The upstairs hallway was narrow, lit only by flickering wall sconces that cast long shadows against the mahogany paneling. James led the way, Elizabeth's hand tucked securely in his, their fingers interlaced as if they'd done it a thousand times before. The bass from the party below thrummed through the floorboards, a distant heartbeat muffled by layers of old wood and older money.
Past a row of shuttered doors, James found a den tucked behind a study—a forgotten space lined with leather-bound books and the faint scent of cigar smoke lingering in the drapes. A single lamp glowed amber in the corner, its light pooling over an antique chessboard left mid-game.
He turned to her, catching the way the low light gilded her cheekbones. "Better?"
Elizabeth exhaled, a whisper of laughter on her lips. "Much." She reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The movement made her bracelet gleam—a thin silver chain with a tiny, engraved pendant James couldn't quite make out.
The air between them hummed with something unspoken.
Then—
The door burst open.
Two men filled the threshold, their presence slicing through the room like a blade. Broad shoulders strained against tailored suits, tactical vests barely concealed beneath. The taller one had a comm earpiece curled over his ear, wires vanishing into his collar. The other's hand hovered near his hip, fingers brushing the matte finish of a holstered Glock.
James moved before thought, stepping in front of Elizabeth, his arm barring her behind him. His voice came out low, edged with steel. "Who the hell are you?"
The intruders didn't even glance at him. Their focus locked onto Elizabeth.
"Miss," the taller one said, voice clipped. "We need to go."
James didn't budge. "Back up. You don't get to talk to her like that."
A beat. The guard's jaw flexed, but his tone remained dead calm. "This isn't a request."
Elizabeth's hand settled lightly on James's forearm. "It's alright," she murmured. "They're mine."
James twisted to stare at her. "Yours?"
"My detail." Her thumb brushed his sleeve—apology and warning in one.
The second guard cut in, urgency sharpening his words. "Master Cameron's en route to the airport. Wheels up in twenty."
That name—Cameron—hung in the air like a verdict.
Elizabeth's expression flickered, something fleeting and fraught darting behind her eyes. Then, with a slow breath, she straightened. "Give me a pen."
The taller guard hesitated. "Miss—"
"A pen, Daniel."
A muscle ticked in his jaw, but he reached inside his jacket and produced a sleek silver fountain pen.
Elizabeth knelt, snagging a discarded cocktail napkin from the floor—creased and abandoned, like the half-finished conversations littering the party below. She scrawled quickly, the pen's nib catching on the cheap paper.
When she stood, she didn't hand it to James. She pressed it into his palm, her fingers curling over his. The napkin was warm where her skin had been.
"Call me," she said softly.
The silence thickened. The guards shifted, impatient, but for a fractured moment, neither James nor Elizabeth moved.
Then Daniel cleared his throat. "Now, miss."
Elizabeth's hand dropped. She stepped back, shoulders squaring as the guards flanked her—a shield of polished shoes and pressed suits. At the door, she paused, just for a heartbeat, her profile limned in the hallway's dim glow.
Then she was gone.
The party's pulse thundered beneath James' feet as he stood at the top of the stairs, the crumpled napkin still clutched in his palm. The ink—fresh, barely dry—seemed to burn against his skin. Below him, bodies swayed under strobe lights, laughter and spilled liquor soaking into the hardwood floors. But here, in this dim stairwell, the noise was muffled—distant, like listening to the world through glass.
He unfolded the paper again. Just ten digits. No name. No call me sometime—just call me. Command or invitation?
"Sounded heavy."
James turned.
Nick lurked a few steps below, leaning against the banister like he'd been there awhile. His shirt was half-untucked, his tie knotted loose around his throat. A red Solo cup dangled from his fingers, the ice long melted. His grin was wide—too wide—the kind that came with one too many tequila shots. His eyes, though—sharp. Always sharp.
"Dude," Nick said, jerking his chin toward the empty hallway behind James, "A bodyguard? Here?" His laugh was half-disbelief, half-admiration. "Who the hell did you just meet—some senator's daughter? CIA?"
James folded the napkin carefully, tucking it into his pocket. "Just a girl."
