-Treasure.
They gave us a room.
Shared, of course. Two rooms were allocated for the four of us—Michael and Sandro took one, Devon and I took the other. Ours was tucked in the back, near what looked like the service corridor of this oversized, industrial monstrosity they called a mansion. I had a feeling this section of the house wasn't built for guests. It felt like staff quarters—like the place where chefs smoked cigarettes during midnight shifts and security guys napped with their radios half-muted.
Someone told us that Elias wasn't on the premises yet. Apparently, he was scheduled to arrive the next morning, flying in from whatever private terminal billionaires use. His personal security team would handle the initial escort. Which meant tonight was ours. Just a blank space of time meant for familiarization and waiting—two things I never had patience for.
The room was located on the lower floor, almost like a buried level. If you looked out the windows, you'd see the garden at eye level, wild hedges trimmed into squares, rows of gravel paths trying too hard to look effortless. We had to step down two short stone steps before entering through the side door. One more door inside led directly into the garden. The space itself was rectangular, with minimal furniture—bare essentials, like someone copied and pasted an IKEA catalog but deleted all the personality from it.
There was a metal bunk bed pushed against the far wall, the frame thin and already squeaking from just the shift of our bags. A wardrobe stood in the corner like it was sulking. One nightstand between the beds, with a small lamp and no bulb. A bathroom that smelled faintly of bleach and artificial citrus.
It looked a lot like our first apartment. Devon and I's place in Valmont. Small, plain, survivable.
Made me wonder—why didn't we ever think of getting a bunk bed? Would've saved space. The thought came and left like a bird flitting by a window. Too late now anyway.
The place felt like a dog house. Functional, not comforting. And I guess that's what we were—guard dogs, waiting for orders.
But I wasn't going to complain. Who was I to complain? I just wanted to get this over with. I wanted to meet the guy, learn his patterns, do the job, and stop living in this suspended state of preparation that made my skin itch.
Devon had taken the lower bunk, didn't even ask. Just dropped his duffel bag to the floor and laid back against the mattress like gravity had finally caught up with him. One arm folded beneath his head like a makeshift pillow, the other resting loosely on his bare stomach where his shirt had come undone halfway. His tie was loosened and slung around his neck like he forgot to care about it. His trousers were still on, belt half-unfastened.
He looked calm, but not asleep. His eyes were open—half-lidded, unfocused, staring at something only he could see.
The light from the garden window cut across his body in clean stripes, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his exposed chest, the rise and fall of his abdomen with each breath. His hair was slightly tousled, damp still from the shower, the strands curling slightly at the ends where they always did after washing. He looked like something out of a dream filtered through exhaustion. Intact, but not at peace.
He didn't say anything. Neither did I.
I stood for a while by the wardrobe, pretending I was trying to figure out what to hang and what to fold, but really—I was just watching him. That quiet stillness he had. That way of being so composed that it made you want to shake something loose in him.
And I thought about what Oliver told me. About coping mechanisms. About how people sometimes confuse survival with comfort.
This—Devon and I, laying in the same air, sharing too many silences, too many private things—we weren't a love story. We were a coping mechanism.
Two people who didn't know how to ask for more. Who didn't even know if they wanted more.
It's easier to keep your hands busy, to keep your body close, to press into something warm in the middle of the night and pretend that's enough. Because when you try to define it, it falls apart. And maybe that's why we never really tried.
I sat on the edge of the lower bunk, not close enough to touch him. Devon didn't shift. He just kept staring at the bed ceiling like it might eventually give him answers.
And me—I just kept pretending like I wasn't tired. Like I hadn't been tired for years.
Devon was quiet. The kind of quiet that didn't ask for space but existed in it. Still lying on the lower bunk, shirt open, chest rising and falling slow and deep. His body sprawled like he was trying to sink into the mattress and vanish, one arm folded behind his head, the other resting over his abs with the kind of careless heaviness that only came when someone was too tired to carry even their own limbs.
I leaned over, brushing the hair off his forehead with the back of my fingers. It was still damp, warm. He didn't flinch.
"Are you excited about this whole… quote, mission, unquote?" I asked, not really sure if I was teasing or genuinely asking.
He blinked up at me lazily. "Maybe when I get enough sleep, I'll be more excited. But for now, I'm not feeling anything. I'm so tired."
I nodded and looked around the room again—the bunk bed, the half-broken nightstand, the IKEA-grade furniture. "We haven't brought clothes with us. How are we supposed to live this way?"
Devon shifted slightly, eyes fluttering half-shut. "I think they're going to bring us clothes. Probably don't trust us to bring our own. But you're right. We should find someone to talk to about this."
