-Devon.
The agency's lobby was modern, all clean lines and muted colors, the kind of place where the air smelled faintly of something expensive but impossible to name. The woman at reception looked up the second I walked in, her smile quick and professional.
"Devon Calloway, I'm here for a meeting with Ms. Gracie Williams," I said.
"Oh, yeah, right. This way." She stepped out from behind the desk, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor.
We passed a row of offices, each one with glass walls, people inside typing or leaning over screens. At the end of the hall, the glass ended. The only door here was matte black, its surface smooth, its presence deliberate. It was elegant in the way a well-cut suit is elegant—no frills, just quiet authority.
The receptionist knocked once before opening it. "Devon Calloway is here," she announced.
Inside, Gracie Williams was nothing like I'd expected. Slightly tall, maybe five-six, five-seven at most, she was dressed in an oversized grey t-shirt and white cargo pants, sneakers kicked under the desk. Her hair was braided into two neat plaits, bangs framing her face. The kind of casual that wasn't careless.
"Come on, have a seat," she said with a warmth that was immediate.
I sat across from her, the chair molding comfortably under me.
"You're from Trevor's agency, right?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Oh, drop the formalities. My name is Gracie. Call it as it is. I've known Trevor for a long time—he's handled some of the events we've thrown. Not directly with Bryce though. Bryce had someone… and that someone left because he started getting death threats himself. So that's the first part, I guess Trevor briefed you on?"
"Yes, Gracie. Yeah."
She leaned forward, elbows on her desk. "Well, Bryce is… how do I say it? He's a menace. A troublemaker. He's awful—and I'm allowed to say that. I have his father's blessing to say whatever I want about him. I've been with Bryce for about six years, since he decided to go solo. His father appointed me to handle his matters, so technically, I'm doing the man a favor while getting paid for it, trying to manage whatever the hell is going on.
"And you should know… Bryce isn't someone who can be tamed easily. We've all tried. His father tried. But we all stepped back eventually. That ship is sinking on its own. Still, we care for him. We love him. He's a lovely person, deep down. I believe, deep down, he cares about people."
I nodded, trying to keep my face in that polite zone between understanding and noncommittal.
"I'm not trying to scare you off, Devon," she said quickly. "If anything, I am begging you to stay. I've reviewed your file—you've done great work. And you just came off working with Elias Maxwell. That's big."
"Well, thank you," I said.
"I'm not going to ask why you left that job. I'll just see it as divine intervention that you landed here. I can tell you've handled tough situations, and while Bryce doesn't quite compare… he can be overwhelming. I'm giving you the green card—if you have to tame him, shout at him, even give him a punch here and there to wake him up, I don't care. I'm not asking you to babysit him. I'm asking you to be his bodyguard while also protecting him from himself. Because frankly, the biggest danger to Bryce is Bryce."
Her tone was animated, her hands moving with each sentence. The annoyance was there in the quick little sighs she gave between thoughts, but the smile never left her face.
I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing, because watching her try to describe him was like watching someone try to explain the plot of a bad soap opera without admitting they'd been glued to the TV for every episode.
"Alright," I said, nodding. "Protect him from himself. Got it."
She grinned. "And Devon? If he starts singing at you, don't encourage him. That's how he ropes people in."
That time, I did laugh. "Noted."
Gracie's hands folded together on the desk, her expression bright but fixed with an edge of purpose. "I get from that you're in for the job, right?"
"Yeah," I said, leaning back slightly in my chair. "I'm very in."
Her grin widened. "That is wonderful. Okay, so… moving on to what I call the Bryce squad. He has some troubles going on for him, aside from the ones he causes himself. Well, you know Velour Way, right?"
"Of course," I said. "The theater market. That's huge."
"Exactly. Bryce's mother, Jennifer, was one of the biggest stars in Velour Way. She was everything everyone wanted to become. And Bryce? No different from anyone else in wanting a piece of it. So he tried to join Velour Way, but they shut him out. Said he was an 'Nepo baby'—all name, no merit—and a troublemaker. And honestly, that rejection was a trigger for him. Pushed him into being even more of a menace than he already was."
She paused to sip from a glass of water, then continued with the same blunt cheer. "And, if I'm being completely non-biased here, the kid's got the talent. Singing, acting, musicals—he can do it all. But that Nepo baby label? It doesn't wash off easily."
I nodded, trying to picture Bryce taking this rejection quietly. Somehow, I couldn't.
"So," she went on, "he formed his own club."
