-Treasure.
From the second-floor banister, I could see the estate filling like a tide pulling in from every polished marble corner. The night had the polished sheen of money, all gold accents and silvered glass, every surface catching the gleam of chandeliers that cascaded their light in soft, molten layers over the scene. The air carried a subtle perfume—something floral with a crisp undertone of citrus—threaded with the sharper scent of polished wood and the faint salt of chilled oysters drifting from the dining hall.
Below me, the grand foyer swelled with arrivals. They came not in a crush but in deliberate waves, each guest trailed by a satellite of assistants, publicists, and personal guards. Their conversations braided together in a low, constant hum, punctuated by the click of expensive shoes on marble and the muted thump of luggage wheels gliding over rugs woven with patterns intricate enough to lose thought in. It wasn't a crowd in numbers, yet it moved with the force of one—sharp elbows of protocol cutting paths toward the heart of the event.
I leaned on the banister, letting the scene wash through me, my eyes tracing the play of light on the crystal decanters set out along the side tables. Somewhere behind me, the muted slide of a door drew my attention. Cassandra stepped out of Elias's bedroom, dressed in a cream-white suit so cleanly cut it looked tailored to her very thoughts. The jacket framed her shoulders in quiet authority, the trousers a precise line down to cream heels. Her hair fell straight to her shoulders, dark and smooth, the soft fringe framing her eyes in a way that stole nothing from her severity. She glanced at me briefly, her voice measured.
"On set. He's walking out."
Elias emerged a heartbeat later. The suit—dark, sharply tailored to the lean precision of his frame—carried a sheen that caught the chandelier's light in slow strokes. The lapels were slim, the shirt beneath a pale neutral that gave the black tie its quiet dominance. His cufflinks were understated but heavy-looking, and he held a glass of amber liquor with the kind of ease that suggested it belonged in his hand.
"I'm ready to go," he said, without pause, already turning toward the stairs.
I fell in step behind him, the banister's cool rail at my side as we descended into the murmur and movement below. He moved as though the space bent subtly to let him pass, each step drawing eyes without effort. The first to catch his attention was Vincent Rowe, silver-haired yet unbowed by age, the weight of his money and reputation stitched invisibly into the lines of his dark suit. His voice carried in a crisp, almost playful timbre as he clasped Elias's hand.
"Elias. Thrilled to be here. The Summit promises to be… invigorating."
Elias's mouth curved faintly. "Thank you. It's good to see you here."
Vincent's gaze slid to me, assessing, his smile sharpening like a blade's edge catching light. "I can't help but notice how attractive your bodyguard is. You do pick them by hand, don't you?" He let the words hang just long enough before adding, "You'll have to tell us which agency you use. We love our own eye candy in my office."
Elias gave no rise to it—no humor, no warning—simply pivoting the conversation to another topic as if the comment had never been spoken. I stayed behind him, my hands folded neatly, the marble cool beneath my shoes, but the remark coiled in my mind. It was the way he let it drift away, unanswered, that unsettled me most. The foyer continued to hum, lights gleaming across crystal and silver, but for a moment, the whole evening pressed in tighter, as though I had stepped closer to a game I still didn't know the rules to.
The words slid into my ear without catching on my face. I stood the way I was meant to—hands behind my back, eyes forward—while the old man's voice carried on in that half-playful, half-sharp tone. It wasn't cruel, not exactly, but it left a peculiar taste in my mouth. Something between flattery and being appraised like a racehorse, dressed up in the kind of polished humor that men like him wore to every occasion. I said nothing, but I felt it settle somewhere under my ribs, a knot I couldn't name.
Elias kept the conversation pinned to business. Numbers, contracts, markets. Even so, I noticed Vincent's gaze grazing me again and again, never lingering long enough to be called a stare, but enough that I could count them if I wanted to. I didn't. The chandelier light shifted on the glass in his hand as he leaned in to hear Elias's replies, yet his eyes kept coming back, quiet as a pickpocket's hands.
When Elias finally excused himself, I fell in step behind him. He drifted toward a quiet alcove near the far corner of the room, where a pair of tall palms in bronze planters softened the edge of the wall. The hum of voices blurred into the background.
