-Treasure.
The car ride felt longer than it should have been. Maybe because none of us were talking. The sound of the tires brushing against the road had started to feel like background music, the kind that loops in the back of a game while the real plot is somewhere else.
I sat in the front passenger seat, arms folded loosely, staring at the passing trees. The sky was grey-washed, colorless but bright, like it hadn't decided whether it wanted to rain or not. Beside me, the driver focused on the road like he was afraid to blink.
Behind me, I could feel him.
Elias was sitting directly behind me. Cassandra had taken the window seat on the other side, angled slightly toward him like she was on standby, ready for whatever casual instruction or offhand remark might come her way.
I didn't need to turn around to know what he looked like.
I'd already caught a glimpse of him before we left the estate.
He was in a charcoal suit that made everything else in the car feel underdressed. Crisp lines, tailored so well it looked like the fabric followed the shape of him out of loyalty rather than stitchwork. His shirt was a pale grey, the collar sharp and laid perfectly, the tie a deep, earthen tone. His watch caught the light now and then, but nothing about him was showy. He sat with one leg crossed over the other, his hand resting casually on his knee, thumb moving slightly as if lost in thought.
His hair was neatly pushed back but with just enough texture to keep it from looking overly sculpted. His face—yeah. He was handsome. Too handsome, probably. But not in that glossy, soulless way. He looked like he was designed to get his way without ever needing to raise his voice. There was calm in his expression, but not softness. More like the kind of control you couldn't learn, the kind that came from having the world say yes to you too many times.
I shifted in my seat and leaned my head back just slightly, catching a corner of his reflection in the side mirror.
It was stupid, but I caught myself wondering what would actually happen if I managed to befriend him.
Like, really befriend him.
Not this job-shadowing, forced-proximity type of closeness, but something real. Something that wasn't built on protocol or seating arrangements or being told when to eat.
He was intelligent. That much was clear. Quick with words, sharp with silences. He didn't seem interested in small talk, but he also didn't miss anything. And under all that polish, there was something... off. Not dangerous. Just unreadable. Like he was always four steps into a different version of the conversation you thought you were having.
So what would it look like if someone like that trusted me? Or if I managed to make him laugh the way people only do when they don't feel watched?
Would he still look at me with that same clean-eyed expression?
Would I still call him sir?
Or would he ask me to sit somewhere different—closer, maybe—and just speak like a person for once?
The road curved. We passed a row of dark pines, tall and unmoving. The light flickered between branches.
My thoughts drifted further than they should have, too easily. I didn't usually let them.
But something about the silence made it easy to wonder.
What would it mean to be allowed into someone like him?
And what would it cost?
I shifted in my seat again, letting my eyes trail over the trees for a while before they slid back to the mirror. Just a quick glance, just enough to keep tabs.
But there he was again.
Elias, framed perfectly in the side mirror like a still from a film that hadn't started speaking yet. The angle gave me most of his face—cut from soft shadow, the light rolling gently along the curve of his cheekbone. His skin looked pale but not cold. Smooth. Unbothered. There was a sharpness to his jaw that didn't need definition to be known. His mouth was relaxed, lips slightly parted in thought or boredom.
His eyes—those were the part that did it.
Dark, focused, set beneath heavy brows, they held this quiet gravity. Like they saw through things without the effort of asking. He wasn't even looking at the mirror, not directly, but the angle made it feel like he might glance up at any moment and catch me watching. His lashes were long, thick, more pronounced in the low light of the cabin, and the natural downturn of his mouth gave him an expression that looked calm but never careless.
I watched the way his face held itself. Like he was used to being seen but never truly looked at.
It did something to me. Not in the way I was used to. Not desire. Not exactly in awe. Just... a pause. Like something in me stopped to make room for the way he sat there without needing to perform.
The car rolled on.
And I let myself watch just a few seconds longer before turning back to the road. I didn't want him to see me looking.
But part of me wanted to know what he would say if he did.
The car slowed as we reached the gate.