Nick snorted. "Right. 'Just a girl' with a two-man tactical squad tailing her. Real subtle." He took another swig from his cup, then grimaced—warm vodka, probably. "Come on. Truth or Dare's getting good. Pritchard just streaked through the backyard."
James didn't move. His fingers brushed the edge of the paper in his pocket.
Nick's smile faltered. He tilted his head, studying James the way he did when debugging lines of code—searching for the fault in the logic. "You're leaving already?"
"I've got things to do."
"Like call Miss Mysterious?" Nick's grin was back, but there was an edge to it now. He hopped up the stairs, blocking James' path with one arm braced against the wall. His breath was a mix of citrus and bad decisions. "Let me drive you."
James eyed him. "Hell no."
"Come on—"
"You smell like a distillery."
Nick opened his mouth—probably to argue, probably to lie—but James cut him off with a look.
After a beat, Nick exhaled dramatically and stepped aside, sweeping his arm toward the stairs in mock surrender. "Fine. Walk. Freeze your ass off. See if I care."
James clapped him on the shoulder as he passed.
Nick leaned in as he did, voice dropping. "Seriously, though—who was she?"
James paused at the landing. Below, the front door swung open, spilling a rectangle of gold light onto the porch. A burst of drunken laughter followed someone stumbling outside.
"A New Yorker," James said finally.
Nick scoffed. "Bullshit."
James shoved open the door. The night air hit him like a wave—cold, clean, slicing through the sweat and smoke clinging to his skin. Behind him, Nick yelled over the music:
"You're missing a legendary night, man!"
James didn't turn back. The door clicked shut, sealing the noise behind him. Somewhere above, a streetlight flickered—once, twice—then steadied. He reached into his pocket, fingers finding the napkin again.
Ten digits. One name.
And a hundred questions he couldn't answer.
-------------
The San Francisco night wrapped around James like a second skin, the air thick with the scent of salt and exhaust. The distant hum of traffic and the occasional shout from a late-night reveler faded into the background as he walked, his footsteps measured, unhurried. The weight of the evening pressed against his shoulders—the guns, the urgency, the way Elizabeth had looked at him before she disappeared.
He opened his palm.
The scrap of paper lay there, her phone number scrawled in looping, uneven script. The ink had smudged slightly where his fingers had pressed too hard. He studied it, as if the numbers might rearrange themselves into an explanation. Master Cameron. Bodyguards. A girl who moved like she was used to being protected—or hunted.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
James exhaled, fishing it out. The screen read: Lillian (Sister).
He thumbed the answer button.
"Where the hell are you?" Lillian's voice was sharp, the kind of sharp that meant she was already halfway to furious. "I checked the office. You weren't there. I checked your Room. You weren't there. So, unless you've taken up a new hobby of vanishing into thin air, I'd love to know where you are."
James tucked the scrap of paper into his wallet, pressing it between the leather folds like a secret. "Relax. I'm on my way home. What's the emergency?"
"The emergency," she said, voice tight, "is that I just found out I'm the COO of DoubleClick. And I don't remember signing up for that."
James winced but kept his tone light. "Come on, you're helping your little brother out. It's not a crime."
"James."
"And your first paycheck already cleared," he added, a smirk creeping into his voice. "So, technically, you can't back out now."
A long, pointed silence. Then, a sigh. "You're impossible."
"Yet here you are, still talking to me."
"Because I have no choice," she muttered.
James chuckled. "Thirty minutes. I'll be home. You can yell at me in person."
"Fine," she said, though the edge in her voice had dulled slightly. "But James?"
"Yeah?"
"Next time you decide to make me an executive, maybe ask first."
"Deal," he said, grinning.
He hung up, just as a yellow cab turned the corner. He flagged it down, sliding into the backseat with the ease of someone who had done this a hundred times before. The driver glanced at him in the rearview.
"Where to?"
James rattled off his address, then leaned back, the leather seat cool against his skin. The city lights streaked past the window, painting his reflection in neon.
He pulled the scrap of paper from his wallet again, turning it between his fingers.
The game had changed.
And he was already thinking three moves ahead.