Zaire's POV
The apartment was unusually quiet for a morning with my brothers. No Kaiden singing off-key in the shower like he's auditioning for American Idol: Tone Deaf Edition. No Theo brewing coffee like it was part of an ancient ritual involving moonlight and goat sacrifices. Just the low hum of the fridge and my fingers tapping on the table.
A knock at the door. Courier. Box. Addressed to me.
Kaiden intercepted like an overeager border collie and signed for it with the smugness of a man who'd already written my humiliation speech in his head.
"What's this?" he asked.
"Nothing special," I said, grabbing it before he could shake it like a Christmas present.
Theo walked in, looked at the box, and raised one eyebrow—his version of screaming "I know everything" without moving his lips.
"It's a joke," I added.
"Uh-huh," Theo murmured, eyes sharp. "Bet you a hundred bucks you regret drinking those pills."
"That's oddly specific."
"Just take the bet," he said.
"Make it two hundred," Kaiden jumped in, leaning on the counter like a game show host. "I'll even throw in an extra twenty if you projectile vomit on Theo."
"Not happening," I snapped.
"Not yet," Kaiden said, grinning like a cat who'd just figured out where the bird feeder was.
I agreed to the bet because apparently I have the decision-making skills of a squirrel on an espresso bender.
---
Once they left, I opened the box.
Four bottles, each promising "succubus-proof focus" in fonts so aggressive I swear the words shouted at me.
Purely professional, I told myself. Not weakness. Definitely not fear. And certainly not because Seraphine's smile felt like a live grenade with the pin halfway out.
I popped two. Bitter chalky taste. Perfect. That's how you know it's working.
---
Breakfast was simple—coffee, pastries, sandwiches. I packed them neatly, like some apron-wearing grandma with arthritis and too much time on her hands.
Kaiden was leaning against the doorframe as I left. "Can't tell if you're off to guard Sera or take her to a picnic."
"Maybe both," I snapped before I could stop myself.
That only made his grin bigger. I hate it when he's right.
---
Her door. Duck sticker. She opens it, casual smile, hair pulled back. My throat goes dry.
I hand her the bag and thermos. "Part of guarding you is making sure you don't starve."
Her smile brightens. I immediately take two more pills. "Vitamins," I say.
She's amused. My professionalism is hanging by a thread.
"My car or yours?" she asks.
"Mine." I open the door for her.
She peeks in the bag. "You made all this?" She sips the coffee. "Wow. This is actually good."
"Anything wrong?" I ask, catching the slight pause.
"Um… can I eat in the car? I don't want to make a mess."
I take another pill just for the consideration. "Of course. But only you."
She laughs. "No trust with Wolfy and Teddy Bear?"
"I can't believe you remember that," I chuckle.
"Hey, you agreed," she teases.
"Kaiden once borrowed my car and returned it missing… important parts. It was also on fire."
Her laugh is warm, unguarded. When she moans over a pastry, I almost swerve. Almost.
---
Three venues. Long day. My bottle of pills? Nearly empty. I'm halfway through drafting my lawsuit for false advertising when the first cramps hit.
Oh no.
It's not the maybe I ate too much pizza kind of pain—it's the there's a volcano in my intestines and it's collecting rent kind of pain.
Driving feels like threading a needle in a hurricane while balancing a live ferret on your head. Cold sweat. Dull nausea. The sense that my digestive system just whispered, "You have five minutes."
I may have slightly exceeded the speed limit. Like, "my car is now a blur in security footage" exceeded.
---
Elevator. She's multitasking—phone, laptop, talking about seating charts.
I nod. Smile. Pray for divine intervention. Curse the engineer who designed this elevator without an I'm-going-to-shit-my-pants button.
Then it stops.
Not in the "we've arrived" way. In the you live here now way.
Anyone in Hollywood looking for a new horror premise—forget serial killers. Forget clowns. Try Trapped in a Box with the Woman You Like While Your Bowels File for Divorce.
She's still talking about venues. I'm concentrating on not becoming a cautionary tale. Something is trying to escape. Could be north. Could be south. I'm afraid to find out.
Three eternal minutes later, the elevator lurches back to life. I bolt the second the doors open. "See you tomorrow or—email me your schedule!"
I consider kicking down my apartment door instead of finding my keys. Don't even close it. Straight to the bathroom.
Now I'm sitting there, unsure which exit will betray me first, and seriously considering patenting a Double Deuce Design™—two toilets facing each other so you can vomit and… evacuate… at the same time.
---
The pill bottles are on the counter. I read them just to distract myself from the pain.
Basilisk Burners – "Extreme focus!" Side effects: nausea, spontaneous sweating, regrettable life choices, believing you can dance.
Chastity Caps – "Guaranteed protection from lust!" Side effects: diarrhea, paranoia, judgmental thoughts about people's socks, thinking you can smell colors.
No-No Nectar – "Your mind is your own!" Side effects: dry mouth, emotional whiplash, accidental poetry, desire to fight geese.
Temptation Terminators – "Shield your willpower!" Side effects: double vision, romantic flashbacks, the urge to bake for people you're avoiding, calling your ex for "closure."
Every single one lists its side effects like it's a dare. I have all of them. At once.
I hate my brothers.
---
Morning.
I walk into the kitchen, hoping for peace, coffee, and maybe a small slice of dignity. Instead, I walk straight into an intervention.
