-Treasure.
He was almost finished with his plate when it happened.
I stood behind him, arms loosely folded behind my back, doing what I was told to do—observe, be present, and keep my mouth shut unless spoken to. The dining room was quiet, aside from the soft sound of utensils scraping against porcelain and the occasional faint clink of his glass as he sipped water. A part of me had started drifting. Not far. Just into the kind of thoughtless rhythm you settle into when your body's there, but your mind's finding ways to stay unaffected.
Elias set his fork down. The sound was deliberate. He turned in his chair, slowly, and looked up at me with a strange sort of calm.
"Did you eat yet?" he asked.
I straightened slightly, blinking once before answering.
"I'll eat right after you're done with your meal."
He tilted his head, eyes still on me. There was something unreadable in his expression, something quiet but unsettling.
"No," he said. "I don't like this. Sit down and eat with me."
My weight shifted just a little.
"That wouldn't be appropriate, Mr. Maxwell," I said, keeping my voice even.
"Says who?"
He was smiling now, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm the one who runs this place, and I'm saying you can sit down with me."
Before I could respond, he called out.
"Cassandra!"
It didn't take long. The door opened quickly, her heels clicking against the tile, her posture as perfect as always. She looked like someone who had just left a conversation mid-sentence.
"Yes, sir?"
Elias turned slightly, pointing a lazy hand toward me.
"Can you please tell Treasure to sit and eat with me?"
She froze for a second, and I saw it—the flicker of confusion pass across her face like a glitch in a polished screen. Her eyes went to me, then back to Elias. Something in her expression told me she wasn't used to this request. She hesitated, lips parting slightly like she was searching for protocol that didn't exist for moments like this.
Then, with a tight nod, she said, "Sure, Mr. Maxwell. Whatever you want."
Elias looked back at me, triumphant in a way that didn't feel childish, but instead… controlled.
"See?" he said. "It's fine. It's whatever I want. So when I give you orders, Treasure, you do what I say."
Cassandra stepped forward just a little, still watching him as if waiting for more instructions. When nothing came, she glanced my way again, her voice softening.
"Can I ask what happened?" she said.
Elias let out a short breath. "He said it wouldn't be appropriate to sit and eat with me."
She looked at me again, and though her face didn't move much, I could feel what she wasn't saying. Like she knew I was doing what I'd been trained to do. What any of us would have done. But she didn't argue.
She turned back to Elias. "Of course," she said. "Please, Treasure, enjoy your meal. I'll ask Marla to bring an additional plate and cutlery."
Without waiting for acknowledgment, she turned and left the room, her exit swift but not hurried. She didn't look back.
I stood there for a second longer, unsure of what to do with my hands. I hadn't sat at a table with a client before. Not like this. Not uninvited by the staff, not in front of someone whose moods felt like tidewater—slow to shift but impossible to stop once in motion.
I walked toward the table, moving slowly. Elias was seated at the head, of course. I stepped past the nearest chair and made my way toward one a little further down.
"Don't skip chairs," he said, casually wiping the corner of his mouth with a linen napkin. "You're being awfully polite, Treasure."
I stopped mid-step. There was no room to play this smartly, no excuse that wouldn't sound like resistance. I turned back, moved to the empty chair directly beside him, and sat down.
The wood creaked slightly beneath me. My hands settled on the edge of the table, fingers faintly twitching from the shift in energy. I didn't know if I should speak, if I should thank him, or just wait in silence until Marla came in.
I glanced at his plate. Only a few bites left.
He didn't look at me. Just reached for his glass again and drank quietly, like this was routine. Like I hadn't been standing five minutes ago, following a line I thought I wasn't supposed to cross.
Moments later, Marla walked in, her eyes flickering quickly between us but saying nothing. She set a new plate in front of me, placed the utensils gently to the side, and stepped away with practiced ease.
I looked at the food. I wasn't hungry.
But I picked up the fork anyway.
