not care less for her comments.
Opening a text from Maya on your flip phone, you're happy to see her confirm your plans to go for a swim together in the backyard pool later. It's been so terribly hot this summer, and you hope you can hang out to cool down and forget all about last night's stupid event.
“‘Morning,” your father announces lowly as he enters the room, the staff responding with a slew of ‘good morning, Mr. President.’
“G’morning,” you answer between two bites of toast.
You watch him settle beside your mother, his coffee already waiting for him—black and piping hot, just how he likes it. He picks up his cup, his usual frown forever plastered on his forehead as he takes a sip. “We made good progress last night,” he begins, “hosting the party was the right call.”
Because of course he would praise his own decisions. You nearly roll your eyes.
“I’m so glad to hear that, honey,” Barbara chimes. “Everything went well—the food, the music—and, of course, everybody praised the little star of the show.” She looks your way, giving you an approving smile.
“Hm,” the president hums, making a single nod in response before he meets your eyes. “I saw you talk to one of the agents.”
You freeze, feeling caught in a moment of panic, before remembering there is nothing inherently wrong in talking to a member of the security detail. It's just that everything your father says always feels like an accusation.
“Yeah, I did,” you answer simply.
The grey-haired man checks his watch, verifying the time. “In the afternoon I have a meeting with him and other staff. I’d like you present.”
It's not even a question—you know you’re not afforded a choice.
“When?”
“Two-thirty, Roosevelt Room.”
Great. Fuck your swimming plans, then.
“Okay,” you answer quietly, sighing in defeat.
“Miss Graham, sir,” Davis’s deep voice speaks through his radio, and another responds shortly after to give the all clear.
The door opens and you’re led inside, finding most of the meeting’s attendees already sitting in their spots at the long table, about a dozen people gathered.
“Ah. You’re here.” The president motions for you to settle to his left, and as you do, you feel the eyes of the room follow your every movement.
But it's a particular pair that has your breath stuttering when you sit, as you find yourself directly facing Leon S. Kennedy. You're a bit taken aback by his position at the table—only senior staff are afforded the spot directly on your father’s right.
Just who is this guy?
“Agent Kennedy, I believe you have already met my daughter.”
“I have, sir,” he nods curtly, throwing you a knowing glance. “We were able to make light introductions.”
“Good. Then I’ll get straight to the point.” Without wasting time, the president turns to you with a serious expression. “Due to some recent… events, I have decided to make changes to your security detail. Including hiring new professionals that will ensure your safety.”
Frowning in confusion, you look around the room of men and women in suits in search for anyone as clueless as you. But, alas, it looks like you're the only one left out of the loop.
“Wait, what kind of events?” you inquire with tense shoulders.
President Graham exhales sharply through his nose, like he wishes he didn't have to explain things but is left with no choice. “I did not want to talk about this amidst your birthday festivities. But, three days ago, we received alarming threats… And some of them pertain to your safety specifically.”
You feel a chill run down your spine, his words making a knot grow in your gut. Threats aren't exactly something new, every prominent politician receives multiples in the morning mail. But if it's something serious enough—real enough—your father is taking precautionary measures, it means it's a lot worse than usual.
Swallowing hard, you ask the question sitting on your tongue. “So, what's gonna change for me now?”
“You will be more closely monitored, for a start. More agents at campus, more communication with the White House about your schedules and whereabouts…” he pauses, letting his words register before motioning to the blonde on his right. “But most importantly, Agent Kennedy will now be the Detail Leader of your security.”
You throw a glance at the man in question only to find him already observing you. You're starting to grow tired of his piercing stare that he keeps on shamelessly.
“He’s replacing Davis,” you conclude bitterly. The latter is standing by the door, his face as stoic as ever even as he gets demoted after years of service.
Kennedy frowns at your tone, and he looks like he wants to say something but decides to ultimately stay quiet as your father speaks.
“Yes, but only temporarily… We didn't bring Mr. Kennedy here for a random reason. He’s not a regular agent—not Secret Service. Rather, he's someone a lot more equipped to face the threats that have been placed concerning you.”
