-Treasure.
The meeting room had that stale heaviness of a space where too many important things had been said before, the air sitting still in the corners. The long table was polished to the point it reflected the lights above in perfect circles. I sat midway down, far enough from Elias to see him without tilting my head, close enough to catch the change in his expression when something struck him as worth his time. Mark stood at the far end with a folder in his hand, his voice carrying easily over the table.
He began with the facts, his tone steady, almost methodical. "We managed to capture the man on the motorcycle," he said. "He hasn't said a word. We've kept him well-fed, treated properly. Still, nothing. But our speculation is that this could be tied to the fallout after Mr. Maxwell discarded one of his business partners. Funding had already been received for a project, but the man was removed after. We think this could connect to Robert Wallace. Again, this is speculation. No confirmation yet, but we're working on it."
Elias leaned back into his chair, the leather giving the faintest creak. He tapped his thumb against the armrest, eyes narrowing in that way he did when a name didn't immediately belong in his present concerns. "Robert Wallace? That was… what, five months ago?"
Mark adjusted the folder under his arm. "After further communication with Cassandra, it appears the discard happened after the summit. He was officially removed from the project after the funding was secured."
A faint, amused sound came from Elias. "So he's petty about it. And what, he sends people to chase me down? Kill me? Those amateurs. They really didn't know what they were doing."
Mark's head moved side to side slowly, not in disagreement so much as disbelief. "Mr. Maxwell, we are grateful they didn't know what they were doing. We had no reason to expect an ambush. There were no reports of conflict with business partners, no warnings of threats. This was a breakdown between management and the security team. It could have cost lives—not just yours, but ours as well. I think we need to sit down and re-evaluate. It's not about being impressed or looking down on Robert for sending amateurs. It's about acknowledging we weren't ready for this kind of hit."
Elias's gaze sharpened. "Oh, Mark, are you challenging me? I don't like your tone."
The folder shifted again under Mark's arm. "Excuse me, Mr. Maxwell. I didn't mean it as a challenge. We haven't had anything like this in a long time, and it happened without warning. The idea that I might have missed something, that I didn't do my job properly, is upsetting. I may have let that show. I apologize."
Elias's shoulders eased. "That's fine. I'm not mad at you, Mark. I just want you to know I can think out loud with my people. There's nothing wrong with that. I'm thankful we got through this safely. Nobody was harmed. Treasure did a fantastic job, and the rest of you—thank you for catching the man on the motorcycle. You did amazing work. Let's not focus on what we lacked right now. Let's appreciate that we came out of it intact, then look at where we went wrong. That's how this should go."
Mark let out a quiet sigh, one he probably didn't mean to let escape. "Yes, sir. Thank you. We'll work better from here on."
The room settled into a softer kind of quiet after that, the kind where people are thinking but not speaking, the scrape of a pen or the shift of a chair louder than it should be. Elias's words still hung there, his praise angled directly at me for everyone to hear. My fingers tightened slightly against the arm of my chair. It wasn't the first time he'd done it, but it still had a weight that sat in my chest longer than it should have.
When the meeting wrapped, chairs slid back in a slow, unhurried wave, the scrape of their legs on the polished floor ringing sharper than the voices that followed. Elias rose first, adjusting his cuff as if it were the natural signal for everyone else to move. Mark stayed behind a moment longer, gathering his notes, his expression smoothed into something professional, though his shoulders still carried the stiffness of that earlier exchange.
We filed out into the hallway, the air outside the meeting room feeling fresher, lighter, as though the walls in there had been pressing in on us. The guards clustered instinctively in small knots, steps slowing just enough to let the conversation catch up with them. Michael muttered low to Sandro, and I caught the flicker of a grin that wasn't amusement so much as disbelief.
"That was something," Felix said under his breath, not looking at anyone directly. "Didn't think I'd see Mark talk to him like that."
Sandro's brow lifted, his voice pitched for our ears only. "You could see it. He hated saying it, but he wasn't wrong. Still, not many get away with that tone."
Michael gave a dry snort. "Mark's been here long enough to know when to push and when to pull back. Lucky for him, Elias decided to take it as loyalty, not disrespect."
