"Some people guard others because they can't guard themselves anymore"
I adjusted my tie for, what felt like, the tenth time, as I stared at my reflection through the mirror. I took the chance to look around in mock amazement.
The Montez Global Empire building's luxury men's bathroom. Only the finest and richest men have only ever stepped foot into this bathroom. The floor was nothing but of the rarest metals which can only be found at the center of Mars. And the urinals are only made for the worthless rich men who pee liquidity.
"Be professional" I reminded myself, rolling my eyes. "It's not every day you get to be the bodyguard of an heiress"
A phone call. It took one fifty-seven second phone call with my agency firm to get a briefing of my client. I was sure that there would be a lot to talk about, especially if the protected is the heiress of a dynasty, aka the Montez Global Empire.
If you didn't know, The Montez Global Empire is a luxury multinational conglomerate; old money wrapped in new power. Founded by Victor Montez, it was a global empire that began with a simple mission: to create solutions that served society's needs. It started with sustainable infrastructure, building affordable housing, advancing transportation, and supporting global health and education. Over time, as the company expanded, its focus shifted. What began as a force for public good gradually transformed into a symbol of wealth and influence.
The Montez name became synonymous with luxury and dominating industries. It grew into everything that makes and moves wealth: real estate, fashion, finance, technology, and media. What was once a legacy of innovation now stands as a dynasty built on power, prestige, and global dominance.
The Montez Empire's been around longer than most countries have had stable governments. Montez means power. And this power is now on her.
Sophie Montez. A girl who hasn't had many public conferences or inheritance party, which is quite a tradition, here, in Aurelia City. I tried researching but it only showed a stoic girl who'd rather be anywhere else. At least I have something to relate to.
I wasn't really a fan of following someone around all the time, but the pay is worth it. My grand-mother has been suffering from Hepatitis B, which requires quite expensive medication, and I needed money for that source of expense. I just hope this heiress isn't as snobby and arrogant as she's titled to be, because then it would really make this job harder.
My policy? Protect, observe, and don't engage.
Simple.
I stepped out, keeping my hands in my pockets as I walked towards the elevator. The Executive Office was at the top floor so the ride up was quite time-consuming. During the wait, I made sure I had every detail of the elevator buttons memorized. The gold rim around the black, which was underneath a very vintage styled font. But only 65 glowed.
What made the wait even more worthwhile, was the fact that some maniacal human being kept pressing the up/down button, within every floor, but never actually showed up. And I thought only kids in apartments had this behavior.
I let out a slight sigh as I walked out of the now opened elevator, going through corner to corner to find at least a sign that the office was in the right direction. When I finally found it, I glanced at the door, which had a label that politely stated, 'Executive Office – Sophie Montez', before opening it after a couple of knocks.
I paused as I looked at the interior. It was packed with... emptiness.
No one was in sight. The table contents were neatly organized, the shelves in the corner were no different. To summarize, the room style was modern and simple. I took a quick stroll around the room, seeing that there were no pictures on the walls or anywhere; just documents on the table, books on the shelves, laptop, and other common furniture.
I was supposed to meet this girl, but she wasn't here. Soon, my head towards the door opening, and I immediately straightened myself.
Soon, a lady with a blonde bun and bright blue eyes walked in. This wasn't Sophie. Based on the photographed media I had looked through yesterday, Sophie had black hair, and eyes of hazel. The lady paused when saw me, and quickly nodded as a greeting. "Good morning, sir. You must be Sophie's new bodyguard. Grey West?"
I returned the nod. "Uh, yes. I was supposed to meet her today but she isn't here. Do you know where she is?"
She hummed in response. "She was called in for a sudden conference meeting regarding a new project. It doesn't seem like it would end anytime soon"
Great. Perfect. "Are you, her secretary?" I glanced at her name tag before continuing. "Mrs. Kent"
She quickly responded, but I sensed a bit of annoyance in her tone as she spoke. "Oh, no, no. I used to be her secretary – I think" She muttered the last part but brushed it off with a smile. "I work in the Accounting department. As I may recall, Ms. Montez says that she needs no individual to handle herself when it comes to reminders of upcoming futuristic urgencies"
I raised an eyebrow at the slight mockery in her tone, as well. "Oh, she said that, huh? Sounds like a strong character"
Mrs. Kent let out a scoff. "Strong is an understatement, Mr. West. The girl is mysterious and the bluntest woman you'll ever meet"
"You do realize that I'm her bodyguard, right? It's not exactly logical to be complaining about her character to me"
Mrs. Kent drops her voice a little low as she said, "Oh, take it as a warning, son. She would dramatically cut you out just because your hair is too perfect and then the next thing you know, she'd be annoyed at the fact that you have a British accent and then ask you to change it"
Okay, either, this lady is being overly-dramatic and exaggerative, or this heiress is actually worth warning about.
