-Devon.
The call came early, cutting through the stale quiet of the room before the sun had fully burned through the sky outside. Mark was the one to give me the message, his voice flat, almost bored. I was being called back to the agency.
If I hadn't known better, I might have thought Trevor had done me some personal favor, pulled a string or paid something back to get me out quickly. But Trevor wasn't that generous. We went back years, but not in that way. If I had to bet, I'd say someone here wanted me gone, and the agency was just smoothing it over. That was fine. Fair, even.
I didn't have anything to pack. Everything in this place was already theirs, not mine. Mark told me to stay put in the room until the car from the agency arrived. "You'll be good to go," he said, like it was just another schedule change.
I stayed on the bottom bunk, the door to the small garden open so I could watch the still air outside. The light barely reached the floorboards.
Who had I even been here for? What exactly had I thought would happen? Certainly not this—Elias circling Treasure, wanting him close, keeping him on his side like some prized thing. And Treasure letting it happen. That was the part that dug under my skin.
Oh my god. The selfish prick. In his stories, it's always the same—whatever ends he wants justifies whatever means it takes to get there.
And I hated him for it. I hated that I'd played my role in it for so long. The savior, the helper, the one who steps in, who covers, who takes care. That was never supposed to be my job. I needed someone to look after me, too, but that was gone, long gone.
There was nothing I could give myself that would bring the calm I'd been searching for. I'd done this to myself. Sentenced myself to life on the inside, no parole, the charge being whatever sick hope I had kept alive for too long.
The door slammed open. Treasure came in fast, his steps quick like he'd been running the whole way. "Why are you returning to the agency?"
I didn't even look up right away. "I'm not really in the mood to talk to you about anything right now."
"No," he said, closing the space between us, "you have to talk to me. You're going. Why are you going? Is it just temporary?" His voice pitched up, something in it fraying at the edges.
I sat up, met his eyes. "No, it's not temporary. I'm not coming back here. This is done. It's over. Whatever is going between us is over. I don't even want to be your friend anymore."
His face tightened, panic rising in his tone. "No, but what happened? What did I do?"
I laughed once, short and without humor. "The audacity. What the fuck are you made of, Treasure?"
The question hung between us, heavy enough to fill the whole room.
I stood, the words already spilling before I could measure them. "I've let you walk the same line hundreds of times, until it wore out and blurred, until there was nothing left of it. The ground's smudged now from how many times you've crossed it, and I let you. I took everything you gave me with that stupid smile on my face, telling myself, oh my god, look at him, being considerate back. But I was wrong. All I did was feed that selfish streak in you until it didn't even hide anymore—it just stood there, blatant."
My chest tightened, and I dragged a hand through my hair, the motion sharp and useless. "Tell me, why would you even want me here? I'd only be in your way. You wouldn't want me standing between you and that long-lived dream of becoming someone worthy. And now it's clear—someone out there is very interested in you, interested enough to have me moved out of the picture. To have me gone from the game entirely. Ugh."
I laughed once, bitter and dry. "If he only knew how you treat me. How you've never once returned what I feel for you. Either because you don't believe it's possible or because you know exactly what's there and you're just using it to your advantage. Which—let's not pretend—you would. You'd do it without blinking."
Treasure's eyes glossed over, his face softening into silent tears, but I couldn't stop. "If only he could see how you've been using me like you're using him right now. He thinks I'm competition, and he couldn't be more stupid. I know you've been sleeping with him. I know it all. You lying piece of shit—why would you lie to me? What did you think I'd do if I knew? That I'd be hurt? Was that what you had in your head?"
I shook my head, my voice low and sharp. "No. There's no way you were that considerate. You were just afraid of losing your chance, weren't you? Because if I knew, I might not take you back in my bed again. Right? That was it, wasn't it?"
The room felt smaller with every word, the air heavier, like even it didn't want to stay between us. His shoulders shook where he stood, his hands loose at his sides, and I didn't move toward him. I just stood there and let the truth press into the space until it was almost unbearable.
"I'm not even blaming you," I said, my voice low but carrying weight. "If anything, I let it happen. It was my fucking savior complex that made me think—maybe—maybe I'd be helping you out and somewhere along the way you'd notice my feelings for you. And if I was lucky, maybe you'd feel something for me back."
I took a step toward him, the air between us dense and hot. "Treasure, I'm not your maternal figure. I'm not your paternal one either. I'm the same age as you. I was a child when you were a child. I was a teenager when you were a teenager. And I did everything I could just to be by your side. I swear to every god anyone could worship, if you had been honest with me, I wouldn't have been livid."
