Chapter 3

"Kendrick, I said armor. Not... whatever this is."

Roderick stared at the garment bag as if it contained a biohazard. He was standing in the center of the Storme penthouse, still sporting the bandages on his shins, while a man with a razor-sharp undercut and a measuring tape draped like a snake around his neck circled him.

"It is armor, darling," the man said, his voice a melodic purr. "It’s a bespoke midnight-blue tuxedo with silk-satin lapels. In this ballroom, looking poor is more dangerous than a hollow-point bullet."

"Roderick, meet Tristan Hawke," Elias said, lounging on a nearby ottoman while sipping something green and smelling of kale. "He’s the only man I trust with my silhouette. And since you’re going as my 'plus-one' tonight, you can’t look like you just finished a tour in a jungle."

"I’m a bodyguard, Elias. Not a date."

"You’re a distraction," Tristan corrected, snapping his fingers. "Arms up. Don't make me ask twice, or I’ll pin this suit to your skin."

Roderick sighed, lifting his arms. "Kendrick, tell me there’s a tactical vest under this."

"The fabric is reinforced with a lightweight Kevlar weave in the chest and back," Kendrick’s voice echoed through the room’s speakers. "It won’t stop a rifle round, but it’ll keep a knife from ruining your evening. Also, there’s a holster integrated into the small of the back. Tristan worked wonders."

"It was a nightmare," Tristan muttered, shoving a pin into the fabric near Roderick’s ribs. "Designing for muscles this... aggressive is a chore. You’re built like a brick wall. It’s offensive to the drape of the fabric."

"I’ll try to apologize to the silk later," Roderick grumbled.

"Stop moving," Tristan hissed. "Elias, tell your brute to relax. He’s going to pop a seam before we even get to the car."

"Roderick, breathe," Elias said, standing up and walking over. He reached out, straightening Roderick’s collar with surprising gentleness. "Think of it as a mission. You’re deep undercover in the most treacherous terrain known to man: a Beaumont charity gala. There will be backstabbing, poisoned words, and, worst of all, silent auctions."

"I’d prefer the cartel," Roderick said, looking down at Elias.

"I know you would. But look at it this way—you look incredible. If the bodyguard thing doesn't work out, I could definitely get you a runway slot." Elias leaned in closer, his voice dropping. "Besides, if we’re going to convince Nolan Strathmore that you’re my latest 'obsession,' you need to look the part. He’s observant. If he thinks you’re just security, he’ll spend the whole night trying to get around you. If he thinks you’re my boyfriend, he’ll be too busy being jealous to notice you’re scanning the exits."

Roderick stiffened. "Boyfriend?"

"It’s the perfect cover! No one questions why a lover is hovering two inches away all night," Elias beamed. "It’s romantic! It’s efficient!"

"It’s annoying," Roderick countered.

"It’s brilliant," Tristan chimed in, stepping back to admire his work. "And you’re finished. Go. Try not to bleed on the lining."

*

The Beaumont Estate was a sprawling palace of glass and light, perched on a cliffside that overlooked the city like a crown. As the black town car pulled up to the red carpet, the flashbulbs of the paparazzi became a rhythmic, blinding pulse.

"Remember," Elias whispered as the valet opened the door. "Shameless flirting. It’s for the mission."

"I hate this mission," Roderick muttered, stepping out and immediately pivoting to offer a hand to Elias.

"Oh, you’re a natural!" Elias chirped, taking his hand and stepping onto the pavement. He leaned into Roderick’s side, tucking his arm through the bodyguard's. "Smile, darling. You’re supposed to be lucky to have me."

"I’m counting the minutes until I can take this tie off."

They moved through the lobby, passing through three separate security checkpoints. Roderick’s eyes never stopped moving. He flagged the armed guards by the elevators, the plainclothes security near the buffet, and the blind spots in the balcony’s architecture.

"Mireille Beaumont at two o'clock," Elias murmured, waving a hand at a woman in a gown that looked like it was made of liquid gold. "She’s the host. Avoid the champagne she offers; it’s always the cheap stuff she’s trying to offload on the 'help'."

"Elias! You made it!" Mireille’s voice carried over the string quartet. She glided over, her eyes immediately darting to Roderick. "And who is this... striking addition to your entourage? I don't believe we’ve met."

"Mireille, darling, you look radiant," Elias said, kissing her cheek. "This is Roderick. He’s... well, he’s the man currently keeping me grounded. Quite literally."

Mireille’s eyebrows rose. "A new favorite? You usually prefer the poetic types, Elias. This one looks like he could crush a walnut with his eyelids."

"He’s very firm," Elias said, casting a mischievous glance at Roderick. "And he has zero patience for my nonsense. It’s incredibly refreshing."