I decide to change the subject. "So, if you're in the accounting firm, what did you come in here for?"
She pulls out a set of documents from her large file, placing it on the main desk. "I was sent to hand the financial records of the past year over to Ms. Montez"
"Why?"
Mrs. Kent shrugged. "Something about wanting to keep track of expenses. She wasn't very specific, although that isn't very new"
I crossed my arms, leaning against the wall. "And what ever do you mean by that?"
"She's not really an open person. She keeps to herself but whenever she does speak, it gets scary. Like I told you, the girl gets fired up"
"Kind of like an introvert-"
"But worse" She clutches her file slightly tighter as she nodded, farewell. "Well, it was nice meeting you, Mr. West"
I returned her nod. After she left, I sat down on the sofa, pulling out my phone and checking my emails. An hour passed by and I began walking out towards the elevator. Might as well take a look around this huge building, while I wait.
As the elevator went down, it stops in the 36th floor, revealing a middle-aged man, with curly blonde hair and a mustache that could save the endangered species of rare insects. He stepped in, with, what appeared to be, his four bodyguards. I kept a safe distance but I felt his eyes on me, scanning head to toe. Before I could even shift, he spoke.
"You're new here?" I nodded. "Which firm?"
"I'm a bodyguard, sir"
"Ah" The man exclaimed. "You must be the new bodyguard for Ms. Montez. How is it, working with her?"
"Well, I haven't gotten a chance to meet her, yet. She wasn't in her office and one lady from the accounting sector had said that she was in a meeting" I informed.
"Oh, I know. I was in the same meeting" He held out his hand. "Jeffery Clint. And you are?"
I took it. "West. Grey West"
"West..." Clint trailed off, appearing to be lost in his own thoughts, as if he was familiar with the name.
"Are you familiar with the name?"
"Oh, no, no! Actually..." He continued, leaning closer. "Do you know a 'Chris West'?"
"He's my dad"
Clint's expression changed into one of surprise. "Oh, really? No wonder, I knew you looked familiar... just like him! You have his eyes" He clears his throat before adding, "He was a good man"
My eye twitched slightly as I catch the reference to the incident, which occurred five years ago. My parents died in a car accident, and a sudden fire struck. I was told that it might've been a leak of gasoline or something with the engine that caused the fire, and that the cause of death was cardiac arrest. This took a hard toll on me. I couldn't eat, sleep or even process the fact that such a thing had even happened. But to this day, I choose to not believe it.
They were good people; My dad was the founder of HavenCore International, A humanitarian logistics organization that provided war-torn regions with food, emergency shelter, and medical supplies. And my mom was a mathematics teacher. Even though my parents were barely home since they were so busy, they took care of me just like how any other parents would.
Up to this day, I still remember the night when I was little; the night my father uttered the words, "Protection means nothing if people can't survive what comes after", so I take it as my duty to follow his motto.
I nodded. "He was"
"How is his company?" Clint genuinely looked interested and curious, something that caught me off guard but I brush it off.
"It's going well. The ownership transferred to the charitable organization, 2Live, so they run it quite smoothly"
"Oh, how come you didn't get the ownership?"
I raised an eyebrow at his tone. "It's quite... personal"
"I see" the man nods slowly as he gives a once-over look before turning towards the elevator doors as it opens on the floor '2'. "Well, it was nice to meet you, West. I hope we meet again"
Before I could even respond, he steps out, being followed by his quite bodyguards. I stared at the, now empty, space. Such a strange stranger.
Another half-hour passed and I found myself sitting on one of the cafeteria tables, reading through a brochure of the Montez Global Empire, which also included the map. Top floor is Head offices, including the Heiress office, 64th floor was the Human Resource firm sector, 63rd was the Accounting Firm sector–
"Tea?"
I look up to see a lady, maybe in her 40s, look down at me with a kettle on one hand and a plastic cup on the other. Tea was something that I could never drink. It wasn't the flavor or the appearance, but the temperature. "Oh, no thank you–"
"Nonsense!" She cut me off, already pouring a cup and placing it in front of me. "Tea's good for your complexion, dear — keeps a handsome man looking sharp!"