Someone behind me let out a quiet hum of agreement. The undercurrent in their voices wasn't gossip—it was the kind of talk that came from people who understood the weight of what had been said in there and how fine the line had been.
I kept walking, not adding my voice to theirs, but I listened. It was clear they'd all clocked the same thing I had: Elias's mood could turn with the smallest shift in tone, but he'd chosen not to bite back this time. Whether it was because of Mark's value or simply the way Elias liked to keep people a little off balance, no one seemed certain.
As we reached the end of the corridor, the group began to break apart—some toward the exit, others toward the interior wing. I could still hear fragments of their murmurs, the words "handled it well" and "close call" trailing after me like the faint echo of the meeting itself.
The others peeled away, footsteps fading down different corridors until the hallway thinned into quiet. I had just shifted my weight toward the exit when I heard my name.
"Treasure," Elias said from behind me, his voice calm but carrying enough weight to still my step.
I turned. He was standing a few paces back, hands in his pockets, the faintest curl at the corner of his mouth. "Walk with me."
We moved down the hall at an unhurried pace, the sound of our shoes the only noise between us. The air here smelled faintly of cedar from the polished panels lining the walls, warmer than the chill of the meeting room. Elias didn't speak right away, and I didn't push him to.
When we reached a smaller side corridor, he stopped. His eyes held that steady focus that could make you forget there was anyone else in the building. "You handled yourself well today," he said, the words deliberate, measured. "Not just out there, but here. You listened, you didn't rush to fill the air. That matters."
I didn't reply immediately. His tone wasn't praise in the usual sense—it was more like he was noting something for himself and letting me overhear it.
"I told them you did a fantastic job because you did," he went on. "I don't hand that out for free."
His gaze lingered on me a moment longer before he started walking again, and I followed. There was no grand gesture, no sudden shift in his expression, just that faint undertone in his voice, like he was cataloguing the day and placing me somewhere important in it.
"I'll continue working from my room," Elias said, his voice light, as though the last half hour had been nothing more than a pause in his schedule. He gave a small nod before turning down the hall, his stride steady, shoulders angled in that way of his that made even walking away feel deliberate. I watched him disappear into the far wing, the muted click of his door closing settling into the quiet behind him.
The meeting room and its heavy air were a few corridors back, but the weight of it was still in my shoulders. I let my steps carry me toward the kitchen, my pace slow enough for the hum of the building to come back into focus—the faint movement of staff down the hall, the low drone of a distant ventilation system, the subtle scent of citrus polish rising from the floor.
The kitchen was dim compared to the brighter hallways, lit mostly by the warm under-cabinet strips that gave the countertops a soft glow. I pulled the fridge door open out of habit more than hunger, the cool air spilling out against my face, carrying the smell of fresh herbs, sealed containers, and bottled water. My hand brushed against the edge of the door before I let it fall shut.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. The screen lit against the dimness, the reflection of it catching faintly in the steel of the fridge. My thumb scrolled through contacts, each name passing in a quiet procession. I stopped on one, the familiar pattern of the letters making my chest feel a fraction tighter.
I pressed the call icon, lifted the phone to my ear. The faint ring filled the space between me and the kitchen's stillness. I stayed there, leaning lightly against the counter, eyes fixed on nothing, waiting for the line to pick up. The smell of coffee grounds from a jar on the counter mixed with the faint hum of the refrigerator, wrapping the moment in a kind of still quiet that made the ring in my ear sound sharper.
The call kept going. I didn't check the screen again. I just kept the phone pressed to my ear, letting the rings stretch one after the other, my breathing evening out without me meaning it to.
-Devon.
Bryce had woken up this morning like a man possessed, muttering about a tune he couldn't get out of his head. By the time we left the house, he was already humming it under his breath, drumming his fingers on the door of the SUV as if the entire city would conspire to slow him down. The mission, according to him, was urgent: get to the recording studio before the melody "faded."
The studio was a long, narrow space tucked behind a row of older buildings, its walls plastered with faded gig posters and framed records. The air inside smelled faintly of coffee and cables warmed by too many hours under equipment heat. I ended up on a worn leather sofa that had seen better years, my jacket folded beside me, watching Bryce through the glass in the recording booth. He was in his element, eyes closed, swaying slightly as he tested the range of whatever he was trying to capture.