Three guards were already waiting there, dressed in full black—earpieces in, eyes sharp, hands tucked neatly behind their backs like they'd been standing there longer than necessary just to look ready. The gate itself opened without a sound. Wide and tall, matte black, secured with thick vertical bars that made it feel less like we were being welcomed in and more like we were being sealed inside something private.
The tires crunched gravel beneath us as we drove the final stretch toward the entrance. The place looked different in daylight. More alive. Less cold. But no less curated. Every corner of the grounds felt manicured, like the earth itself had been trimmed into place.
As the car came to a full stop in front of the main doors, Mark appeared at the top of the short stone staircase like he'd just stepped out from a briefing. Suit crisp. Clipboard in hand. Face unreadable.
He walked down to greet us as we stepped out. The wind tugged faintly at the hem of Elias's coat. Cassandra moved with her usual calm, her heels barely audible against the stone.
"Welcome," Mark said. "Follow me, I'll walk you through the setup."
We followed him into the main entrance. The air shifted immediately. Cooler inside. Quiet. Not sterile, but composed. The entryway opened into a wide receiving hall—double height ceiling, glass panels drawing in slivers of light from above, a grand staircase at the back leading toward the upper floor in a soft curve.
Mark turned slightly as he walked, gesturing with his hand while keeping a clipped pace.
"The event itself will be on the main floor. The dining space and the back terrace. After dinner, the guests are expected to move outside. We've set up heaters in the garden, small standing tables for drinks, conversation, you know the drill."
His voice bounced softly off the walls, steady, efficient. I walked just behind Elias, keeping pace.
"There are security posts near the exits, inside and out. We'll walk you through those later. Right now, I'll show you the guest rooms."
We made our way up the stairs. The steps were stone, but smooth, polished down by time and maintenance. At the top, the hall split off in both directions. Large paintings hung at even intervals along the walls, mostly abstract, all expensive-looking.
Mark led us down the left corridor.
"These are the main rooms. Elias, your suite is at the end," he said, then glanced at me. "Treasure, yours is just next to it."
That made me blink for a second.
I glanced behind me, just to check if Cassandra was still with us. She was, but she stopped at the middle landing, then turned and began down the right hallway, toward what I assumed was the other wing.
It didn't add up immediately.
But then I reminded myself—I was Elias's personal guard. Not a roamer. Not on rotation. Personal meant proximity. I let that settle the question in my head before it could keep spinning.
Mark stopped at a heavy wooden door and pushed it open.
"Here you are."
The room was bright, the curtains already drawn open. Natural light poured in, catching the soft weave of the rug underfoot and the faint sheen of the hardwood floor. The bed was massive, dressed in a pale gray quilt, too wide for one person but probably meant for comfort more than necessity. The walls were painted in a warm, neutral tone. The ceiling was high enough to make me feel like I could take a full breath without brushing the top of my thoughts against the plaster.
There was a wide desk in the corner, shelves built into the wall beside it, and a closet that looked big enough to store three of me. The windows overlooked part of the garden. The silence in the room didn't feel like the mansion's eerie hush—it felt earned. Spacious. Like sound had permission to rest here.
This wasn't a room. This was a reset.
Mark stepped back toward the door. "I'll leave you to rest."
Before he turned away completely, I called out.
"Hey—where's Devon?"
Mark paused at the threshold. His eyes met mine, but they didn't hold anything. No sharpness. No warmth either.
"Who knows," he said simply.
Then he left.
I stood there for a second, the words still hovering in the air like smoke that hadn't decided where to go.
Who knows?
That wasn't an answer. It wasn't even the kind of vague that you could brush off. It felt like an avoidance wrapped in a shrug. I stared at the door after it closed.
It clicked softly shut.
I turned back into the room, letting my eyes wander over the space again.
The contrast hit immediately. This was nothing like that dog-box room back at the mansion. There, the ceiling hung low and the walls felt like they were pressed too close, like even my breathing had to be measured. But here... I could move. I could exist. Everything had weight and silence and intention.