Kaiden's grinning like the Cheshire Cat after a triple espresso. Theo's sipping coffee with that slow, calculated menace that says "I've been waiting all night for this."
"Morning, Double Deuce," Kaiden greets.
I freeze. "No."
"Oh, yes," he says. "Word travels fast when you yell 'SEE YOU TOMORROW OR EMAIL ME YOUR SCHEDULE' while sprinting out of an elevator like you're in The Hunger Games."
Theo doesn't look up from his mug. "Is it true you considered inventing a… two-toilet system?"
I pour coffee. "It's called innovation."
Kaiden nods solemnly. "For people who want to… multi-task their regrets?"
Theo: "Patent pending?"
Me: "Both of you can die quietly."
---
Kaiden leans forward. "So tell me—how were the Basilisk Burners? Did you achieve extreme focus before or after you started sweating like you'd been interrogated by the CIA?"
Theo: "And the Chastity Caps. I hear they're great for lust control and sock judgment. Did you glare at anyone's ankles yesterday?"
Me: "She asked if she could eat in my car. That's all."
Kaiden: "And you popped another pill. Incredible willpower. Like watching a raccoon eat from a clearly labeled poison bin."
Theo: "No-No Nectar. Side effects: dry mouth, emotional whiplash, goose violence. Did you at any point want to fight a bird?"
I glare. "Only you two."
---
Kaiden: "The Temptation Terminators, though… you baked for her, didn't you?"
Me: "It was breakfast."
Theo: "Which you packed 'like a grandmother with arthritis.' Direct quote from Kaiden, who is still laughing about it."
Kaiden slaps the counter. "Oh! And when she moaned over the pastry, you almost swerved. If you'd hit something, the police report would have been chef's kiss."
Theo: "Cause of accident: inappropriate pastry appreciation."
---
I try to drink my coffee in silence, but Kaiden slides something across the table.
It's a crudely drawn sketch of an elevator button panel. Under "Door Open" and "Door Close," there's a giant red button labeled Emergency: Pants Crisis.
Theo: "I'll install it in your building if you want."
I get up. "I'm eating out today."
Kaiden calls after me, "Just don't take any vitamins first, Grandma!"
Theo adds, "And remember, if you feel the goose urge—call me."
I slam the door behind me. Okey maybe I these feelings are actually real
---
The next few days blurred together—venues, calls, emails, and more caffeine than is strictly survivable. Weeks must have passed in that haze before I realized I was running on muscle memory.
Seraphine was the picture of composed chaos—answering a call while replying to three emails, giving me directions between bites of whatever snack I shoved at her, shifting from diplomacy to deadly precision without missing a beat.
From a professional standpoint, I'd worked with difficult clients before. This was different. Every venue we visited suddenly had "complications." Dates that were confirmed became "mysteriously unavailable." Owners that had been all smiles were suddenly evasive. This wasn't natural disorganization—this was a hand on the board, knocking pieces over.
And every time, I caught the faint line at the corner of her mouth—a tell she probably thought she'd buried. Stress. Controlled, but there.
Seraphine wasn't just planning a wedding. She was waging a war of attrition.
---
By late afternoon, we were headed to the last venue on the list—a stunning estate that took months to book under the best circumstances. My instincts said this was the big one. If the sabotage was going to peak, it would be here.
That's when her phone lit up. Jack.
The tone of his voice was enough to put my shoulders on edge—condescending, smug, the verbal equivalent of someone tapping their glass with a fork just to get attention.
"I've been thinking," he said, like the words were a gift. "This date's just too much trouble. But I have an even better idea—picturesque, memorable. A Christmas wedding."
I didn't need to hear more. In our business, that was code for logistical suicide. No notice. High season. Premium rates. Everything already booked solid. A planner's nightmare.
Jack's voice had that triumphant edge, the sound of someone who thought they'd just delivered a killing blow.
---
I waited for her to flinch. For the crack in her composure.
Instead, she said:
"What time?"
Calm. Polite. Not a shred of hesitation.
There was a pause. I imagined Jack's smirk faltering. Then the line went dead.
I blinked at her. "What just happened? That's impossible—Christmas is—"
She looked at me, the corner of her mouth curling—not with stress this time, but with something dangerously close to delight.
"Zaire," she said, "I have standing arrangements with every premium venue in the city. All year. My clients trust me to book their dates well in advance."
She leaned back in her seat, utterly unbothered. "All I have to do is shift one client to another date and—voilà—Jack gets his Christmas wedding. On paper, it looks like I pulled off the impossible. In reality, I've had that date in my back pocket since January."
She made one call, smooth as silk, rearranged a client, and hung up without breaking stride. Then she looked at me with that same quiet confidence and said,
"Alright, Mr. Security. Let's go get our venue."
It wasn't just her victory—it was ours.
And for the first time, I knew exactly whose side I wanted to be on.
A few minutes later, her phone pinged. An email. She opened it, scanned it, and snorted.
"Jack just changed it back to the original date," she said, shaking her head.
I wasn't sure whether to laugh or be impressed. She'd played him so smoothly he'd undone his own sabotage.
War won, battle unnecessary.
The whole thing left me standing there like a guy who'd geared up for a fistfight only to watch his opponent trip over a curb and knock himself out.
---