Naomi, the sound engineer, sat at the console like a pilot at the controls of a ship. Her movements were precise, her focus absolute. Every so often she'd lean in toward the screen in front of her, adjusting levels, tweaking a visual wave that meant nothing to me but seemed to mean everything to her. Her hands moved between the controls with an ease that told me she knew far more than she bothered to say.
I should have been impressed. Instead, I felt the minutes pressing against me, heavy and slow. This was the kind of assignment that made time feel like it was dragging its feet, and all I wanted was for the day's schedule to unravel so I could go home. Not that my wanting it meant anything. The calendar was full, and Bryce had a habit of stretching every task to its limit.
He didn't make it easier. He seemed to find sport in testing me, flicking glances in my direction whenever Naomi spoke, as if waiting for me to react. Gracie, thankfully, was around, balancing the room the way she always did, keeping things from tipping into full aggravation.
Naomi's voice pulled me from my thoughts. She had turned in her chair, squinting at me. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-eight," I said, watching her expression for clues.
Her eyes narrowed a little more, then brightened. "Oh, I see it."
I raised a brow. "Is that supposed to be an offense?"
"No, no, not at all," she said quickly. "You look younger than twenty-eight. But I see it because of your bodyguard thing. You just… know what you're doing. You seem like an adult in this situation."
I shook my head, half in confusion. "You're not an adult?"
She leaned back slightly, as though the thought amused her. "No, of course I'm an adult. I just… you know, you look like an adult. I don't think I do. Do I?"
That was the kind of question I knew better than to answer without care. She was a woman, and the wrong choice would hang in the air long after. "No," I said finally. "You don't look like an adult. You could pass for twenty-one."
Her smile was quick and bright. "Thank you so much. I'm actually thirty-one, but thank you." She turned back to the console, already moving on, her hands resuming their dance over the controls.
She pressed a button and her voice carried into Bryce's booth. "I'm going to start playing now. Just tune into the music." I didn't know what that meant exactly, but Bryce nodded as though he did.
Before I could sink any deeper into the couch, my phone rang. The sound broke through the low hum of the equipment. I pulled it out and glanced at the screen—no number, just the word Unknown.
I stepped out into the hall and answered. "Hello?"
Nothing. Not even background noise.
"Hello?" I said again, sharper this time. Still no response. I hung up and turned to go back inside, but the phone rang again before I reached the door. The same unknown caller.
I brought it to my ear. "Hello? Are you going to keep wasting my time like this? Who is it?"
Silence.
I let the pause stretch long enough to be certain it wasn't a delayed line. Then I ended the call and stood for a moment in the quiet hall, the muted beat of Bryce's music slipping through the studio door, the phone still warm in my hand.
I didn't think twice about the unknown call. There were too many numbers that went nowhere and too many people who hid behind them. I slid the phone back into my pocket and pushed the studio door open. The same muted hum of equipment and Bryce's voice in the booth greeted me.
Four hours. That was how long I'd been planted on that worn sofa, listening to takes, retakes, adjustments, and more takes. Four hours of Naomi leaning over her console, tapping keys and twisting knobs while Bryce experimented with the same stretch of melody like it was a priceless artifact he needed to study from every angle. When it was finally over, the change in the room was immediate, like a long-held breath finally being released.
Bryce stepped out of the booth, tugging his jacket on in one fluid motion. He still had that spark in his eyes, the post-session high. "Well, figure it out, okay?" he told Naomi. "We got the tune from my head just right, but there's still something missing. I'll work on it during the day, send you any voice notes I come up with."
Naomi smiled, already jotting something down on a pad. "Yeah, sure."
He kissed her on the cheek, casual and quick, then turned to me. "I'm ready. Let's go."
He was already halfway to the door before I moved. I glanced toward Gracie, who was leaning against the wall with her tablet.
"I'll hang back," she said, scanning through whatever was on her screen. "Got a lot to do here. Take care, Devon."
I gave her a nod and followed Bryce out.