Still, I couldn't stop thinking about that answer.
Or the way Mark said it.
Who knows.
Like Devon had gone missing from the page. Like the rest of us were expected to move on with the next paragraph.
I didn't bother unpacking.
The room was nice, sure, but sitting still in silence wasn't going to do anything good for my head. Not when Mark had dropped that line about Devon like he was commenting on the weather. I grabbed the keycard from the desk and slipped out.
The hallway was still and dim, the lights overhead warm but faint, casting long shadows along the cream-colored carpet. I turned left, heading toward Elias's suite—not with any plan, just to move. I caught sight of someone stepping out as I rounded the corner.
Cassandra.
She pulled the door closed behind her, slow and deliberate. Then she turned and saw me. She didn't look surprised.
"He's going to sleep," she said, one hand still on the doorknob. "You can go play, but don't run off too far. We have to go over logistics later."
Without waiting for a response, she walked past me, tablet already in hand, her heels making clean contact with the hallway as if her mood hadn't just hit me in the ribs.
I stared after her for a beat. My jaw tensed slightly, but I didn't say anything. I didn't even know what her deal was. One moment she was talking to me like a professional, the next she was treating me like I was some kid with a lunch pass.
But fine.
I made my way down the stairs. The air felt cooler on the lower floor. The house was too quiet again, that same softness padded into the walls like it was designed to smother noise before it could even form.
I spotted someone near the hallway—tall, broad-shouldered.
"Roan," I called out.
He turned mid-step, paused, gave me a short nod.
"Where's Devon?"
Roan's expression didn't shift much. His posture was relaxed, but there was something unreadable in the way he stood.
"He's in the comms room."
I took a step closer. "Alright, can I see him?"
"You're not allowed inside."
I blinked. "What do you mean I'm not allowed?"
Roan shrugged once. "Personal guards stay away from operational work. Mark's orders, not mine."
Before I could respond, he was already moving again. His footsteps were heavy but smooth, like someone trained to walk without drawing attention even when they couldn't help their size.
I stood there, staring down the hallway like the answer would come walking out on its own.
Not allowed.
What kind of separation was that? We trained the same. Worked the same. I wasn't some decoration standing around waiting to be told when to move.
I rubbed a hand over my face, then turned on my heel.
This place was already boring me to death.
I went looking for Cassandra.
It didn't take long. I found her in the kitchen, leaning against the marble counter, a bottle of wine open beside her, untouched. She was scrolling through something on her tablet, eyes scanning like she wasn't really reading.
I stepped in. "I'm here for the logistics."
She sighed like I'd just interrupted her afternoon nap.
I walked farther into the room, crossing my arms. "Can I ask you something?"
She didn't look up.
"What's your problem with me?"
Her thumb kept moving over the screen.
"I have no problem with you at all."
I let out a dry breath. "Doesn't seem like it. It's not like I'm trying to take your role."
She scoffed, one corner of her mouth lifting slightly, her voice low. "As if."
I scoffed right back, louder. "I'm very capable."
That made her pause.
She lifted her gaze, looked at me for a long second, like she was seeing something new or maybe something she didn't want to.
"Yeah," she said. "I see what he sees now."
My brows pulled together. "What do you mean?"
She looked down at her tablet again. "Nothing."
Then she flicked her screen and tapped once. "Let's go through logistics for tomorrow's event."
Just like that, it was back to work.
And just like that, I was still wondering what the hell she meant.
Cassandra handed me the tablet with a flick of her fingers, like it burned to hold for too long.
"Names, roles, arrival times," she said, shifting her weight against the kitchen counter. "Memorize the list. You're expected to recognize people on sight. You won't have time to check your notes during dinner."
The screen lit up in my hand, brightness cutting through the kitchen's muted lighting. I scrolled slowly. There were photos. Profiles. The kind of high-resolution headshots people used when they were used to being seen. Clean backgrounds, expensive smiles, expressions calculated to appear uncalculated.