"Did you hear what the man said about you?" Elias asked, his tone so even it felt like an afterthought.
"Yes, sir."
"And what did you think of it?"
I kept my gaze on the floor's glossy inlay, tracing the curve of the design. "I really don't have any thoughts about it."
"Good," he said, glancing past the rim of his glass at me. "We don't want you getting too cocky."
I let out a small breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "But I can't help wondering if it's true. How do you choose your bodyguards?"
He turned toward me, just enough for his shoulder to angle into my space. "I enjoy a natural view."
I chuckled under my breath. "A natural view is usually the sea, a lake, a tree. Not a person."
"Humans are natural," he replied. "Created by the same God who made the sea. So yes, it is considered a view."
I shook my head, smiling quietly. "You always win arguments like this."
"Only when I'm interested in the conversation."
Something in his delivery brushed over my skin in a way I couldn't name. It left me oddly aware of myself—how I stood, the line of my shoulders, even the way my suit sat against my frame. I didn't want to admit it, but there was a flicker of satisfaction in knowing Elias might think I was worth looking at. It felt like a small, silent step toward getting on his good side. And that mattered to me—not for the reasons people might think, but because the closer I got, the better my chances of walking away from this whole thing with something tangible. A gift. A favor. Maybe more than that. I wasn't after whatever Elias was after. I just wanted to see what his wealth could spill into my hands.
Cassandra's voice cut through, cool and measured. She appeared at Elias's side, touching his elbow lightly. "They're ready for you."
Elias handed me his glass and walked to the center of the room where a polished lectern stood beneath the chandelier's crown of light. The guests turned toward him in a gradual ripple, conversations folding into silence.
He began without clearing his throat, his voice carrying as if the air was made to hold it. "Friends, colleagues, visionaries—welcome. Tonight marks the first step in a gathering I have long imagined. We are here not simply to speak of innovation, but to decide what shape the future will take in our hands. In the days ahead, we will share our work, our risks, our ambitions. Some of you have built empires. Some of you are still laying the first stones. All of you belong in this room because you understand that progress is never a single person's victory—it is a network of minds, each holding a piece of the map."
He rested his hands lightly on the edges of the lectern, scanning the crowd with a slow, deliberate sweep of his gaze. "I ask that you speak openly, listen deeply, and carry the same discipline you have mastered in your fields into the conversations we will share. The summit is not for appearances. It is for results. And I expect results."
A pause. His mouth curved faintly. "But for now, results can wait. For now, we eat. Please, join me for dinner."
The room shifted again, voices swelling back into motion as servers emerged from the side doors, carrying the first trays. I stepped forward as Elias turned toward the dining hall, the gold light of the chandeliers bending over his shoulders like a cloak.
As we moved toward the dining hall, I found myself replaying his speech in my head. It had been sharp, deliberate, and stitched with the kind of confidence that drew people toward him without their realizing it. Elias didn't speak as if he hoped his words would land; he spoke as though they already belonged to the room. It was impossible not to notice the way faces turned toward him, their focus caught and held like moths to steady flame. I told myself I didn't care for the man beyond my job, but I could not ignore the ease with which he commanded attention. Charisma, in its truest form, was not loud—it was the current beneath the surface that made everything else move.
The dining room smelled faintly of rosemary and slow-cooked meat, layered over the faint tang of wine already poured into long-stemmed glasses. The light was warm, softened by sconces along the paneled walls, catching the glint of silverware laid in neat perfection. Chatter rose in scattered bursts, the clink of cutlery and the pop of a champagne cork threading through the air. I took my place behind Elias's chair, not pressed close but near enough to step in if needed. From here, I could take in the room in one slow sweep.
There were others like me—men and women in dark suits, standing in quiet formation behind their employers. Their eyes tracked movement, their bodies still but ready, a silent wall around silk and tailored wool. In the muted glow, it almost looked choreographed. I knew that in private agencies, clients often set the tone for how their bodyguards operated, sometimes dictating even the smallest details. It made me wonder, in a passing, unspoken way, if any of them were being shaped and bent in the same strange ways I was. The thought was not something I would ever voice, but it lingered in the back of my mind like a fragment of a tune I couldn't place.