"Uh... thank you?"
"No worries, son" She smiled, almost motherly but still unfamiliar. "I'm Janice, a fellow assistant of the first floor"
"Grey West. I'm the–"
"... new bodyguard of the Sophie Montez, the new heiress. I've heard a lot about you... a few minutes ago"
Well, that was fast. All I could do was nod. In a few moments, the entire cafeteria was filled with chattering workers and noise after multiple people walked into the room, either going towards the vending or coffee machine, or sitting down on tables.
"Seems like the meeting is over" Janice turns to me once again, before smiling in farewell. "Nice to meet you, son. Have a good day"
She walks away, and I glance back at the tea. I leave it untouched, which is how it should be.
The cup's steam has already faded. I continue flipping through the corporate brochure, the glossy cover showing Victor Montez's polished smile beside the slogan: "Progress Through Power."
Mrs. Kent, the lady from earlier, lingers near the counter, whispering to the Janice, "That's him — the new bodyguard. Mrs. Montez hired him. Handsome, isn't he?"
I pretend to not hear the obvious gossip as I turn the page. Philanthropy projects. Construction timelines. Achievements.
Janice chuckles slightly. "He looks a little too young for you, McKenna", she adds silently, "Or you may be too old for him"
Mrs. Kent scoffed. "Not for me. Plus, he's not my type. I like top-tier, so that it goes well with my over-flowing value"
"Well, you know what they say" She leans closer. "Vintage does have value"
"Okay, I'm just going to ignore the fact that you called me old, twice. Janice, don't you know how many guys actually asked for my attention?"
Janice crosses her arms, raising an eyebrow. "Blind guys asking you for directions to the grocery store doesn't count"
"What do you know about guys, anyway?"
"I know enough to know that if he looks at a girl all funny and practically makes his world all around and about her" She smirked, sipping her tea as she continued, "He's in love"
"That's stupid. Men like that belong in teen movies or whatever delusional kids watch these days"
I couldn't help but smirk amusingly at the last similarity. It was true. Girls kept getting their hearts broken since they have higher expectations for partners nowadays. And it all happens after they believe that whatever happens to fictional 'lucky' ladies, should happen to them. I mean, who doesn't want a guy who stalks them day and night, and calls it 'love'?
I still think it's a little too early to be thinking about relationships. I'm only twenty-four and I still have a long way to go, which was what my grandmother said.
But all the thoughts rushed out of my mind when I look up slightly, my eyes meeting a female entering the cafeteria. Black hair, glasses, fair skin and quite slim. She had a black coat folded over one arm; folders balanced in the other and a forward-aligned sight. Her posture was straight, steady — not proud, not fragile.
Just... contained. Like someone who learned early that showing anything is giving too much away.
It fits the profile I read. Sophie Montez.
Heiress. Target. Assignment.
Then it happens.
A slight misstep, nothing dramatic, just the corner of her folder brushing the metal frame of the doorway. It's enough.
Papers slip, and scatters against the polished floor.
Before she reacts, my body does. Training moves faster than thought; muscle memory.
I rise from the cafeteria table, step forward, and catch the falling file before it hits the ground. The edge of a contract brushes my sleeve, narrowly saved.
She freezes for half a breath, eyes flicking once to my face, then to the reclaimed papers in my hand.
No thanks.
No embarrassment.
No irritation. Just... acknowledgment.
Brief. Sharp. Dismissive in a way that isn't rude — just defensive.
She takes the folder back without a word.
Mrs. Kent, from the receptionist's corner, watches the whole exchange like she's waiting for a headline. And I know that headline is going to be published sooner than later.
I simply step aside.
This is the job. Protect, observe, and don't engage.
And Sophie Montez keeps walking, like nothing fell at all.
I follow silently, back toward the table I'd been sitting at.
She doesn't leave.
Instead, she pulls out the chair across from me, sits down, and sets the recovered files neatly in front of her. Only then does she look at me clearly, directly.
"So, you're Grey West?"
Her eyebrow lifts slightly, not mocking but rather assessing.
"Grey," I correct quietly. "Last name's not important."
"Everything is important," she replies, folding her hands. "Especially for someone who'll be in my shadow for the next... however long this lasts."