I caught the edge of his gaze. "And what the hell was that about telling me you ran into a 'lady' and told her we had no clothes?"
The heat was rising in my head again, pounding in my temples, a slow pressure building toward an explosion. "It's as if you wanted it all to yourself from the start. Every lie you told to my face since we came here is starting to make more sense right now."
Treasure's voice cracked through, wet with tears. "I didn't lie intentionally. The first day—I was scared. If I told you I ran into Elias outside even before we were on duty, you'd panic like you do and call me out harshly, thinking I was a failure like you always do!" His voice rose sharply, biting at the end. "Like you always do!"
I snapped forward. "I always made you feel like a failure? Me? When have I ever done that? You're projecting, Treasure!"
"Stop turning tables on me!" he shot back, his words breaking under the weight of his sobbing.
"I'm not!" I closed the space, my voice cutting through the air. "You just hate it when I put a mirror right in front of your face! And why are you even crying right now?" My chest tightened, my voice lifting into a sharper edge. "Why are you crying right now?"
I shoved him hard in the shoulder. He stumbled back several steps. I followed, not letting the gap widen. My voice dropped to something cold. "You think this is me turning tables on you?" I stepped in, the heat in my chest boiling over. "No, this is me finally telling you exactly what you are. You can cry, you can shake your head, you can make that wounded little act you're so good at, but it doesn't change what you've done. It doesn't erase how you've used me."
He wiped at his eyes with the heel of his hand, shaking his head. "You don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly." My voice cracked like a whip through the room. "I understand that you'd sell the truth for an ounce of advantage, that you'd throw me to the side if it meant keeping the spotlight on yourself for one more second."
"That's not true!" he barked, the tears making his voice raw.
"It's all you've ever done!" I closed the gap again, our chests almost touching, my breath shaking with the force of holding myself back. "You've taken every ounce of loyalty I've given and twisted it into something you could use. And when you weren't using it, you were ignoring it."
He shoved me, palms flat against my chest, the impact driving me back a step. The shock of it only fueled the rush in my blood. I came right back at him, pushing him harder, watching him stagger to the side.
"Go on, push me again," I said, my voice low but dangerous. "It's all you've got left. You don't have an answer, you don't have the truth, so you push."
"Stop!" His voice cracked, and he swung his arm out in frustration, knocking into the corner of the bunk.
"Stop?" I laughed, sharp and bitter. "Now you want it to stop? You've been stringing me along for years, Treasure. And now you're caught, you want it quiet. That's not how it works."
He tried to speak, but I cut him off with a final shove that sent him stumbling back toward the bunk. "You're nothing but trash, Treasure. You're a whore. All you know how to use is your body, and that's it."
The words hung in the air like smoke. I didn't wait for them to clear. I turned, shoved open the garden door, and stepped out.
The air outside hit me hard, a sharp, clean slap against the heat still burning under my skin. I kept walking, past the line where the garden started, the scent of damp soil and clipped grass cutting through the taste of my own anger. My hands were shaking—not from fear, but from the leftover charge running through my body, the kind that made every nerve feel raw.
My chest felt tight, as if every breath had to fight to get in. I sat down heavily on the low stone edge near the hedges, leaning forward until my elbows rested on my knees. The quiet of the garden didn't soothe—it just gave my mind room to start replaying every word I'd thrown at him, every shove, every look on his face. None of it brought any satisfaction.
There was no undoing it now. The line between us, already worn thin, had been torn clean through. I'd made sure of that.
Somewhere inside, a door shut. The sound was faint but final. I straightened, dragged a hand over my face, and focused on the sky above the roofline. The light was flat, the kind of gray that made it impossible to tell the time without a watch. The car from the agency would come soon. I just had to keep breathing until it did.
I stayed on the stone edge, the cool seeping into the backs of my legs, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. Footsteps crunched over the gravel path behind me, unhurried but deliberate.
Sandro came into view, hands in his pockets, shoulders loose. "Car's here," he said, nodding toward the gate.
I stood, brushing my palms against my thighs out of habit. He stepped closer, offering his hand. I clasped it, the grip firm, pulling each other in for that quick, rough pat on the back—the unspoken kind of send-off you give when words feel too small.
"Good luck with whatever comes next," he said, his tone even, the faintest curl of a smile in one corner of his mouth.
I gave a short nod. "Thanks."