I pushed off from the edge of the bed. "I'll go look for someone. Maybe hang around for a little."
Devon gave the smallest nod, then turned on his side, back to me, one shoulder tensing slightly as he settled into himself.
I left through the second door, the one that led out to the garden. The lock clicked faintly behind me as I pulled it shut. The night had cooled by now, the air full and still, no breeze, no movement. I tilted my head back, closed my eyes, and inhaled slowly.
The scent hit me immediately.
Sweet. Rich. Overwhelming in a way that almost didn't make sense. The garden smelled like flowers—real flowers—but so concentrated, so intense that it bordered on fake. Like someone bottled every bouquet from a wedding and exploded them into the air. Roses, lilies, honeysuckle, jasmine—whatever it was, it wasn't subtle. It clung to the back of my throat. It made me wonder if they were real at all. Or if maybe the whole place was tricking me. Maybe this was just what flowers smelled like when there were thousands of them planted in a small space.
I walked. Not with purpose, just to move. To see. The perimeter of the garden wasn't wide, but it stretched back in looping pathways. Patches of white stones surrounded by flowerbeds, metal lanterns lining the walkways, lit dimly in orange. The lights were dull but consistent, casting long shadows onto the perfectly cut hedges and tiled paths.
Surveillance cameras watched from every direction. Not hidden. Not disguised. Just there—set into the corners, jutting out from black poles like eyes. They weren't even spread out naturally. They were placed deliberately, every two meters, like clockwork. Like someone had measured paranoia and installed it in steel. It made sense for security, but felt like shit for privacy.
But then again—privacy wasn't part of the deal. We signed that away the moment we said yes to an absurd amount of money.
I kept walking, trying to trace the far end of the property, when I heard it.
Crunch.
A crisp sound, subtle but unmistakable—footsteps crushing dried leaves, faint but close. No wind. No animals. Just footsteps.
No one was supposed to be out here.
I paused. Looked around. Listened again.
Crunch. Again. A little closer.
I moved toward the sound instinctively, slowly, not creeping but cautious. My heart thudded once, sharp in my chest. I thought about how stupid it was to come out here unarmed, unprepared. Then I noticed it—another shadow moving between the trees, deliberate, measured. Whoever it was, they weren't hiding. They were approaching too.
And then, suddenly, he was right in front of me.
We stood face to face.
He was tall. At least two inches taller than me, and I wasn't small. Broad shoulders filled the cut of a dark suit. His frame was sharp, angular, built with the kind of posture that came from being in control of too much for too long. His shirt was pressed, collar crisp, his tie tight even at this hour. His face was something else entirely—handsome, sure, but not soft. Not kind. Every line in his expression was drawn with intention. His lips looked like they were used to being closed more than they were open. His jaw was defined like it had something to prove. And his eyes—his eyes were cold, intelligent, and watchful. The sort of eyes that made you feel like your entire personality was being scanned in the space of a blink.
His hair was neatly combed back, not a strand out of place despite the darkness and the garden humidity. He looked untouched by the day, by exhaustion, by the world.
"Hello," he said, with a voice that was smooth but dry, like it didn't have time to make friends. "And who is you?"
For a second, I forgot what I was doing. Forgot why I was there. Forgot what job I was supposed to be performing, what protocol I was meant to follow. I was supposed to be the closest to him. I was supposed to be his primary.
And I hadn't even recognized his face.
I swallowed hard. "Who are you?"
He tilted his head, laughed softly—almost like a scoff. "You don't know who I am? You're inside my premises, and you don't know who I am?"
And that's when it hit me. Hard.
Like someone poured an entire goddamn bucket of ice water over my head. The realization sliced through me like glass. Of course. Of fucking course. I should've paid more attention. Should've read the brief properly instead of zoning out while Devon did all the work.
I was face to face with Elias Maxwell. In the dark. Alone. And I nearly pissed myself.
I was supposed to protect him. I was supposed to be the one closest to him. And I didn't even know what the man looked like.
Fuck.
I straightened up faster than I could think, spine snapping into place, arms stiff at my sides like I was reporting for inspection. My mouth opened, but the words were all wrong—scrambled and panicked like they'd come from someone else entirely.
"Sir—um—Mr. Maxwell, I'm sorry, I… uh…" My tongue tripped on itself. "It's really dark out here and, um… okay, I shouldn't—shouldn't say that." My eyes darted to the side. "Fuck. I shouldn't have said that either…"
His expression didn't change much, but something in the air shifted. His voice came softer then, low and strangely kind in a way that didn't fit the marble-cut lines of his face.