The late afternoon light slanted through the open space of the studio's reception, dust catching in the air like faint sparks. We were almost at the door when Bryce glanced at me. "I think you should go first."
"I know I should go first," I replied, stepping in front of him. "Move out of the way, please."
He stepped aside with a smirk, and I took the lead, pushing through the door into the cool air outside. The parking lot stretched quiet, just a few cars scattered at odd angles. I scanned the area—corners, shadows, the slow-moving figure across the street who wasn't paying us any attention—no wasps.
I motioned for him to move. He strolled to the car without hurry, sliding into the back seat. I got in beside him, closing the door on the outside noise.
"Can I ask you a question?" I said once the engine started.
"Yeah, sure."
"Do your fans—the girls—know you prefer the other gender?"
"I don't prefer, exactly," he said, shifting to face me. "But I lean more toward the other gender. They kind of know. Most of my scandals, or gossip, or whatever you want to call it, have been with women. But they ship me with guys."
I raised a brow. "They ship you with guys?"
He nodded. "Yeah. There was this one gig, I performed with this guy—Jules. We had this stage chemistry, I guess. We were touring together, so the fans clipped everything, made edits, said we should be together. That didn't work out."
"Didn't work out because you and Jules weren't into each other," I asked, "or didn't work out in some other way?"
He shrugged, a faint grin playing at his mouth. "We weren't into each other. But I liked the edits. The fans are ridiculously creative. I even do a monthly thing where I pick a 'winning edit' just to keep them coming."
I nodded once. "Must be fun."
"It is. I just don't want you to be shocked if one day you find pictures of the two of us being shipped."
I looked at him for a moment. "They can ship us?"
"Yeah, yeah," he said, nodding as if it were obvious. "If they sense any chemistry. And you're a good-looking man, so they'd definitely ship us. Just wait till you get the exposure."
"Yeah," I said, deadpan. "I can't wait."
He laughed quietly, leaning back against the seat, clearly entertained by the idea. I turned my attention to the road ahead, the city sliding past the window in a wash of light and shadow, and wondered how long it would take before those imagined edits turned into something real on someone's feed.
The drive to the Crescent Theater wasn't long, but Bryce filled it like he always did—half humming to himself, half texting someone with the kind of speed that made me wonder if he even saw the words on the screen. By the time we pulled into the back entrance of the theater's costume wing, he'd already tossed his jacket across the seat, muttering something about how this fitting was "going to change lives."
The building smelled faintly of old velvet and fresh glue, that mix you only get in places where people are constantly pretending to be other people under stage lights. We stepped into a side hall lined with racks of costumes—some draped in plastic like they were being protected from an invisible storm, others hanging bare, all feathers and sequins and questionable fabric choices.
Inside the fitting room, a small army of stylists was already in motion. Pins glinted between teeth, tape measures snapped back into hands, and there was the constant rustle of fabric being shaken out and laid over armchairs that had no business being in a workspace.
Bryce greeted them like royalty returning from exile, arms out, voice warm. "Alright, show me the magic."
The head stylist, a wiry man named Lucho wearing glasses that looked like they could double as a welding mask, stepped forward holding something that could have been either a shirt or a dare. It shimmered in the light, the color shifting between deep green and blue as it moved. "You first," he said, passing it to Bryce like it was fragile.
Bryce pulled it on without hesitation, glancing at himself in the mirror. "It's giving mermaid prince," he declared.
One of the assistants, crouched on the floor with a box of pins, looked up. "We prefer 'aquatic regent.'"
I leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching the exchange like it was a foreign sport. Bryce caught my eye in the mirror. "You like it?"
"It's loud," I said. "I can hear it from here."
He grinned and turned to Lucho. "That's a yes."
The next piece was worse—or better, depending on how much you enjoy chaos. A jacket so heavily embroidered it looked like it had been stolen from a tapestry. Lucho slid it onto Bryce's shoulders, stepping back like an artist examining a nearly finished painting.
"It's giving... history teacher at a rave," I said before I could stop myself.
Bryce laughed so hard the assistant nearly stuck him with a pin. "We're keeping it," he told Lucho.