Dinner passed in measured waves of conversation and wine refills, the plates cleared in good time. The whole thing wrapped in less than an hour, a pace that felt deliberate, as though Elias knew how to leave people wanting more. Soon, we were moving toward the garden for what Cassandra had described earlier as "post-dinner mingling."
The night air was cool, touched with the scent of damp leaves and something floral drifting from the hedges. Strings of low lights curved overhead, their glow soft enough to make the shadows inviting rather than sharp. Servers—if that was the right word in such a private setting—moved easily among the guests, trays balanced effortlessly in one hand, offering small tarts, glazed fruits, and delicate pastries dusted with sugar. Wine still flowed, deep red and gold in crystal glasses.
I followed Elias as he slipped from one conversation to the next, his handshakes fluid, his smiles exact. Some of the guests included me in their greetings, offering a polite nod or a brief question, but one woman, dressed in a gown the color of dusk, smiled directly at me and said, "He's prettier than some of the guests here."
Elias's laugh came low and warm, as if the comment amused him more than he'd admit. "Now, about the figures you mentioned earlier," he said to her, steering the conversation neatly away.
This became a pattern. A remark aimed at me, followed by Elias's gentle sidestep into business. After each one, my eyes would catch on Cassandra. She stood at a measured distance, her gaze steady, arms crossed loosely over her cream suit. More than once, I caught her looking at me with an expression that unsettled me—narrowed eyes, the faint downturn of her mouth, a look I could only read as pity. I couldn't understand it. Nothing in my position warranted pity.
The night wound down in slow, careful motions. Guests began their retreat to the upstairs suites, led by attendants who carried their small personal bags and keyed open their doors. The garden emptied by degrees, the soft glow of its lights left to the quiet hum of the night insects in the hedges.
Two more days of this. Two more days of speeches, dinners, and the peculiar current that seemed to run under every exchange here.
The morning opened soft and quiet, the kind of light that slips in pale through the curtains and brushes over the furniture without asking permission. I was already in the hallway outside Elias's room when the door opened and he stepped out, not in the kind of razor-edged suit he'd worn last night, but something looser, easier on the eyes. A light, fine-striped shirt, tucked neatly into a pair of dark blue jeans that fit him the way expensive things always seemed to—without any strain, like they'd been made to fall exactly like that. The sleeves were rolled just high enough to show the wrist, a watch gleaming faintly when it caught the light. Over one arm, he carried a black jacket, not wearing it yet, just letting it hang there like he might decide at any moment whether it belonged on his shoulders or not. His shoes were polished, black and lean, the kind that made no sound when he walked.
I'd seen men dress like that in magazines left behind at bus stops, but never in real life, not in a way that looked so natural. It was the kind of casual that was only casual because every part of it was chosen carefully. I didn't think about that much, but I knew it when I saw it.
We moved together toward the main hall, where the pitching was set to happen. The space had changed since the dinner—tables pulled to the sides, rows of cushioned chairs facing a low platform where the speakers would stand. A long table was set to one side for the handpicked photographers, their cameras lined like rifles waiting for orders. They were quiet but quick-eyed, shifting lenses and testing light without needing to be told. I caught the faint scent of coffee drifting from the back, mixed with something sharper—maybe paper or fresh ink from the packets stacked at each seat.
People filed in slowly, not rushed, their conversations flowing low but steady, a rhythm I still hadn't learned to follow. It wasn't like the talk at cafés or street corners; this was measured, weighted, every word dressed before it left their mouths. Elias took his place in the front row, and I stood a short step behind and to the side of his chair, close enough to hear him speak if he turned, far enough not to crowd him.
The pitching began. One by one, people stepped onto the platform, each carrying a little piece of their own world—a tablet, a small model, a stack of glossy papers. They spoke of markets and returns, of scaling and sustainability, of words that rolled off their tongues like old friends but hit my ears like foreign coins. I didn't need to understand all of it to know who was confident and who was scrambling to sound like it. I could read that in the way they held their shoulders, in whether they met Elias's eyes or avoided them, in the small tightening of their fingers around whatever they were holding.
