Chapter 3: The Protocol
I woke up to the smell of coffee, but it wasn't the comforting, "good morning" kind of smell. It was sharp and aggressive. I stayed in bed for a few minutes, watching the sunlight bounce off the cold, grey walls of the guest room. Maisie was still out cold, her hair a wild mess of blonde tangles against the expensive silk pillowcase. On the nightstand, that new teddy bear sat like a silent guard.
I still didn't know how Caden had gotten it. Or when. The man moved like a shadow.
I pulled on the oversized robe again and crept out. I found him in the kitchen, but he wasn't cooking this time. He was standing by the floor to ceiling window, a mug in his hand, looking out at the city like he was checking for bugs in a system. He was wearing a crisp white shirt today, the sleeves rolled up to reveal those scarred forearms. He looked more like a billionaire and less like a fireman, but the intensity was the same.
"Sit down, Amara," he said. He didn't even turn around.
"Do you have eyes in the back of your head? Or did you install sensors on the carpet?" I sat at the island, feeling small and messy in my borrowed robe.
He turned around then. His face was a mask of pure indifference. He slid a piece of paper across the marble toward me. It was typed. Perfectly centered. No smudge marks.
"These are the protocols for your stay," he said.
I looked at the list. I wanted to laugh, but his expression told me he wasn't joking.
"Rule number one," I read aloud. "Do not enter the basement. Rule number two, do not touch the monitors in the office. Rule number three, curfew is 9:00 PM." I looked up at him, my eyebrows raised. "A curfew? I'm twenty four years old, Caden. Not a teenager."
"You are a target," he said. He took a slow sip of his coffee. "Until I know exactly who lit that match at the Royal Crest, you are a liability. Liablities stay indoors where they can be monitored."
"And what am I supposed to do all day? Stare at your very expensive walls?"
"You'll work," he said. He pulled out a second device, a slim silver phone, and set it on the counter. "This is your encrypted line. You'll be my administrative assistant. You'll handle the filing for my architectural firm and manage my schedule. It's simple work. Even a 'high-vibration' personality should be able to handle it."
The way he said it made my blood boil. He made it sound like he was doing me a favor by letting me be his slave. "And what if I say no? What if I take Maisie and go find a shelter?"
Caden leaned over the counter. He didn't get close enough to be "affectionate," but he got close enough that I could feel the cold energy coming off him.
"The shelters are full, Amara. The streets are wet. And the people who burned your home are still out there looking for the woman who saw too much. You stay here, you work, and you stay alive. That is the only deal on the table."
"I didn't see anything," I whispered. But even as I said it, a memory flashed in my head. A man in a dark hoodie in the hallway of the hotel, carrying a red plastic jug. I had thought it was just cleaning supplies.
Caden saw the change in my face. His eyes narrowed, but his voice stayed flat. "Your memory says otherwise. You're staying. Now, go get dressed. Your first task is at 0800 hours."
"It's 7:45," I snapped.
"Then you're already behind," he said.
He walked out of the kitchen without another word. I sat there, staring at the list of rules. He was a jerk. He was a cold, calculating, bossy jerk who thought he could buy my life just because he had a fancy house and a hero complex.
But as I looked at the phone he'd given me, I saw a notification on the screen. It was a bank transfer. A "starting bonus," it said. The amount was enough to pay for a year of Maisie's school.
I put my head in my hands and groaned. He was the worst person I'd ever met, and yet, he was the only one keeping my world from falling apart.
I went back upstairs to wake Maisie. I had fifteen minutes to turn myself into a professional assistant for a man who probably didn't even know how to smile.
This was going to be a long day.
[CADEN'S POV]
I stood in the office and watched the security feed of the kitchen. Amara was still sitting at the island, her head in her hands. She looked small in that robe, like a gold leaf caught in a storm.
My pulse was steady. 72 beats per minute. Exactly where it should be. But there was a persistent pressure in my chest that I couldn't categorize. It wasn't logic. It wasn't part of the protocol.
I turned away from the screen and focused on the three monitors in front of me. The thermal imaging from the hotel was clear. The fire had been professional. Precise. The work of the Silversmiths. If they knew she'd seen their man in the hallway, they wouldn't stop until she was silenced.
She was a variable I hadn't planned for. My life was built on clean lines and predictable outcomes. I designed high security structures for people who wanted to disappear. I lived in a house that was a fortress. And now, I had a woman who smelled like sunshine and a child who bounced on my furniture.
It was an inefficiency I shouldn't allow.
"Boss? You there?"
The voice came through my earpiece. It was Elias, my head of security.
"Report," I said. My voice was flat, even to my own ears.
"We tracked the red jug. It's a specialized accelerant. Only sold in three places in the city. I'm pulling the buyer logs now. But boss, why the maid? Why keep her at the house? It's a risk."
I looked at the doorway. I could hear Amara's voice upstairs, light and melodic, trying to convince her daughter to brush her teeth. It was a sound this house had never heard. It was a distraction.
"She saw a face, Elias," I said, my eyes hardening. "If she's in a shelter, she's dead within forty eight hours. If she's dead, I lose my lead on the Silversmiths. I'm keeping her close to extract the data."
"Right. Extract the data. Is that what we're calling it now?" Elias let out a short, dry laugh. "You've been a robot too long, Caden. Just don't let the 'data' mess with your head."
I cut the connection. I didn't have time for Elias's commentary.