I didn't know how to hold myself at that table. My posture felt too formal, my breathing too conscious, and the plate in front of me too full for the kind of appetite I had. I cut into the grilled chicken anyway, the knife sliding through it like the meat had been waiting to fall apart. There was no sauce, no unnecessary garnish. Just the meat, warm and simple—but the taste wasn't. The herbs were unfamiliar, but not loud. They crept up from the back of the tongue and softened everything I thought I knew about flavor. I'd eaten grilled chicken a hundred times before, but this was something else. The kind of food that didn't need to prove itself, because every bite reminded you it had nothing to prove.
Elias was still chewing slowly beside me, his eyes skimming the surface of the table as he began to speak.
"There's a summit next week," he said, as if we had already been talking about it. "Private. Very intimate. Only a select number of people know about it. Mostly long-time stakeholders and two or three political figures who enjoy pretending they're just visiting friends."
He picked at his food as he spoke, not looking at me, as though his words were meant for the air around us, not for any response. I didn't reply. I nodded slightly, just to show I was listening, though most of it didn't register. Corporate meetings, board partnerships, sustainable tech integration, licensing talks—things that sounded important, but folded into each other like layers I wasn't meant to understand.
"—and after dinner, there's a scheduled panel that I won't be attending, because I find those to be a waste of everyone's time," he continued, sipping his water with practiced ease. "They like to pretend things are being negotiated, when in fact everything's already been signed under the table weeks ago."
I chewed slowly, trying to follow, but my attention kept slipping to the flicker of candlelight reflected in the glass nearby. My fork paused halfway to my mouth.
"Keep eating," Elias said, eyes still on his plate. "I don't like when people let food sit."
I brought the fork to my lips without argument.
Then his tone shifted, just slightly.
"There will be a crypto block later in the week," he said. "We're setting up an enclosed auction session—digital wallets only. A few collectors are bringing NFTs, but there's also rumor of an early coin trade, one of the legacy wallets that hasn't moved in nearly ten years."
My chewing slowed.
I looked at him, and I knew my expression had changed because he smiled when he caught it.
"Ah," he said. "That caught your attention."
"I used to trade a little," I said, swallowing. "I mean—not trade-trade. I just tried my luck on a few coins when I was younger. Lost some, won some."
"Everyone does," Elias replied. "Those who say otherwise are either liars or lucky. Or both."
I let out a small laugh and shook my head.
"I got carried away with it at some point," I said. "Started messing with mining. I built this PC out of hand-me-down parts and discount pieces I could scrounge online. Got it running, barely. No case fans, no cooling system, just the GPU grinding day and night like it owed me something."
Elias looked at me now, listening with more interest than before.
"I didn't know what I was doing, not really," I went on. "Had the thing running non-stop for days. Overclocked the GPU way too high trying to squeeze more hash power out of it. The room started smelling like burnt plastic. I ignored it. Thought it was the extension cord or something."
I paused, reaching for my water glass. The herbs still lingered faintly on my tongue—minty, earthy, something deeper.
"Then one night, it just gave out. The whole rig sparked up and let out this nasty hiss, like it was angry at me. Screen went black. The power supply blew. I panicked and threw a wet towel over it."
Elias blinked, and for the first time, he laughed—quiet, low, but real.
"Did you lose anything?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said. "Half my dignity and two hundred bucks in parts."
I leaned back in my chair slightly, glancing at my plate again. "Taught me not to chase stuff I didn't understand. Or at least to cool my machines."
He nodded slowly, eyes not on me now but somewhere across the room, like he was playing that image back in his head.
"You don't strike me as the type to give up easily," he said.
"I'm not," I told him. "But I know when something's on fire."
"Eat," he said again, quieter this time.
I picked up my fork. The next bite hit deeper. Maybe because it reminded me I hadn't ruined everything.
Elias hadn't said anything for a while. We kept eating in silence. The kind that didn't press on your chest, but still made you want to glance up every few seconds to make sure the other person was still there.
I reached for my water again, swallowing down the last bite, when his voice broke the quiet.
"You'll be accompanying me at the summit, of course."
I looked up.
There wasn't a question in his tone, just a continuation. Like he was telling me something I should've already known.
"Yes, sir," I said, automatically.
"Good."
He placed his napkin beside his plate, folded into an exact square. The kind of precise motion that said a lot without meaning to. Then he leaned back, eyes resting on me in that flat, almost unreadable way he did when he was calculating something.