Both my eyebrows went up. "Okay…"
"Yeah. It's a place for the Velour Way castoffs. They put on plays, pull all sorts of stunts. You'll have to escort him to those, aside from his concerts. There aren't any concerts soon, but the theater thing? It's constant. At this point, it's a Velour Way knockoff called the Crescent Theater—he wants it shaped like a crescent. We're still in the planning stage, but it's one of his passions.
"Then you've got his friends. All industry types. You don't need to protect them—they're just mosquitoes. They buzz around, sometimes they sting, but it's nothing a little spray and cream won't fix."
I smirked. "Understood."
She leaned back. "Now, the fangirls. That's the worst part. And they're not mosquitoes. They're… hmm…"
"Wasps?" I offered.
Her eyes lit up. She clicked her fingers at me. "Uh-huh. Wasps. I like you already. They fly too close, stalk him, get creative with their craziness. I'm sure you know what I mean."
"I can imagine," I said.
"Good. And then, the death threats. No one's acted on them yet, but you never know. People are wicked online. We had a crime channel do a video essay on the sheer volume of threats he's gotten. My worry is it might inspire someone to act. So, yes—keep him alive."
"Got it."
"Now, Bryce can be demanding. Don't go along with everything. Set boundaries. He's a little cuckoo, but we love him. I say all this and it doesn't take away from my love for the kid. I'm just a fed-up woman. I'm thirty-four, can't get into a relationship because I'm too busy taking care of Bryce. I need a breather."
Her hands spread out in an open gesture, then dropped to the desk again. "I'm not asking you to manage him—that's my job. I just need someone to help carry the load. And, by the way, you can bring your own clothes. We're fine with that. Phone too, though we'll run checks to make sure nothing's being recorded or shared. But looking at your file, I doubt you'd do anything that stupid. You're professional."
"Appreciate that," I said, already picturing whatever 'checks' meant in this place.
"So," she said, tapping the desk once, "let's start with the first introduction. Bryce is at home right now. I need to finish some things here. Why don't you go pack your stuff, bring it over, and we'll head to the house together?"
"Yeah, sounds great."
"Perfect. I'll see you in maybe an hour."
"Okay. That works."
She stood, offering her hand with a grin. "Welcome to the madhouse, Devon. May God protect you… but mostly, may He protect me from you quitting in the first week."
I laughed, shaking her hand. "I'll do my best."
We pulled into the gated community after a quiet drive, the kind where Gracie tapped on her phone half the time and I let the hum of the tires do most of the talking. The gate itself was sleek metal with subtle security panels, opening in one smooth, almost theatrical sweep. Inside, the streets curved gently, lined with well-kept hedges and tall trees that broke the light into soft patterns on the pavement. Each house stood alone, spaced so generously apart you could almost forget there were neighbors.
Bryce's place was one of the bigger ones. The moment we stepped inside, it was impossible not to take in the scale. The ceiling soared above, the kind of height that made you instinctively look up. Walls of glass stretched from floor to ceiling, framing the city beyond like a living mural that shifted with the light. The furniture was minimal but not cold—low, modern pieces in soft tones that seemed to let the view do most of the work. A sprawling sectional faced an angular coffee table with a simple bowl of fruit, its polished surface catching the warm glow of a sculptural floor lamp.
The loft space opened into different pockets of living without losing the sense of air between them. Pale wood floors ran through to the kitchen, where clean white counters and a neat line of stools looked out toward another set of windows. The place smelled faintly of citrus and something floral, probably whatever diffuser was tucked somewhere out of sight.
What wasn't minimal was the music. It thumped from unseen speakers, bouncing off glass and polished surfaces until it felt like the walls themselves were pulsing. I was still looking toward the far corner when movement caught at the top of the stairs. Bryce was coming down—if you could call it coming down—half dancing, half walking, mouthing the words to whatever was blasting through the house.
I didn't hear the trip. I just saw the blur of him lurch forward, the misstep catching him off balance. The bottom of the staircase ended right next to a sculptural piece that looked expensive enough to make me wonder if I'd get billed for breaking it.
"Oh my god," I muttered, moving before my brain could catch up. I caught him under the arms just before his head could meet stone, his sneakers skidding slightly against the last step.
He blinked up at me, breathless, hair falling over his forehead like the near-death experience was just another part of the choreography.
"Wow," he said, grinning. "First day and you're already saving my life. You're going to ruin the curve for the rest of them."
I set him upright, stepping back with a shake of my head. "Just try not to make this a daily thing."
"No promises," he said, already walking toward the couch like nothing happened. The music didn't miss a beat. Neither, apparently, did he.