I nod once. "Then yes. Grey West." She studies me. No rush. No attempt at friendliness.
It's the first thing we have in common.
"So, Grey West", she began, leaning forward slightly. "Tell me about yourself"
The words are simple, but the tone makes it obvious; this is a test, not a conversation.
I keep my voice steady. "Security background. Private contracts. Trained for threat elimination and executive protection."
"That's your résumé," she says. "Not you." I pause and she waits.
"...I don't talk much," I say finally.
"Clearly." Her pen taps once against the folder. "Anything else?"
"I follow rules. I work clean. I don't cause problems."
"And you don't drink tea." Her eyes flick to my untouched cup.
I don't react. "It's not part of the job description."
She tilts her head slightly, almost disappointed by the non-answer. Then her gaze sharpens. "Why did you take this assignment?"
"Because you needed someone." Then I add, "And because I don't turn down cases that come with active threats."
For the first time, she looks away but only for a second. Her jaw tightens. Something unspoken in the silence.
"Do you think I'm afraid?" she asks. It seemed like she actually wanted to check whether she had come out that way.
"That's not my assessment to make."
"Good. Because I'm not." It sounded pretty convincing, especially to her. She gathers her files. "But someone wants me to be."
There's a faint tremble in the papers she lifts — tiny, almost invisible.
But not to me.
"Not trying to come off as rude, but I have some work I have to do," she says, already standing. "But at the end of the day, I'll show you where you'd be staying. Be on time" and she leaves.
No explanation.
Just expectation.
---
The car ride is quiet.
She sits in the back seat with her laptop open, tapping fast, but every few minutes her eyes flick to the windows; not paranoid, just practiced. Someone who learned vigilance the hard way.
At a red light, she finally speaks.
"Your resumé stated that you used to work internationally."
"Yes."
"Long-term assignments?"
"Years at a time."
"Why leave?"
I answer honestly, focusing on the road. "It wasn't... sustainable."
She doesn't pry.
And I don't volunteer more.
But out of the corner of my eye, I see her glance at me like she already understands what "not sustainable" really means. Like she knew that I left because it would have broken me eventually.
---
Her home isn't loud. It's quiet in a way that's almost unnatural — like a place where people whisper even when no one's listening.
She steps through the front door and gestures down the hallway.
"This is the main area. Living room, office, kitchen, home gym. You'll become familiar with it."
Her voice is calm, rehearsed. She's given tours before, but never to someone who'll be living here.
"Second floor is the workspace, as in the floor that is used for work-related activities but it isn't used much so there's no reason to go up there"
"Understood."
She walks ahead of me, black heels hitting the wooden floor softly but with direction. "This is the guest room," she says, opening a door. "Yours."
It's simple: bed, desk, dresser, empty enough to feel temporary.
"Bathroom's attached. Laundry downstairs. Don't touch my—"
She stops herself. Starts again. "Don't go into my bedroom without permission."
"I won't."
Her shoulders relax a fraction.
Sophie stops at the last door on the right. "This one is mine."
Her tone is final — not rude, just... guarded. She doesn't reach for the doorknob. Doesn't invite further steps. "And that's it for the tour," she motions to the guest room– my room door across the hall, "You can settle in."
I nod, walking towards my room, and stepping inside. I could feel her studying me for half a second. Almost as if checking whether I'll question her boundaries.
I don't.
"Goodnight, Mr. West," she says softly.
"Grey is fine."
She doesn't respond — just turns, opens her door halfway, and slips inside before I can see anything beyond a blur of shadows and bookshelves.
The door closes. A beat of silence.
Then—
click
click
click
click
Different sounds. Different metals. Different mechanisms.
Five more follow — faster, tighter.
Ten locks.
I knew she was cautious. But this? This is fear built over years.
I stand outside my room for a moment, not staring at her door — staring at the wall.
Someone who isn't sleeping well fortifies their bedroom.
Someone who isn't safe pretends they are.
Someone who's afraid... never says it out loud.
I exhale slowly and step back into my room. I set my jacket on the chair and kneel beside the suitcase.
The zipper opens with a low rasp.
Inside: neatly packed clothing, a small first-aid kit, a worn leather notebook... and beneath it all, the old matchbox I don't remember packing.
The same one from the night of the fire.
I close my hand around it.
In the silence, the echo of Sophie's locks still lingers.
And for the first time on a new assignment, I realize something unsettling:
I'm not the only one here who survived something they don't speak about.