"There are a few things to keep in mind."
I nodded, fork set down, hands resting in my lap.
"First," he said, "when we're in motion—hallways, cars, walking between rooms—you stay to my left. Never behind me. If someone walks up to speak, you'll be able to intercept. If someone pulls a phone, you'll see it before I do."
I nodded again.
"Second," he continued, "you eat when I eat. If I'm seated, you're standing nearby unless I ask otherwise. If I'm walking, you follow without needing to be told."
His voice wasn't sharp. It didn't need to be. He said everything slowly, like each instruction was being slid across the table like cards in a game he'd already won.
"There will be no earpieces, not for you," he went on. "I want your attention tuned to me, not whatever chatter the rest of them are swimming in. You only listen when I speak."
My chest rose a little slower. Not out of resistance, just... the sheer stillness of the way he said it. Like all of this had already been agreed upon in some silent room I hadn't been invited into.
"If I get up," he added, "you get up. If I leave the room, you leave the room. If someone pulls me aside, I expect you to find a way to stay close. Don't let anyone separate us unless it's cleared ahead of time."
I took it all in, eyes flicking between his face and the faint steam still rising from my plate. He hadn't blinked much. His gaze never left me.
"This is protocol," he said.
And for a second, I almost nodded again, until he said, "It's also instinct. You'll learn mine quickly."
There was something about the way he said that. Not threatening, not cold. Just certain. As if I already had no say in the matter. As if my instincts would bend naturally toward his, because they were supposed to.
"I'm used to people being around me," he said. "But I'm particular about who I allow in close. I need people I don't have to manage. People who understand space, timing, presence. And silence, when it's needed."
I felt my fingers twitch slightly under the table. I wasn't sure why.
"Yes, sir," I said again.
He stood up. The motion was smooth, unhurried. He adjusted his cuff as he stepped away from the table.
"I trust you'll do fine," he said. "You seem like someone who knows how to stay in the right place."
Then he left the dining room without looking back.
I sat there for a moment longer, unsure if I was allowed to leave yet. The food had cooled. The room had quieted. The table felt like it was holding something I didn't have the language for.
But I gathered the napkin, folded it like he did, and stood.
The moment I stepped out into the hallway, I didn't even get a chance to breathe. Cassandra was there, standing with her arms folded tight and that same unreadable expression on her face—the one that always looked like she had already decided you were doing something wrong.
She didn't wait.
She stepped forward and caught my arm just above the elbow, her fingers cold and precise, like she'd practiced the motion in her head before I'd even opened the door.
She leaned in, voice low, barely above a whisper.
"If he asks you to do things, just do them," she said. "You don't need my approval. Don't put us in a situation like that again."
I looked at her, stunned, before I pulled my arm free from her grip. The motion wasn't rough, but it was sharp enough to make her blink.
"You told me we remain professional," I said. "That was the very first thing you said when we met. That's what I was trying to do."
She exhaled, annoyed more than anything, like this conversation was wasting time she didn't think she owed me.
"I know," she said. "But that changes if Elias wants something different. So next time, whatever he asks of you, you do it. You don't question it, and you don't make him call me over something trivial like you refusing to eat."
Her words hit harder than I expected. Not because of what she said, but how she said it—like I was a child who had embarrassed the class, like she was doing me a favor by not saying it louder.
And just like that, she turned and walked away, heels clicking briskly across the floor, her posture still flawless, like nothing had just happened.
I stood there frozen for a second, still feeling her grip on my arm, still hearing her voice loop in my head.
Whatever he asks, just do it.
What the hell did that even mean?
Was that normal? Was that how things worked around here? I wasn't trained for this level of... whatever this was. He wanted me to sit and eat. She made it sound like I'd set off a goddamn bomb by hesitating.
I stared after her retreating figure, then muttered under my breath, "What a bitch."
The words tasted bitter. My jaw clenched.
Whatever he asks...
Seriously?
I started walking without thinking, taking one hallway after the next, ignoring the faint ache in my shoulders, ignoring the buzz of blood in my ears. I didn't know where Elias had gone. But something in me needed to find him. I didn't even know what I'd say if I did. I just couldn't shake the feeling crawling under my skin.