She crossed her arms again, watching me as I read. "Most of them have been here before. Don't let that fool you into thinking they'll act familiar. If anything, it makes them more territorial."
I didn't respond. I skimmed the names and let the voices in my head pronounce them so I wouldn't get it wrong later.
Vincent Rowe – international financier, main contributor to three of Elias's start-ups. Old money, old suits, sharp tongue.
Lila Quinton – legal consultant for the summit's offshore dealings. Looks like she hasn't smiled since childhood.
Antoine DeLancre – biotech darling, genius or sociopath depending on who's talking. Brings his own wine and never makes eye contact.
Abdel Karim – government liaison, keeps everything polite and says very little. The kind of presence that disappears while standing right in front of you.
There were more.
Influential, unpredictable, polished. Everyone on the list walked like the world shifted to make room.
"These are your people now," Cassandra said. "Your job isn't to mingle. Your job is to anticipate. Stay close to Elias. Don't wait for instructions—know when he needs space and when he needs presence. Stay alert. Keep your expressions neutral. You are not the main character in this room."
I scrolled down further. More names. More faces. My brain was already sorting them into something manageable—tall, short, silver hair, pinstripe tie, arched brow, chipped front tooth. I knew how to recognize details faster than names.
"The guests will arrive in waves," she went on. "You'll be stationed beside Elias the entire time. If he moves, you move. If he sits, you stand nearby. Don't eat unless he gives you time to. Don't speak unless addressed. Smile only when it makes sense."
She was still watching me, but I wasn't sure if she was looking at me or looking through me.
"The dinner starts at eight sharp," she said. "They'll move to the garden by nine-thirty. There's a brief toast, then the mingling begins. Elias is expected to have private conversations with at least four of them. When that happens, you give them a comfortable distance but stay within reach."
I set the tablet down on the counter and let my fingers rest on its edges. The profiles were still up, faces paused in place like they were waiting for me to remember them.
"So I'm a shadow," I said.
Cassandra tilted her head, not unkind, but not impressed either. "You're exactly where you're supposed to be."
I didn't know what she meant by that.
I nodded slowly. Let the details settle behind my eyes where they belonged. The names, the timings, the rhythm of the evening.
"I've got it."
"Good," she said, already reaching for her glass of wine.
I started to walk away but paused at the door.
"Is there anything I should be worried about?"
She looked at me over the rim of her glass. Her gaze didn't blink.
"There's always something to be worried about," she said. "Your job is to make sure it doesn't show."
I hadn't slept that well in years.
The bed had swallowed me whole the second I let my body go. Not just soft—but weighted somehow. Like it held onto you and said, "you're not leaving until you rest properly." The sheets were cold at first, then slowly warmed, like they'd been made for my skin. And the silence. Not the uneasy kind, not the kind that buzzes with what might be outside your door. This was still, full silence. The type that made your mind drift without fear of being yanked back by noise or memory.
I woke up feeling like I had been unplugged and plugged back in again.
I didn't stay in bed. I showered quick. No need to take my time. The pressure was perfect and the water hit all the right spots. I dried off and dressed—pulled on dark slacks and a warm shirt, something easy but presentable. I wanted to be out before Elias.
I stepped into the hallway and stationed myself just outside his door. The air still held a chill from the early hour, but the marble beneath my shoes had already begun to lose its cold edge.
A few minutes passed.
Then the door opened.
Elias stepped out already dressed—no jacket, just a perfectly fitted button-up in muted brown tucked into wide, smooth black trousers that hung just right at the ankles. He wore it like a man who didn't second guess a single thing about his wardrobe. His sleeves were rolled up once, neat and deliberate. His glasses framed his face in a way that made him look thoughtful without trying. His hair was still slightly tousled at the top, like he'd combed it with his fingers instead of a brush, but even that looked intentional.
He caught my eyes and gave the softest smile.
"Good morning, Treasure," he said, voice low and calm. "Are you ready for the day?"