"It's okay," he said. "I won't tell anyone about this little flunk you did. But—pay attention next time."
I nodded too quickly. "I—I will. I promise. I'm not—I'm not gonna—this is never gonna happen again, I swear. I'm sorry, it's just, we just got here and we realized we don't have any clothes, and I came out to find someone to talk to, and they said you were coming back tomorrow morning and I—" I swallowed, hard. "And I'll shut up now."
He was quiet, but he kept looking at me.
It felt like he was staring a little too long. A little too fondly. Or maybe that was just the way the garden lights hit his face—gold licking at the corners of his cheekbones, painting his eyes with something that looked like warmth but might've been something else entirely. Or maybe I was hallucinating. Maybe this place was getting into my head already.
Elias finally exhaled through his nose, and with a slight turn of his mouth, said, "I'll talk to Cassandra about the clothes. She should've handled that. But with everything going on…" He lifted a hand slightly, letting the rest of the sentence hang. "I was supposed to arrive tomorrow morning anyway, but last minute we figured—why wait? Nothing important left to do out there. So we came back early."
There was a pause.
He rubbed the side of his neck like the sentence itself tired him out.
I chuckled without thinking. "Yeah. The perks of having a private jet."
The second the words left my mouth, I froze.
Cassandra's voice echoed in the back of my head, crisp and unapologetic. No personal conversations. No talking to Elias unless spoken to. No crossing lines.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
I blinked hard and cleared my throat. "Okay, sir. I'll—I'll go. I'm not officially on duty yet, so I'll head back to the room. Good night, sir."
I started to turn, praying this would be the moment he just nodded and let it pass.
But then—
"What's your name?"
I stopped in place. Turned my head a little. "My name is Treasure Quinn, sir."
"Treasure," he repeated, tasting it like it wasn't a word he heard often. "That's such a pretty name. Who named you that?"
I felt my stomach drop a little, like I'd missed a step on invisible stairs. My throat tightened.
"I don't know," I answered, voice a little too honest.
He blinked, like that wasn't the answer he expected. "What do you mean you don't know?"
I shrugged, awkward and small in the half-light. "I just… don't. I've never asked. Doesn't really matter, right? It's just a name. And it's not like anyone important in my life gave it to me, so… yeah."
He tilted his head. "Is this protocol? Are you not supposed to tell me about your personal life?"
"No," I said, and the word came out gentler than I meant it to. "I'm being honest. I really don't know. I never cared enough to find out. It's a whole thing. A whole lore about me. But now's not really the time."
I lowered my gaze, shame bubbling under my skin like heat under glass. "Again, sir. I'm sorry. I'll retreat now."
I turned and walked back toward the room with whatever dignity I could scrape together. I didn't hear him follow, didn't dare look back.
But when I reached the door, I didn't go inside.
I leaned against the wood, let my body fold slowly down, and slid until my back met the floor, knees bent, arms limp at my sides. I sat there in the dark, beneath that sea of fake flowers and surveillance lenses, breathing too fast and too shallow.
My chest was tight, and my limbs felt heavy. Like all the bones had gone soft. Like the weight of my entire body was suddenly too much to carry.
And all I could think was: He knows my name. And I wasn't ready for that.
The door barged open like we were squatters and someone had finally decided to reclaim the place. It was loud—not in volume, but in presence. It slammed into the quiet like a hammer, and both Devon and I sat up in sync, straight as boards. I didn't even remember telling my body to move. The bunk bed creaked violently beneath us, the metal frame shifting with our shared panic.
There was a woman standing in the doorway. She looked like she might've been in her fifties, maybe a little older, but sharp. Blunt-cut gray hair, tired eyes, a solid build. She wore a simple uniform—navy blue, sleeves rolled. No name tag. No greeting.
She walked in like this was her house, dropped two large duffel bags onto the floor with a thud, then looked between us once and said, "Breakfast is in ten."
That was it. That was the encounter. No names. No explanations. No good morning. She turned and left, the door clicking shut behind her.
I just sat there for a moment, blinking hard, trying to remember where I was. The smell of bleach, the faint perfume of yesterday's garden air still clinging to the inside of the room. The too-stiff sheets. The unfamiliar weight of silence pressing in.
Then it hit me.
Last night.
Elias.
His face, his voice, the words he said, the fact that he knew my name now.
I collapsed back onto my stomach like I could escape into the mattress and maybe erase my own existence. I buried my face into the pillow, groaning under my breath. I wanted to throw myself off the top bunk dramatically, but I knew it would accomplish nothing except maybe a twisted ankle. And probably a secondhand embarrassment for Devon.