I pulled up her file again. Amara Vance. Single mother. Three jobs. No criminal record. She had spent the last five years fighting for every cent, living in a basement, and yet she still carried herself like she was made of light.
I hated it. It was irrational.
There was a soft knock on the door. It wasn't the confident knock of a professional assistant. It was hesitant.
"Enter," I said.
Amara walked in. She had changed into the clothes I'd had delivered. A simple black dress that was supposed to look professional, but on her, it looked like a challenge. Her blonde hair was pulled back, but a few strands had already escaped, framing a face that was far too bright for this dark room.
"I'm here," she said, clutching the silver phone I'd given her. "0800 hours. On the dot."
I didn't look at her face. I looked at the tablet on my desk. "The files in folder 402 need to be cross referenced with the buyer logs. If you find a name that appears more than once, flag it. Don't ask what the names are for. Don't look at the addresses."
"Good morning to you too, Caden," she muttered, her emerald eyes sparking with that 'high-vibration' annoyance she excelled at.
"Morning is a relative term," I said. "Work starts now. Your daughter is in the media room. There are educational programs loaded on the main screen. She is not to leave that room without you."
She opened her mouth to argue, but I looked at her then. I let the full weight of my gaze hit her. I needed her to understand that this wasn't a game. This wasn't a romance. This was survival.
"Amara," I said, my voice dropping an octave. "Follow the protocol. It's the only thing keeping you in one piece."
She held my gaze for a long second. I could see the defiance in her, the fire that hadn't been put out by the hotel. Then, she gave a stiff nod, took the tablet, and sat at the small desk in the corner.
She was three feet away. I could smell the faint scent of the soap she'd used. It was a distraction. I turned back to my monitors, my fingers flying over the keys.
My heart rate stayed at 72. But the pressure in my chest? It didn't go away.
I was a machine. And she was the glitch I couldn't delete.
"I need to talk to you about the school," Amara said, her voice cutting through the clicking of my keyboard. She didn't look up from the tablet, but her fingers were tapping nervously against the screen. "That bonus you sent. It's too much, but it means Maisie can start at the academy downtown. I've been saving every cent for three years to get her into a place with a real library. I just need to know if I can leave to register her on Monday."
"We will discuss logistics when the threat level drops," I said, my eyes fixed on a line of code. "Until then, your daughter stays within the perimeter."
"Caden, it's her future. I can't just—"
She stopped mid-sentence. The room went silent. I waited for the rest of the argument, for the fire I was getting used to, but it didn't come. I turned my chair around.
Amara was swaying. Her face, which had been flushed with annoyance seconds ago, was now the color of ash. She reached out for the edge of the desk, her fingers sliding uselessly off the polished glass.
"Amara?"
She didn't answer. Her eyes rolled back, and her knees gave out.
The "robot" didn't think. The "robot" didn't calculate the efficiency of the movement. I was out of my chair and across the room before she hit the floor. I caught her, her head falling back against my bicep, her body limp and dangerously hot. The fever was back. The hospital had warned me about a secondary infection from the smoke, but I had ignored it in favor of my "protocols."
"Damn it," I growled, my heart rate finally breaking its 72-beat rhythm.
I lifted her. She weighed nothing. I carried her upstairs, my boots heavy on the floating staircase, and laid her on the guest bed. I moved with a frantic precision, tucked the duvet around her, and placed the bottle of antibiotics on the nightstand.
"Is Mommy broken again?"
I stiffened. Maisie was standing in the doorway, clutching her new teddy bear. Her green eyes were wide, brimming with a fear that no five-year-old should know.
"She's resting," I said, my voice sounding harsher than I intended. I forced myself to take a breath. "She needs sleep. And medicine. I'm going to get what she needs."
I looked at the kitchen. The fridge was empty. The pantry was a wasteland of protein shakes and espresso beans. Not exactly a diet for a sick woman and a growing child.
"Come," I said to Maisie. "We are going to the store. Stay close. Do not speak to anyone."
The trip to the supermarket was an exercise in frustration. I moved through the aisles like I was on a reconnaissance mission, scanning for exits and threats. But Maisie had different plans. She stopped in front of a display that looked like a glitter factory had exploded.
"Look! It's Pinky!" she shouted, pointing at a massive, fluffier-than-air unicorn with a shimmering horn.
"We are here for groceries, Maisie. Nutrient-dense food. Not mythical creatures."
She didn't move. she just looked at the unicorn, then at me. "Mommy says unicorns protect your dreams so the smoke doesn't come back."
I felt that pressure in my chest again. It was a heavy, annoying weight that logic couldn't explain. I reached out, grabbed the pink unicorn by its horn, and tossed it into the cart. Then, I added a storybook with a bright pink cover because the "data" suggested she needed a distraction.
Back at the house, I left a note on the nightstand for Amara.
Took the child for supplies. Take the pills. Do not get out of bed. - C.
I stood in the kitchen, watching Maisie unwrap a piece of cheese at the island. I was a man who designed fortresses. I was a man who worked for the highest bidders in the world. And here I was, standing in my high-tech kitchen with a pink unicorn and a little girl who thought I was a hero.
I pulled up my security feed on my phone, checking the perimeter. I needed to focus. I needed to find the Silversmiths. But every time I looked at the guest room feed, seeing the steady rise and fall of Amara's chest, the machine in me felt like it was starting to break.
I wasn't a hero. I was a protector. And right now, the variables were winning.