Bryce twisted the apple in his hand like he was inspecting it for secrets, then looked at me with that kind of half-grin that meant trouble was loading.
"So… Devon Calloway. What's your deal? You a morning person or one of those creatures who doesn't exist until coffee?"
"Depends on how much sleep I get," I said.
He nodded like I'd confessed to a felony. "Alright, follow-up—how much sleep do you need before you're not scary?"
"More than I usually get."
"Mm-hmm. Okay, and on a scale from one to 'get out of my house,' how much do you hate small talk?"
"Closer to the second one."
Bryce laughed, biting into his apple again. "Excellent, we're going to be best friends. So, have you ever had to wrestle anyone? Like, full-on grab, throw, and pin?"
"Yeah."
"Hot." He said it so casually I almost missed it. "Alright, next question—if you had to choose between saving me or saving this couch from a fire, which one are you going for?"
"The couch looks replaceable."
He gave me a mock-offended gasp. "Wow. Brutal. And I was going to let you sit on it."
"You're already sitting on it."
"Exactly," he said, leaning back like the point was obvious. "My warmth has increased its value."
I shook my head, not bothering to hide my smirk. "Is this going somewhere?"
"Oh, it's going everywhere," he said, tossing the apple core into a bowl without looking and somehow landing it perfectly. "By the end of this week, you're going to like me. By the end of next week, you're going to adore me. And by the end of the month…" He gestured vaguely upward, as if the conclusion was too grand to say out loud. "…statues. They'll build statues."
I sat down in the armchair opposite him. "Let's focus on you not falling down the stairs again before we plan monuments."
"That's fair," he said, grinning. "But I still think I'd look good in bronze."
Next thing, Bryce led the way down the hall with that same loose energy he'd had since the moment I walked in, occasionally glancing over his shoulder like he was checking if I was still following. Gracie walked behind us, her sneakers making almost no sound against the polished floor, arms folded as she scanned the house like she was mentally ticking boxes.
When Bryce opened the door, I stepped inside and had to take a second just to look. The room was large enough to swallow the one I'd stayed in at Elias's place and still have space to spare. A wide bed sat low against the wall, the sheets neatly tucked but soft-looking, the kind of bed that looked like it might actually forgive you for existing. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across the far side, framing the city skyline under a deep indigo sky.
The wood floors caught the glow from the skyline and from a few small lanterns set on the ground by the windows. A potted plant sat in the corner near a small nightstand with a closed book on it, and the curtains hung in soft folds, pulled slightly back as if the view deserved to be on display at all times. The air smelled faintly of fresh linen with a trace of something warmer, maybe cedar.
It was impossible not to compare it to Elias's house. There, the space had felt like a holding pen—barren, functional, designed to keep you in your place. This, though… this was a room. More than a room, really. It was a hundred times more than I'd expected, and maybe more than I deserved.
Gracie stepped inside, looking at me. "Your room's in-house. We figured it'd be better for protection. If you don't like it, we can move you to another one. Whatever you want."
I turned to her quickly. "No, no—this is amazing. I like it."
Bryce leaned against the doorframe, smirking. "See? I told you. First guy we've had who actually appreciates it. The last one asked if we could 'turn down the view.'"
I glanced at him. "What does that even mean?"
He shrugged. "Still don't know. But he lasted three days, so maybe it was a cry for help."
Gracie rolled her eyes but smiled. "Alright, I'll leave you to settle in. Try not to trip over anything, Bryce."
"Ha-ha," he said, already pushing off the doorframe.
As they stepped out, I let my hand rest on the smooth edge of the nightstand, still taking in the skyline. The city felt close enough to touch, and for the first time in a long while, the place I'd be sleeping didn't feel like a cage.
I set my bag down at the foot of the bed, the zipper sounding loud in the otherwise soft hum of the room. The lantern light pooled over the floor in warm circles, and for a moment, I just stood there, letting the skyline soak into my eyes. It was the kind of view that made you feel like the city was alive and breathing with you.
I started unpacking, folding shirts into the dresser, setting my phone charger on the nightstand. The smell of the fresh linen mixed with that faint cedar kept making me think someone had actually thought about what this space should feel like. That alone was new.
Halfway through hanging my jacket in the wardrobe, a muffled burst of music came from somewhere down the hall. Bryce's voice cut through it—not singing this time, but talking. Loud. He was saying something about "finding the silver one, not the gold one" followed by what sounded like him laughing at his own joke.
I paused, holding the hanger midair. Gracie's voice joined his, a little sharper but not angry, telling him to stop making it sound like a riddle. Bryce said something else I couldn't catch, but it made her sigh the way someone sighs when they've been sighing all day.