"Yes, sir."
"Breakfast first. Let's go."
I followed him down the hall, the sound of our steps syncing naturally. There was something comforting in how consistent he was in his movements—every stride measured, every turn purposeful.
We reached the dining area and walked into a room already lit with sunlight streaming through the tall windows. The table was laid out with an effortless elegance. Everything was already in place—fresh-cut fruit, eggs, breads, coffee, tea, and things I couldn't even name. The room smelled faintly of citrus peel and warm butter.
Elias took his seat at the head of the table. Cassandra was already there, seated to his left. Her tablet was closed, her posture crisp as usual, but there was something looser in her expression this morning. Maybe sleep had finally gotten to her too.
I took my usual place—standing just behind Elias, hands folded loosely in front of me, eyes straight ahead. The warmth of the food drifted in the air, but I didn't move. I waited.
Cassandra looked up at me briefly. Our eyes met, just for a moment. Then she looked away first.
She leaned in slightly and said quietly, just under her breath but still audible from where I stood, "Should I ask him to join?"
Elias didn't turn his head. "He should've known on his own."
Cassandra sighed. Then she looked up at me again and gave a subtle nod, motioning with her head—come sit.
And I thought to myself—oh, here we go again.
I sat down where Cassandra had gestured, careful not to make a show of it. The chair was plush but firm, and the plate in front of me was already warmed, the silverware gleaming like it had just been polished. I reached for the bread first, then the eggs, then a spoonful of something that looked expensive and smelled even better.
The moment I started eating, I realized how hungry I actually was.
The food tasted clean. Rich, but not overwhelming. There was rosemary tucked under the edges of the roasted potatoes, a hint of something citrusy in the butter. Each bite felt like it had been prepared just for someone important. Someone who wasn't me. I didn't care. I kept chewing.
Outside, I could hear the movement begin—footsteps brushing against stone, a ladder shifting somewhere against the side wall, the soft echo of conversation that wasn't meant to reach us. They were probably putting the final touches on the decorations. Setting up lights. Rechecking wires. Polishing glassware that had already been cleaned three times.
Elias cut through the quiet. "Did you go over my speech?"
Cassandra didn't look up from her coffee. "Yes. I filtered it nicely."
Elias nodded as he reached for a slice of toast. "That's good. We don't want anyone nitpicking at anything."
"Don't worry," she said. "I already went over the guest list with Treasure yesterday. He's ready too."
I felt both their eyes land on me.
Elias turned his head fully this time, smiling with his lips and something else in his eyes I couldn't name.
I had a mouthful of food, so I smiled back, tight-lipped and shallow. I didn't pause the chewing. I just gave him a nod and returned my focus to the plate.
Cassandra continued. "We're expecting the first guest around eight. We've got plenty of time if you want to golf or hunt or whatever else you've got in mind."
Elias sipped from his coffee, unhurried. "Golfing sounds nice."
Then he turned his head slightly in my direction. "What do you think, Treasure?"
I glanced at Cassandra, quick, like my eyes were trained to seek backup. She gave me this look—eyebrows raised, mouth pulled to the side like a shrug had landed on her face without asking permission. I don't know, it said. Good luck.
I cleared my throat quietly, set my fork down just long enough to answer.
"The weather's nice for outdoor activities," I said, keeping my tone level.
Elias let out a sudden laugh and set his cup back down.
He looked over at Cassandra, amused. "He responded just like the AI assistant."
Then he looked back at me. "You're such a sweetheart."
Cassandra gave a light, practiced laugh. "He is a precious fellow."
My smile faltered.
I tried to keep my expression neutral, tried to hold onto whatever thread of composure I had left, but it slipped a little at the edge. I went back to eating slowly. I let the sound of the fork against porcelain anchor me. Let the chewing cover the heat that crept into my cheeks—not from flattery, but from the sting of being talked about like I wasn't sitting right there.
Precious.
Like a pet.
Like a novelty.
And we were just getting started.