You were always told the agents surrounding you are the best at what they do, so it's in utter confusion that you ask your next question. “What does that even mean?”
This time, it's the agent himself who answers, a familiar acronym falling out of his mouth; “BOWs.”
“What?”
“You heard him right,” the president nods, his eyes flickering between you both before addressing the room. “As you all know, election year is always particularly tense, so with the addition of these threats, there is simply no way we can stand idly by while things around us change.”
Nods and hums of agreement fill the room as your father continues to speak, explaining how security will increase all around from the White House to Congress. His words slowly grow into mumbled jumble in your ears as you truly process the newly acquired information.
People out there—you don't know who—have been making serious threats about you that involve bioweapons. So now, your every move will be scrutinized and secured under the oversight of an agent you only just met recently in the most embarrassing situation ever.
You feel irritation internally fester inside you. You don't want this guy with the piercing eyes and smug smirk. No, you want Davis, or Morales, or anyone from the team you grew up with over the past four years and who are now like family to you. Calm and composed middle aged men who let you get away with the lack of protocol every now and then. Not the guy who's still very much staring you down every chance he gets even with a room full of professionals and your very own president of a father next to him.
By the time the meeting is adjourned, you have done everything possible to avoid the blonde’s gaze as you absentmindedly listened to the others speak. Finally, you're cleared to leave, so you stand and exit the room, not looking behind as you do.
Except, there is nowhere to run from the man, because he quickly appears by your side once you’re out in the hallway, like some kind of soundless ghost. You nearly jump at the sight, clutching your chest in surprise. “Jesus Christ! You scared me…”
“My apologies, ma’am, that was not my intention,” he murmurs sympathetically, but the little shit has that teasing mirth in his eyes again. He can’t fool you.
Scoffing under your breath a sarcastic ‘ma’am,’ you don't wait for him as you begin to walk, with him effortlessly matching your steps. “I’m not even going out today, you don't have to follow me.”
“Well, I know you’ve delayed your previous plans for the afternoon by an hour, and using the outdoor swimming pool still counts as outside,” he chides, tilting his head curiously. “I believe your friend Maya will be here soon, if I’m not mistaken?”
You freeze in your steps, turning to him with wide, furious eyes. “How the heck do you know all that already?”
“Oh, I’ve spoken to staff and went through your entire schedule for the upcoming days,” he answers confidently, before his voice gains a teasing lilt. “I will say, it's mostly empty.”
Feeling your pride get wounded at the implication that you're leading a boring, lonely life, you cross your arms defensively. “Well, it's not like there's much to do for the First Daughter anyway. I’m not the one people voted for, I’m fine staying home.”
“Of course,” he answers professionally, but you clearly see the twitch of his lips.
You sigh and quicken your strides, then when you reach the elevator meant to take you downstairs, he motions for you to enter it first, already moving to stand beside you. “I know you're supposed to be a super bodyguard or whatever, but I hope you know I’m not exactly happy about this change,” you announce once the doors shut.
“Oh, trust me, ma’am, I can tell,” he huffs out a low chuckle, before turning to you with a more serious expression. “Nonetheless, I hope to make it clear that moving forward, you are my priority. That means I am there wherever you go, whatever you do—when you go out, eat, sleep—I will always be no more than one door away, and I will know of your location and activities at all times…” he drawls the last words, letting them linger in the confines of the lift. “I hope that you and I can work well together, Miss Graham.”
“Great.” Sarcasm drips from your tone. “So long as you're honest about who you are—unlike last time—I’m sure we’ll be fine.”
You expect him to laugh, nod along, or even ignore you. But instead, he quips right back with a cocky smile that makes you seethe. “And so long as you fix your dress straps before flirting with strangers at bars, we’ll be just fine.”
The elevator dings with your cheeks on fire, and you hurry out before he can revel in the look of embarrassment on your face, muttering a barely audible 'whatever’ past your shoulder.
Next chapter.
and he was a bodyguard 😝
ao3: auguststorm