I put the jacket down, my curiosity tugging harder than the comfort of staying put. Whatever this was, it was already clear that "quiet evenings" weren't going to be a standard part of this assignment.
I stepped out of the room, the floor cool under my socks as I followed the sound. The music was coming from the open living area, low enough now that it blended with Bryce's voice. He was crouched in front of a storage cabinet near the kitchen island, pulling things out one by one and setting them on the counter like he was unloading a magician's trunk—random bowls, coasters, a stack of mismatched mugs, a lone disco ball about the size of a grapefruit.
Gracie was leaning on the island, arms crossed, watching him with the same look you'd give a cat that had decided to dismantle your bookshelf.
"There you are," Bryce said when he spotted me. "Good. We need an impartial judge."
I glanced between him and the growing pile. "For what?"
"For finding the silver one."
Gracie rolled her eyes. "He's lost the lid to a cocktail shaker. Again."
"It's not lost," Bryce said, holding up a gold one triumphantly. "It's just… hiding. And I refuse to serve drinks in gold because it makes me look like I'm trying too hard."
I folded my arms. "You don't say."
He grinned. "Alright, new guy—help me find it. First one who does gets to pick the first drink I make tonight."
"Pass," I said, already turning to leave.
"Oh, come on. I promise I'll make it worth your while."
I stopped and looked at him. "Last time someone said that to me, I ended up cleaning blood off a pool deck."
Bryce laughed like that was the best endorsement he'd ever heard. "Then you're perfect for the job."
Gracie muttered something under her breath about needing another vacation and started putting the mugs back herself. Bryce, undeterred, handed me a stack of coasters as if they might somehow be hiding the missing piece.
I took the coasters from him more to humor the situation than with any belief they were relevant. Bryce had already moved on to rummaging through a drawer full of kitchen tools, holding up a potato masher like it might be guilty.
I crouched by the cabinet he'd started with, shifting a few things aside—half a bag of tortilla chips, a stack of drink stirrers shaped like flamingos, a roll of paper towels. And there it was, the silver lid, sitting neatly inside a mixing bowl like it had been put there on purpose.
I picked it up and straightened. "You mean this?"
Bryce froze mid-rummage, then looked over his shoulder. His eyes went wide like I'd just pulled Excalibur out of the stone.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, addressing no one but gesturing like there was a crowd, "our champion."
Gracie didn't even look up from the mugs she was restacking. "Took you what—twenty seconds? That's a new record."
Bryce crossed the room and took the lid from my hand with exaggerated reverence. "Devon, you've earned the right to pick the first drink of the night. Choose wisely. Your decision will define our relationship forever."
I smirked. "Water."
He blinked, clearly waiting for the punchline. "You're… you're joking, right?"
"Nope."
Bryce turned to Gracie with the expression of a man who'd just been personally betrayed. "I bring him into my home, I give him a quest, and he asks for tap water."
"Better than him asking for a vacation," Gracie said dryly, sliding the last mug into place.
Bryce looked back at me, narrowing his eyes like he'd just decided this was the beginning of some long, ridiculous game. "Fine. Water. But tomorrow? We're raising the stakes."
Bryce filled a tall glass from the fridge dispenser with the kind of slow flourish usually reserved for champagne. He set it down in front of me on the kitchen island as if unveiling a rare vintage.
"There you go," he said, lowering his voice like a maître d'. "Valmont's finest tap."
I took a sip without breaking eye contact. "Crisp. Complex. Hints of… municipal pipe."
He grinned. "Careful, I might start charging you for tasting notes like that."
Gracie snorted from the other side of the island, scrolling through her phone. "If you two start a water connoisseur club, I'm quitting."
Bryce pulled himself up onto one of the stools, spinning it halfway before leaning his elbows on the counter. "Alright, Devon. Since you've proven yourself in the noble art of lost-and-found, I'm promoting you."
"To what?" I asked.
"Chief Vibe Analyst."
I raised an eyebrow. "And the job description?"
"You sit there, drink your water, and tell me if the vibe in this room is good enough for me to invite people over tomorrow night."
I glanced around at the warm lighting, the skyline glowing through the massive windows, the ridiculous disco ball still sitting on the counter. "Vibe's fine. You just need to put your toys away."
Bryce pointed a finger at me like I'd just given him state secrets. "See? Worth every penny."
I took another drink, letting the cool water wash down the lingering absurdity of the last ten minutes. Something told me this job wasn't going to get quieter any time soon.