The gate stood open, the black sedan waiting on the other side. The driver's door was already ajar, engine low and steady. I crossed the garden without looking back, the crunch of gravel under my boots fading into the muted thump of the car door closing behind me.
As the car rolled forward, the house fell out of sight, and with it, everything I'd left inside.
I turned in my seat, resting my arm along the window ledge, and watched the mansion recede. At first it was still large, framed by the high walls and manicured hedges, but with every meter we put between us, it began to shrink. Its sharp lines and endless windows softened, folding into the horizon until it looked like nothing more than a small shape sitting in the distance.
That was exactly how things were. When you're standing close, they seem enormous, carrying weight and meaning, dominating your field of vision. You can't see anything else. But the moment you put distance between yourself and it, the size changes. The importance changes.
It was the same with Treasure. I had never thought of him as small, never as someone lacking wit or worth. I couldn't pinpoint when he decided I'd made him feel like a failure. If anything, I'd always pulled him in whenever there was an opening. I pushed him forward with me, made room for him where there wasn't any. Maybe that constant pulling created a dependency. Maybe it gave him the wrong impression—that I was his savior, that my role was to shield him.
I don't think he hated me. I don't even believe he acted out of malice. He was comfortable, that was all. Comfortable because I was there, because he knew I would always be there, ready for him to run back to when he needed. And now, I had to take that away. Not to punish him, not to make a point, but because I needed to do it for myself.
I needed the break. I needed all of this gone.
It was about perspective, the same way it is when you're sketching an architectural figure. The lines and angles change depending on where you stand, and sometimes you have to step far back to see the truth of it.
The road curved, taking the last sliver of the mansion out of sight. I faced forward again, the steady hum of the engine carrying us toward the agency, the distance between then and now stretching longer with every turn of the wheels.
The glass doors of the agency slid open, letting in the familiar hum of the reception area. The smell hit me first—a faint mix of floor polish, paper, and the trace of someone's cologne lingering from earlier in the morning.
"Devon! Oh my god, it's nice to have you back," the man at the front desk called out, grinning wide enough to crease the corners of his eyes.
I stepped toward him, clasped his hand in a quick, familiar shake, pulling him in for that half-hug, half-dap we all did here. "Good to be back," I said, though the words tasted a little hollow. "Trevor in?"
He nodded. "Yeah, go on in."
The walk down the corridor was short but grounding. Each step felt like I was shedding the weight of the last few weeks. I reached Trevor's office, gave a quick knock, and pushed the door open.
Trevor was already rising from behind his desk, arms open. "There he is."
I stepped into the hug, a firm hand on his back, quick and to the point. Pulling away, I dropped into the chair opposite his desk. Trevor sat back down, leaning forward with that look that was half concern, half curiosity.
"What happened? That call you made—it sounded like your hair was on fire."
I let out a breath, rubbing my palm over my thigh. "I just couldn't take it anymore, Trevor. You know me. I've never walked out on a job before. Ever. I've been in shittier situations than this one. I was once with a crew filming inside a so-called haunted house—bunch of guys acting like idiots around shadows and creaks in the walls—turned out there were squatters living in the back rooms. We almost got jumped. I've been in some bad places. But this?" I shook my head. "This was impossible. Oh my god."
Trevor tilted his head, the corner of his mouth lifting. "I know you can't tell me much, but you know I love gossip."
I smirked without humor. "It was… borderline uncomfortable. This man is not safe, Trevor. I'm telling you, I know the money from him is generous as hell, and I get that's what this agency runs on. But I also know you care about your people, and I recognize that when I said I needed out, you got me out fast. Still—be frank with me—what happened when you called him and told him I wanted out?"
"Mark was surprised," Trevor said, folding his hands. "He said you were very good, but they were fine with it. No pushback."
"Exactly," I said, leaning forward. "Why wouldn't they push back on someone who's doing a phenomenal job? That's the question, isn't it?"
Trevor lifted a shoulder. "I figured maybe they had plenty of people. We sent a lot over there."
"Yeah, but wouldn't they tell you to take Sandro? Or Michael? Or even Treasure? Not me. If I was performing well, if the place was overstaffed, they'd still keep someone who's proven themselves."
Trevor studied me. "You didn't piss anyone off, right?"
"I barely got close enough to anyone to piss them off," I said. "They always gave me tasks away from Elias. That's why I'm saying—be careful. If you get more calls from people asking to be pulled out, it's not because it's dangerous. It's because it's… off. Psychotic, even. I'm starting to believe Elias is running a cult in there."