The parade of outfits continued—flowing shirts that seemed allergic to buttons, trousers that fought gravity, boots with heels so sharp they could end a conversation. Every time he stepped out of the changing area, there was a fresh round of commentary from me, most of which Bryce treated like applause.
"Devon, I think you missed your calling," he said as he was being belted into something that looked like it belonged to an opera villain. "You're wasted in security. You should be doing wardrobe notes."
"I'm doing them now," I said. "You just don't like my scoring system."
By the time Lucho declared they were done, there was a pile of discarded fabrics on the couch big enough to smother a small person. Bryce looked satisfied, his hair slightly mussed from all the outfit changes, the shimmer of the first shirt still faintly clinging to his neck from static.
He turned to me on the way out. "You're coming to the show, right? You need to see the final form of all this."
I opened the door for him. "If you wear the history teacher jacket, maybe."
He grinned, stepping past me. "I'll wear it just for you."
Bryce was still turning in front of the mirror, smoothing a hand over the embroidered jacket like it had been spun for him alone, when I asked, "What is this play even about?"
Without looking at me, he said, "We still aren't sure yet."
I waited, thinking he was building to the punchline, the smirk, the just kidding. It never came.
"You're telling me you don't even know the story?"
He looked over his shoulder, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "Of course we'll have a story. But sometimes it starts here—" he tugged lightly at the jacket's lapel "—and works its way out. Costumes can tell you where the story wants to go before the script ever does."
He leaned in until I could feel the warmth of his breath at my ear, his tone dipping into a conspiratorial whisper. "Truth? I'm doing this to give Lucho his return to costume design. He makes the pieces, I try them, and if something sparks in me, we follow it."
Then he straightened, shoulders rolling back like a man who had just shared a state secret. I pressed my lips into a thin line, the corners barely twitching. "Seems like a noble cause."
"It is. And by now," he said, tilting his head, studying me like I was part of a scene he was directing, "you should have an idea of what Crescent Theater is for. It's my gift to myself, and to every person Velour Way decided didn't belong on their stage. Theater should be for everyone. Even if they don't end up in the final show, they deserve to stand in the light at least once."
I nodded, letting that sink in, though I wasn't sure what to do with the way his words had thinned the air between us. "So you don't star in all the plays?"
That earned me a scoff and a faint laugh. "Of course not. This isn't some narcissistic fantasy. It's just my dream."
Pieces clicked together in my head then. He was someone who had been cut out, told no in a way that lodged under the skin. Instead of closing the door behind him, he'd built a new one. Was it entirely selfless? Probably not. Maybe there was a quiet satisfaction in being the one who decided who belonged. But he wasn't trying to own the playground—he wanted to change who could walk through the gate.
"Come on," he said suddenly, and the air between us shifted again, his pace picking up as he stepped into the hallway.
I followed him down a side corridor until the space opened into the main theater. The seats rolled down toward the stage in deep red rows, velvet worn in places but still lush under the soft light that filtered from above. There was the smell of wood polish and dust, the faint echo of our steps bouncing against the high, domed ceiling.
"Blake!" Bryce called, his voice carrying through the open space. "Stage lights!"
A low hum answered him, followed by a slow, sweeping glow as the rig above us flickered to life. The stage bloomed in gold, shadows slipping back into the wings.
Bryce strode up the steps and stopped dead center, tilting his face into the heat of the lights. "This," he said, arms loose at his sides, "is my proudest creation."
From where I stood, the stage looked like something that had been dreamed into existence. The light caught on the sheen of the polished floor, filled the folds of the curtain until they seemed carved in molten metal.
"Bryce," I said, my gaze trailing over the lines of the room, "why haven't any of your personal security stuck around for long?"
He turned toward me slowly, the beams framing him in a way that made him look less like a man and more like a figure from a painting—a king at his own coronation.
"They're a bunch of weaklings," he said easily. "Or maybe I'm too much sometimes. Could be both." His mouth curved, but his eyes stayed fixed on mine. "I don't think they make it personal… not like you do."
My first instinct was to blink it off, to chalk it up to his usual theatrics. But the stage lights made it hard to ignore—the way he stood there, centered in all that brightness, looking at me like I'd already stepped into his story without realizing it.