The photographers moved with quiet precision, catching each moment the way hunters follow the twitch of a branch in the wind. The soft click of their shutters became part of the room's rhythm, marking time between the points and applause.
I stayed where I was, scanning faces, watching the shifts in expression around me. This wasn't my world, and I knew it. But standing there, I could still find the cracks in people's armor, the flickers that showed more than they wanted to give away. That, at least, was something I understood.
One of the presenters stepped up to the platform carrying a slim laptop and the kind of self-possession that made him look like he belonged at the front of the room. He was young, dressed in a way that was clean but not overly formal—jacket cut sharp at the shoulders, shirt open just enough at the collar to feel deliberate. He didn't shuffle papers or clear his throat; he simply opened the laptop, connected it to the display, and let the first image fill the screen.
It wasn't just a picture. The colors shifted slowly, liquid-like, as if the image were breathing. It was strange and beautiful in the way things are when they seem to move without moving.
"This," he began, "isn't only a design. It's a key."
I felt myself leaning a little, not because I understood where he was going but because there was something in the way he said it—like he knew exactly how to reel a room in. He talked about NFTs, a term I'd heard thrown around but never paid much attention to. The way he explained it, they were more than fancy digital drawings; they were proof of ownership, stamped into some kind of chain of code that could never be forged. Each one carried its own record, a history of hands it had passed through, a price trail that could rise or fall like the tide.
I caught myself thinking about it more than I expected. The image on the screen wasn't just a swirl of colors anymore—it was, apparently, something that could be bought, sold, and held like treasure in a vault. He showed examples of collections that came with real-world perks: access to private events, invitations to parties most people would never hear about, even membership to an exclusive group called The Vault.
The room seemed to settle into his words. Cameras clicked from the side as the photographers captured each slide. I couldn't pretend I understood all of it, but there was a part of me that could feel the weight of what he was selling. A thing you couldn't touch but could own. A thing that could make someone somewhere richer just for holding onto it long enough.
By the time he wrapped up and the polite applause rolled through the hall, I was still thinking about it. The shifting colors on the screen lingered in my mind, like something I'd half dreamed and almost believed.
Elias stood after the applause faded, sliding his hands casually into his pockets as he took the platform again. His voice carried the same smooth weight it always did, the kind that seemed to reach the farthest corners of the room without needing to rise.
"That last presentation," he began, "gives you a small glimpse into where we are headed next. Our upcoming project will integrate NFTs—not just as collectibles, but as functional, intelligent assets. We're exploring ways to merge this with advanced AI, creating something that can adapt and serve real purposes beyond holding value. This is still in the making, but we wanted to bring it to your attention early. For those interested, or for any investors ready to move, prepare yourselves. This project will be significant. Huge, in fact. Now, let's take a break. We'll reconvene for dinner."
A round of polite applause followed him down from the stage. I moved behind him as he left through the wide double doors, the cool air of the garden folding around us as we stepped outside. The scent of damp greenery and trimmed hedges softened the edges of the day. He walked without hurry, taking a slow path along the gravel, until he glanced at me over his shoulder.
"Did you enjoy the last one?"
"It's interesting," I said. "Crazy how the digital world is consuming us."
He smiled faintly. "It's not going to consume us. Humans are irreplaceable. Some things could use a little help, though. We use the internet for everything—why not use a more advanced internet for more advanced work? NFTs are just one example. People go crazy over them, especially the rich."
"I kind of get that," I admitted.
"Would you like one?"
I almost laughed. "I'd love one, but I don't have the money for that."
"Don't worry about that. It's our project. Pick whichever one you like."
I shook my head. "No, thank you. That's too much. I can't accept that."
"Can't accept what?" he said, turning slightly toward me. "It's priceless to me. I made them."
"I know, but you're going to make them to sell them. They'll probably be profitable for you, and if you gave one to me, you'd lose that profit."
His smile deepened, amused. "You're so kind and sweet and considerate. What the hell? If I offered this to anyone else, they'd snatch it right from my hands. But you… you're a different kind of case. That's unusual. Well, if you don't want it, I guess I'll have to shove it to you."
I blinked at him. "So what should I do in return?"