Trevor chuckled under his breath, but his eyes stayed sharp. "Alright. You ready for another job?"
"Yeah. I'm pumped. Get me into something else as soon as possible. I need it."
He leaned back in his chair. "There's one that's been sitting in my inbox. You might not like it. It's not uncomfortable—just… a little crazy."
I gave a dry laugh. "After what I've seen in that mansion, nothing you throw at me will compare. Hit me."
Trevor tapped the desk. "Have you heard of Bryce Villa?"
"The name rings a bell, but I'm not following."
"Bryce Villa. Son of José Villa."
"Oh—the producer?"
"That's him. His son's on our waiting list. They want a close-range bodyguard."
I sat back. "So where's the problem?"
Trevor's smile grew faint. "He's a little chaotic. A menace, according to his manager. He gets death threats as often as most people get good mornings."
I leaned back in the chair, letting it take some of the weight off my shoulders. "Oh, that kind," I said, already forming a picture in my mind.
Trevor gave a slow nod, his elbows resting on the desk as if he was bracing for the rundown. "Yeah. He's popular, but he's controversial. Doesn't give a damn about public opinion, and that drives the public insane. Online, it's either people tearing him apart or fangirls worshipping the ground he walks on. No middle ground. The guy's gorgeous, his voice is something else, and he's talented—really talented. He's got all that going for him, but he doesn't care. Nepo baby to the bone."
I tilted my head, considering it. "That shouldn't be a problem. I can see myself there just fine."
"Good," Trevor said, pushing his chair back slightly. "I'll set up a meeting with Gracie, his manager. Good luck with that one—she's a piece of work herself. I also need to pull you off the Elias contract and get all the paperwork sorted. I'll call the lawyer. Don't worry, Devon, you're my man. I got you. Go home, rest. I'll text you the date and place for the meeting with Gracie." He gave me that steady look he saved for the people he actually cared about. "I'm glad you drew the line. The moment you weren't comfortable, you pulled out. I'm proud of that."
I nodded, the words landing heavier than I expected. "Thanks, Trevor. I appreciate it."
We stood, shook hands—firm, certain. His grip was a reminder that not everyone in this line of work was there just for the paycheck. I left his office, the door closing softly behind me, and walked through the hallway that smelled faintly of coffee and carpet cleaner. By the time I stepped out into the daylight, the air felt sharper, cleaner.
By the time I reached my apartment, the city had quieted to that steady hum that seeps into your bones without asking permission. I closed the door behind me, leaned against it for a moment, and let the stillness of my place wrap around me like a cold cloth on overheated skin. My bag hit the floor with a muted thump. The air here smelled familiar, untouched, safe. I didn't turn on the lights right away.
I sat down at the desk, the blue glow from my laptop screen pushing the shadows back. My fingers hesitated over the keys, but curiosity had already wound itself around me. Bryce Villa.
A quick search pulled up an array of images and articles, each one louder than the last. There he was—twenty-six, the youngest of three, born into a family that treated the entertainment industry like their bloodline. His siblings had both carved places for themselves behind the camera in film production, same as their father. His mother, a theater actress with a voice built for musicals, had lit up stages long before he was even a thought.
Bryce's face filled my screen, sharp lines softened by a careless charm. His hair, dark with a faint plum sheen, tumbled in loose, layered strands that looked like they were always catching light. His eyes—almond-shaped, slightly heavy-lidded—held that kind of unbothered awareness you only get from knowing people are always watching you. There was a cut to his mouth, the upper lip a little fuller than the lower, carrying the suggestion of a smirk even when he wasn't smiling. His jawline was clean, defined, with a neck that carried the weight of a thin chain, the pendant resting like an afterthought against his collarbone.
The internet had no shortage of stories about him. A dating life tangled and messy, splashed across gossip columns and fan forums. A career that had sprinted from zero to everywhere, first in a band that fizzled before fame could cement them, then solo—where he didn't just find the spotlight, he seized it. Singer, producer, performer. The kind of artist whose name could sell out arenas before the tickets even hit the market.
Video clips popped up in the feed—screen recordings from his live streams. Chaos wrapped in human skin. In one, he was half-laughing, half-arguing with fans about the taste of some obscure drink. In another, sprawled on a couch, hair falling into his eyes, speaking in tangents that left the comments section in a frenzy. It wasn't just confidence; it was a refusal to filter himself, a raw, volatile charisma that didn't care if it drew you closer or shoved you away.
I leaned back in my chair, letting the screen light paint the room, and thought, so this is the next one. This is Bryce Villa.