I twisted sideways instead, still half on my stomach, and let my upper body dangle upside down from the edge, arms limp like I was a sad bat. I hung there until I could peer over the side and see Devon below me.
He looked up with bleary eyes, hair tousled, a line pressed across his cheek from the pillow.
"What the fuck was that?" he mumbled, voice flat, like he hadn't fully woken up but had already decided to be over it.
I blinked at him. "I don't really know."
He sat up slower this time, rubbing his eyes. "You talked to someone last night?"
I hesitated. "Yeah… I found someone. Talked to her. Said she'd take care of it."
Devon didn't respond immediately. He got to his feet with a soft groan and unzipped one of the duffel bags. Inside was a neat stack of brand-new clothes, still creased from packaging. Mostly neutral tones—button-up shirts, slacks, undershirts, socks, briefs, the whole setup.
I slid down the ladder, standing beside him as he pulled out a pair of pants and held them up.
"Do you think they're gonna be in our size?" I asked, tugging one of the shirts from my own bag and stretching it out.
Devon exhaled through his nose. "I hope somebody made the effort to call Trevor and get our measurements. Because what the fuck even was that wake-up call? I need a shower."
He grabbed a shirt, pants, a fresh pair of briefs, socks—everything he needed—and started toward the bathroom. I grabbed my own basics and followed.
A second later, I knocked on the door. "Can I come in?"
Devon called back, "Yeah."
I opened the door and stepped inside, shutting it behind me. "If breakfast is in ten minutes, we really don't have time to shower separately."
Devon raised an eyebrow at me in the mirror but smirked. He stepped aside slightly, pulling the curtain open. "Get in, then."
I stripped quickly, not thinking too hard about anything, and stepped under the water. The spray was warm, thank God, and the pressure was good—hard and steady, just enough to chase the drowsiness from my skin. We didn't speak much. Just moved fast, alternating between rinsing and soaping, dodging around each other in the small space.
We got out dripping, wrapped ourselves in the small, scratchy towels they'd provided, dried off as best we could, then dressed quickly—rolling sleeves, tucking shirts, fastening buttons. We barely had time to look at each other in the mirror before heading out.
Devon glanced down at himself once and said, "I'm surprised how well these clothes fit."
I shrugged. "They must've had someone measure us in our sleep or something."
We stepped into the hallway, our room door clicking shut behind us. Across the narrow corridor, Michael and Sandro were already standing outside theirs. Michael leaned against the frame, adjusting his cuff. Sandro just looked blank, arms folded. When his eyes met mine, he gave me a little shrug.
I shrugged back.
We didn't need to say anything. The vibe was mutual: what the hell is this place.
The housekeeper reappeared, as quiet and efficient as before.
"This way," she said, not even checking if we were all following.
We trailed behind her through a new hallway, past polished concrete walls and sleek lighting. She led us into a massive kitchen, the kind that looked too expensive to actually be used. All steel counters, built-in industrial ovens, and hanging racks of gleaming utensils. It looked like someone could film Hell's Kitchen in there if they just dimmed the lights and added a few Gordon Ramsay insults.
We took our seats at a long table already laid out for breakfast. It was… excessive. There were eggs, toast, pastries, cheese, yogurt, berries, olives, some sort of croissants with filling, and yes—falafel.
Michael leaned over and whispered, "Are they really serving falafel for breakfast?"
I smirked. "Apparently."
Sandro grabbed a plate, loading it up like he hadn't eaten in days. Devon picked up a fork with the kind of caution usually reserved for weaponry. I reached for the coffee first.
It was too early, too surreal, too strange. But at least it smelled good. And for now, that was enough.
The man who walked in had the sort of presence that entered a room before his voice did. Tall, polished, hair slicked back to a sandy blonde shine, and the kind of blue eyes that probably made people listen harder than they should. His suit was charcoal gray, almost black, fitted perfectly, not a single wrinkle out of place. He smiled—sharp, corporate, the kind of smile trained into you by people who use it to close deals—and clapped his hands once in a casual rhythm like we were at some off-site orientation.
"Good morning, boys," he said, tone brisk but bright. "My name is Mark Tipton, and I'll be your manager from now on. I'll be handling the assignments, the roles for each one of you, all of that."
He glanced at a small device in his hand. Probably our files, maybe notes, maybe just a prop.
"Which one of you is Treasure?"
I hesitated for a second too long before raising my hand. My arm moved slowly, unsure, like it was lifting itself.