"Nothing. Just stay faithful to me. Protect me. Do your job. That's it. I'm allowed to give you gifts, right?"
I looked at him a little longer than I meant to. "Why would you give me gifts?"
"Because I want to. Because I feel happy when I give people gifts."
"But what if it makes the other person feel burdened?"
"I haven't thought about that," he said, tilting his head. "I haven't met anyone who felt burdened by a gift."
"That's probably because the people you give gifts to can give something back. Maybe another gift."
"Then you can give me one back."
"It won't be worth the same."
"I don't care about value. A gift is a gift. If I walked over there," he said, nodding toward a bed of white roses, "picked a flower, handed it to you, and called it a gift, would you feel less valued by it?"
"I don't like flowers."
He smirked. "But you like cryptocurrency. So?"
I let out a short laugh. "I think I'm not winning this conversation."
"You'll never win any conversation with me, Treasure," he said easily. "So just stop trying."
I chuckled and shook my head. "Whatever."
The garden path crunched softly beneath our steps, the faint echo of voices from the hall behind us, and for a moment, I wondered what exactly I was being pulled into.
The third day felt softer from the start. Brunch was laid out under the high ceiling of the dining room, sunlight pouring in through tall windows, catching on the glass pitchers of juice and the silver domes over warm platters. Elias moved through the room like the morning belonged to him—shaking hands, pausing for photographs with an easy smile, listening to the practiced pitches of people who had been waiting for the right moment to catch his ear. I kept close, but not stiff the way I had been on the first day. Three days in, the rhythm of shadowing him had settled into something I could follow without thinking.
The air buzzed with a kind of polished noise—business talk blended with the low rumble of political language I didn't fully understand. A couple of the politicians leaned in with animated gestures, laying out how some of the pitched projects could be absorbed into government programs. Their voices rose with the certainty of people who thought in decades, not days. I let the words pass through me, catching pieces here and there, but the meaning stayed loose. It wasn't my world to hold.
By the time the sun began to lower, the guests started leaving. They went in neat waves, each departure trailed by assistants and security, the crunch of tires on the gravel drive echoing faintly through the halls. The estate shifted with their absence, the hum thinning until the silence began to pool in the corners.
Elias stood by one of the tall windows, the fading light turning the edges of his profile to bronze. "I don't think we must leave tonight," he said finally, glancing toward his crew. "We can leave in the morning."
A few nods, a chorus of agreement.
"Everyone can retreat to their rooms. I'd say it was a success. Thank you all for the effort you put in today." His gaze found Cassandra. "Don't forget to tell Iliad to go over the photos from today. We release only what we want released, and we keep the rest. Nothing goes out tonight. The pictures are released once I'm back in the city, back in my office. All right?"
"Yes, Elias."
"And regarding the bodyguards in the back—you know how to handle that. I want everyone to rest tonight. Go eat, drink, whatever you want. Enjoy your evening."
He turned to Mark. "Have you checked that all the guests really did leave the estate?"
"Yes, sir," Mark replied. "We've covered all the outside areas. Everyone's in their cars. The garden is clear."
"Fantastic work, everybody. Go enjoy your evening."
Chairs shifted, footsteps scattered across the marble. Voices softened as people began to break away. Then Elias looked at me.
"Will you escort me to my room?"
"Yeah, sure," I said, stepping toward him.
We climbed the stairs at an even pace, the sound of our footsteps muffled against the thick runner. At the top, we stopped outside his door.
"Are you going to sleep right now?" he asked, the keycard loose in his hand.
"It's been three exhausting days," I said. "I think I might, yeah."
"Too bad." His eyes stayed on mine. "Why don't you join me in my room for a little?"
I blinked, unsure if I'd heard him right. "Is there something specific you need me to check in the room?"
"Not necessarily, no. You don't want to join me?"
"If you want me to, I will," I said slowly. "I'm just asking if I should… map the area, check if there's something troubling you?"
"Well, something is troubling me," he said.
That settled it. "Okay, fine. Let's go to your room."
He slid the keycard, the lock clicked open, and he stepped in first. I followed, the soft scent of his cologne mixing with the still air inside, the door shutting behind us with a quiet thud.