The fixer

Rowan Maddox didn’t like babysitting billionaires’ sons.

He liked control. Schedules. Predictability. People who followed orders and didn’t come with PR teams, club scandals, or designer addictions.

So when his phone rang that morning private number, clipped voice on the line, offer too large to be polite he almost said no.

Almost.

But then came the name.

Cassian Wexley.

And the price.

Now he sat in the steel-and-glass atrium of Wexley Global Headquarters, sipping stale coffee from a paper cup, trying not to grind his teeth as his contact approached.

“Taryn Hollis,” she said, extending her hand. Smooth blazer, sharp eyes, not a hair out of place. “Thank you for coming on short notice.”

Rowan shook her hand. Firm grip. Direct gaze. He respected that.

“I’ve read the file,” he said. “And the headlines.”

Taryn sighed. “Then you know what we’re dealing with.”

“I know he’s a liability,” Rowan replied. “And that you want me to make him... what? Behave?”

“Preferably not die. That’s the baseline.” She gestured for him to walk with her. “The CEO is fed up. His son is spiraling. We’ve hired consultants, image experts, even a celebrity life coach. Nothing sticks.”

“And you think a bodyguard will?” Rowan asked.

“I think you will. You’re not from that world. You’re not impressed by it. And most importantly ” she gave him a look“you don’t care if he hates you.”

“I don’t,” Rowan confirmed. “But I also don’t do babysitting. If this is about dragging him out of clubs or wiping his nose, I’m not the guy.”

Taryn stopped at the elevator. “This isn’t babysitting. It’s containment.”

The doors opened.

“Follow me. He’s expecting someone. He just doesn’t know it’s you yet.”

Cassian’s penthouse was exactly what Rowan expected: sleek, expensive, and carelessly trashed.

Empty champagne flutes littered the counter. A silk shirt hung off a chandelier. There was a smear of something on the white marble that Rowan decided not to inspect too closely.

And there was Cassian, lounging shirtless on a velvet couch in the living room, flipping through his phone, ice pack pressed lazily to his face.

He looked up, sunglasses still on, and gave a dry smile. “Let me guess. Another therapist?”

“No,” Rowan said flatly. “Bodyguard.”

Cassian blinked.

Then laughed. “Oh, my father must be livid.”

Rowan didn’t respond. He wasn’t here to laugh. He was here to protect something or someone that clearly didn’t want to be saved.

Cassian dropped the ice and stood, eyes flicking over Rowan’s frame tall, built, black T-shirt stretched over muscle and discipline. “Not bad. At least they sent someone with arms this time.”

“Try anything and I break your arm,” Rowan replied.

Cassian’s brows shot up, amused. “Kinky.”

Rowan’s face didn’t move.

Taryn cleared her throat. “Cassian, this is Rowan Maddox. Your father gave you a choice.”

“Yeah, yeah. Obey or be disowned.” He turned and wandered into the kitchen, opening the fridge. “This whole ‘my son’s a PR nightmare’ act is getting old.”

“You made national headlines again. Drunk. Fighting. With a bruised face and a stolen Lamborghini.”

Cassian popped the cap off a bottle of green juice. “I was robbed, not drunk. And I’ve had worse nights.”

“You nearly died, Cass,” Taryn said quietly.

He didn’t reply. Just took a long sip.

Rowan watched him carefully. Behind the arrogance, the gloss, the lazy charm there was something fraying. Something worn.

“I’ve read your file too,” Rowan said. “Five clubs in three weeks. Three ‘misunderstandings’ with security. One overdose scare. Two men claiming you assaulted them. And now... this.”

Cassian didn’t flinch.

“You’ve got two options,” Rowan continued. “You either give your father a reason to keep bailing you out, or you watch your life implode from the inside.”

Cassian leaned against the counter, sipping the juice like it was a cocktail. “You talk like a guy who’s seen it happen.”

Rowan held his gaze. “I have.”

A flicker of something crossed Cassian’s face curiosity? Or recognition?

Whatever it was, it disappeared just as quickly.

“Alright,” Cassian said, lowering the bottle. “If Daddy wants a glorified babysitter, fine. But don’t expect me to roll over and bark.”

Rowan stepped forward. Close enough to make Cassian’s smirk twitch.

“I’m not here to play with you, Wexley,” he said. “You get one shot with me. You put yourself in danger, I step in. You lie, I find out. You run, I drag you back.”

Cassian looked up, smile gone.

“And if I say no?”

Rowan smiled just barely.

“Then I let your father cut you off. And I leave you to see how long your Gucci wallet lasts without his name behind it.”

For the first time, Cassian’s jaw tightened.

He didn’t like being reminded of how easily everything he had could disappear.

Taryn handed Rowan a small leather folder. “He’ll be under your watch from this moment forward. Live-in, full access. Don’t ask for permission. Just do your job.”

Rowan nodded.

Cassian muttered, “Welcome to hell,” and walked off toward the balcony, drink still in hand.

Rowan watched him go. The kid had all the bravado of someone who thought being broken was sexy. But underneath the designer damage, Rowan saw it: loneliness masked as confidence. Emptiness disguised as flair.

And he’d seen it before.

Hell, he'd been it before.

He just didn’t know if he had the patience to watch someone else spiral. Not again.

---

Later that evening, after Taryn left, Rowan stood on the balcony just outside the living room, watching the skyline while Cassian smoked something that didn’t smell legal.

The city sparkled around them, glittering with lives far less complicated.

Cassian exhaled a slow cloud and asked, without looking, “What’s your deal, Maddox? You ex-military? Secretly a monk? Or just emotionally constipated?”

Rowan didn’t answer.

Cassian snorted. “Yeah, thought so.”

After a beat, Rowan finally said, “You talk a lot.”

“And you don’t talk enough,” Cassian replied. “It’s going to be a fun little dance, isn’t it?”

Rowan turned toward him. “You’re not special, Wexley. You’re not the first rich kid I’ve had to keep alive.”

Cassian met his eyes. “No, but I bet I’ll be the most annoying.”

A long, quiet moment stretched between them.

And for the first time since Rowan walked into that penthouse, he smiled a real one. Small. Dangerous.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”