Mark nodded, all business. "Okay, great. You'll be the personal security for Elias."
Great. Perfect. I'm either being promoted into hell or placed directly beneath the spotlight for execution.
"And which one of you is Michael?"
Michael raised his hand with less hesitation. Calm. Collected. He didn't even flinch.
I didn't hear what Mark said after that. I was already spiraling. My thoughts were an incoherent blur of fuck and shit and I'm doomed. He's either going to torment me for the mistake I made last night or he's planning to humiliate me slowly, methodically. This isn't going to be one of those roles where you forget the awkward beginning and find your rhythm. This is going to be a goddamn gauntlet. I already wanted to run. My legs felt stiff, like they were preparing to bolt on their own if I gave them half a signal.
Mark was still talking, and I forced myself to focus.
"Okay, guys, let's just follow me. I'm going to introduce you to Elias, get you affiliated. Very brief talks. Do not say anything much. Don't try to invade his space. Just relax, okay? He's a cool guy. He's nice. Really. But remember why you're here. You're here to protect this man, to take care of him, not to manage him. He has people for that. You are not those people. Do not tell him what to do and what not to do. Again, he has people for that."
Mark paused, then added, "If it's safety related, of course, you have a say. But remember, you're part of a team now. We're going to organize the structure. Don't stress. Just follow me for now."
Everyone stood slowly, chairs scraping against the floor. I didn't. Not right away.
I lingered, eyes still on my half-eaten plate. My fork resting on the rim like I hadn't really finished breakfast but couldn't bear another bite.
Devon turned toward me. "Aren't you coming?"
I looked up at him, heart drumming against the inside of my ribs. "Yeah," I said, dragging the word out with fake ease. "Yeah. I'm coming."
I pushed myself up and followed the group into the hallway. The corridor stretched long and muted, walls a soft concrete gray with those backlit, sleek panels instead of normal lighting. We moved in silence, our steps echoing lightly on the stone tiles.
The staircase we climbed was absurd. Like something out of a cyberpunk art exhibit—glass panels, steel railing, lit from underneath in soft blue that made everything feel more surreal than elegant. It curved gently, like it was designed by someone who didn't want stairs to look like stairs.
We reached the top, then turned into another corridor. Mark led the way confidently, almost like he lived here. He stopped in front of a large black door, took one last look over his shoulder, and knocked twice.
Then he opened it without waiting.
And there he was. Elias Maxwell. Again.
The moment the door opened, my eyes found him without effort, as if they'd been trained overnight. He was already looking at me, like he knew exactly when we'd enter and who I was standing in the line. His expression didn't shift. I looked down immediately, suddenly very aware of how stiff my shoulders were and how loud my own breathing sounded in my ears.
Elias didn't greet us with suspicion or cold silence like I expected.
Instead, he said, "Okay, Mark. Thank you. You can leave."
Mark nodded, didn't say anything, and walked out like a man who knew not to linger. The door shut behind him with an almost inaudible click.
Elias stepped closer. He was wearing something simple—dark slacks, a crisp black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair looked freshly combed, his jaw clean-shaven. The lighting framed him too perfectly, like someone was staging a scene.
"Hi, guys," he said, almost cheerfully. "We'll be working together from now on."
His voice was smooth and paced, like he knew exactly how he sounded and wanted to make the most of it.
"Some people don't do this part," he continued. "They like distance, formality, and all that. But that's not me. I'm a people person. I like talking to the crew I work with. I like getting along with them. I believe that the more you form a bond with the people you work with, the more the work becomes tolerable. Sometimes even enjoyable. It builds loyalty, and I value that."
I stared at the floor, biting the inside of my cheek.
You're a people person? Right. That tracks. A people person who spends millions building machines to replace people. A people person who's turned warmth into a performance. What you meant to say, Elias, is that you like control. That it's easier to trust people you've personally screened and personally disarmed with this whole approachable-god routine.
What you want is loyalty without effort. Protection without question.
What I wanted to say was something like—if we form a bond with you, we'll want to protect you more because we love the man we work for. How pathetic is that. He's no different than I imagined.
Still, I kept my head low.
He turned to me again.
"What's your name?" he asked, though we both knew he already knew it.
I looked up, caught off guard by how direct the question was. "My name is Treasure Quinn."
He nodded, then moved on to the others, asking the same. Casual. Smiling.
And that's when I realized it. This was a game.
Oh, I thought. You're pretending yesterday didn't happen.
This was his chance to offer me a clean slate. A subtle, unspoken gesture: pretend it didn't happen and I won't make you pay for it.
How noble. How merciful. What a fucking stuck-up.