"I’m sure it is," Mireille laughed. "Enjoy the evening. The silent auction is in the East Wing, and the dancing starts at ten."

As she drifted away, a tall man with perfectly slicked-back hair and a sneer that looked permanent intercepted them.

"Storme. I heard you were coming, but I didn't believe the rumors," the man said, his voice dripping with condescension.

"Nolan," Elias said, his posture shifting into something more guarded, though his smile remained bright. "I see you’re still wearing that same tailor. How brave of you to stick with the classics even when they’re out of style."

Nolan Strathmore ignored the jab, his eyes locking onto Roderick. "And this is the bodyguard? I heard about the little incident at the gallery. A bit clumsy, wasn't it? Letting a statue fall on your own man?"

"He saved my life, Nolan," Elias said, his voice losing its playful edge. He reached over and tightened his grip on Roderick’s arm. "Which is more than I can say for your security team, who I heard let a common thief walk out with your watch last Tuesday."

Nolan’s face flushed. "He’s a hired hand, Elias. Don't tell me you’re actually bringing the staff to a Beaumont gala as a date. It’s beneath even your standards."

Elias leaned his head against Roderick’s shoulder, looking up at him with a look of pure, fabricated adoration. "Oh, Nolan. Roderick isn't just staff. He’s... indispensable. Aren't you, tiger?"

Roderick felt a muscle in his jaw twitch. "I do my job, Mr. Strathmore."

"See? Stoic. Strong. And he looks much better in a tuxedo than you do," Elias added, patting Roderick’s chest. "Now, if you’ll excuse us, I think I hear a tray of lobster thermidor calling my name."

As they walked away, Roderick leaned down. "Tiger? Really?"

"I panicked! It was the first feline-related endearment that came to mind," Elias whispered. "But did you see his face? He was livid. Mission accomplished."

"Keep your eyes open, Elias," Roderick said, his tone shifting back to professional. "We’re in the middle of the room. High visibility. Low cover."

"You’re no fun when you’re on the clock."

"I’m always on the clock. Stay behind me."

Roderick scanned the perimeter again. His gaze landed on a waiter moving through the crowd. The man was holding a tray of champagne flutes, but his gait was wrong. He wasn't navigating the crowd with the fluid grace of a seasoned server; he was shuffling, his eyes fixed on the floor, his shoulders hunched.

"Elias, don't move," Roderick said quietly.

"What is it? Did you see a better tie?"

"The waiter at ten o'clock. Silver vest. Red tie."

Elias glanced over. "He looks... sweaty. Maybe it’s the humidity? I told Mireille the AC was insufficient for this many bodies."

"He’s not sweating from the heat. He’s nervous," Roderick said. He watched as the waiter approached a group of guests near the center of the room, heading straight toward them.

The waiter reached their position, extending the tray. "Champagne, sir?"

Roderick stepped between Elias and the tray. He didn't take a glass. Instead, he reached out and caught the waiter’s wrist. The man flinched, the tray wobbling dangerously.

"Easy there," Roderick said, his voice a low growl. "That’s a lot of bubbles for one tray."

"Just... just serving the guests, sir," the waiter stammered.

Roderick’s nose flared. He didn't smell yeast or sugar. He smelled something sharp. Something chemical. Like cleaning fluid, but more concentrated. He looked at the liquid in the glasses. It was clear, sparking, and perfectly still. Too still.

"Elias, get back," Roderick commanded.

"Roderick? What are you—"

Roderick grabbed one of the glasses from the tray. He didn't drink it. He tipped it slightly, letting a single drop fall onto the white linen of a nearby unoccupied table.

The fabric didn't just get wet. It hissed. A small, brown hole began to eat through the cloth instantly, a wisp of acrid smoke rising into the air.

"That’s not champagne," Roderick said, his eyes snapping back to the waiter. "It’s corrosive acid."

The waiter’s eyes went wide. He didn't try to explain. He lunged, throwing the entire tray of acid directly at Elias’s face.

Roderick reacted before the liquid could leave the glasses. He spun, throwing his body in front of Elias and using his tuxedo jacket as a shield. He felt the heat as the acid splashed against the reinforced fabric of his back, the Kevlar-silk blend smoking as it took the brunt of the chemical attack.

"Down! Now!" Roderick yelled, tackling Elias to the floor.

As they hit the polished marble, the ballroom was plunged into total, absolute darkness.

BANG.

The sound of a single gunshot echoed through the cavernous room, followed by the deafening scream of five hundred terrified socialites.

"Roderick?" Elias’s voice was a frantic whisper in the dark.

"I’ve got you," Roderick rasped, his hand finding Elias’s shoulder in the blackness. "Don't. Move."