Why was she so pressed about something so stupid?
Don't make him call me over something trivial.
Those rich maniacs.
They said protocol. They said professionalism. But none of it meant anything if the rules changed depending on someone's mood. I was trying to do the right thing, and suddenly I was the problem because I didn't sit fast enough.
I took a turn down a quieter wing, glancing through doorways as I passed. Still no sign of him.
But I kept walking. I wasn't going to be pulled aside like that and just go back to my room and pretend everything was fine. I wanted to see his face. I needed to know what this was. And if I was being pulled into something, I sure as hell wasn't going in blind.
I found him in one of the east wings. The double doors were cracked open just enough to let out the faint flicker of a screen. No guards. No staff. Just the muffled sound of a football match roaring through invisible speakers.
I stepped inside.
The room was dark but not heavy. The kind of light you'd expect in a private cinema, all low glows and velvet shadows. The screen in front of him took up nearly the entire wall. It wasn't as massive as a real theater's, but it didn't fall far behind. A screen that size made you forget anything else existed in the room.
Elias was on the couch, his elbows resting on his knees, eyes locked onto the pitch. The FIFA menu flickered as players ran lifelessly across the field. His fingers moved quick on the controller, but there was tension in them, like whatever he was trying to do wasn't working.
"The settings on this shit are infuriating," he said, not looking at me. "Do you know how to fix them?"
I leaned a shoulder into the doorframe.
"Yeah," I said. "I do."
I stepped into the room, making my way toward the setup. The air had that faint mix of new furniture and dusted plastic, like the place had only just been touched for the first time in weeks. I stood near the screen, blinking at the brightness. Up this close, the players were practically life-size.
I tilted my head at the formation.
"Who plays with this team?" I muttered. "You're setting yourself up for failure."
Elias didn't pause the game. He didn't even seem bothered. "If I wanted to always win, I'd design myself a game that makes me win without even trying."
I scoffed, not bothering to hide it.
"What?" he said sharply, glancing up.
"Nothing."
"No, say it. What were you thinking?"
I looked over my shoulder, gave him a dry smile.
"I was thinking the ego on you is impressive."
He leaned back into the couch, shoulders loosening as he stretched into the cushions like he was settling into something more comfortable.
"I deserve to think great of myself," he said. "I've done a lot of great things. Brilliant things."
I turned away from him, focused on the menu options, scrolling through the settings with steady hands. I didn't need to look at him to feel his eyes still on me.
"Cool," I said, voice flat.
I adjusted the game speed, updated the controller layout, and cleared the persistent auto-pause glitch. My fingers knew their way around these systems like muscle memory. I didn't have to think. That gave my brain too much room to wander.
"You don't seem easily impressed, Treasure."
I shrugged, not bothering to look at him. "I just don't see what's beneficial in being impressed. It's not like I ever get a hold of the things that impress me."
The words came out without effort. I wasn't even sure I meant to say them that honestly.
Elias sat quietly for a beat. Then, his voice dipped lower.
"Is that the case, then?" he said. "What are you impressed by right now?"
I glanced back again, just a flick of my eyes over my shoulder. A smirk curved into the corner of my mouth.
"Still not you."
He laughed loud and without hesitation. It bounced off the high ceiling like something sharp and echoing, cutting the air open in a way that startled me more than I wanted to admit.
"Where did the agency find you?" he said.
"Buried underground," I replied, deadpan.
He laughed again, shoulders shaking as he leaned forward, elbows resting against his knees once more. He stared at the screen, then turned to me with a look that was somewhere between amused and interested.
"If I asked you to play a game with me," he said, "would you tell me it isn't appropriate?"
I didn't hesitate.
"Nope," I said. "I've learned my lesson. Now—where's the other controller?"
He reached over to the side table and tossed it toward me. I caught it one-handed.
"But," I added, sinking into the space beside him, "if I beat you, you don't get to complain."
"I never complain," he said, grinning as the game loaded.
I sat back, controller in hand, thumb resting gently on the analog stick. The screen flashed bright again. The countdown began.
In that moment, it didn't feel like protocol. It didn't feel like work. It felt like something else.
And I wasn't sure if that was a good thing.