#bodyguard!reader

You’d told Svetlana this, once. You had taken her here while you were in her protection detail, ordered her a strawberry milkshake, and waited until her hands stopped shaking to get a slice of pie. God, the pie here was fantastic.

Of course, you probably shouldn’t have trusted her with Mary’s, because now she’s dropping in during crossword time. She settles down across from you in a flurry of soft perfume and elaborate clothing, plucking a blueberry off the top of your pancake stack and popping it into her mouth. 

“Yeah, good morning to you too,” You grumble, folding up the paper and tucking it under your thigh. “Can I help you?”

Svetlana grins, lacing her fingers together and propping her elbows up on the table, head cradled on the back of her interwoven hands. “Aw, come on, sourpuss. Not happy to see me?”

She makes a move for your coffee, sliding a manicured hand across the table to slip through the mug’s handle, and you throw the golf pencil at her. “Oh, I’d have been happy to see you in about forty-five minutes, when breakfast is over.” 

“Sharing is caring!” Svetlana exclaims, yanking her hand back as if burned, and you close your eyes and pinch the bridge of your nose in exasperation. 

“Your dad doesn’t sign my paychecks anymore, Sveta. I’m no longer contractually obligated to be nice to you. Order your own coffee.”

“You were hardly nice to me when he was signing your paychecks,” Svetlana says, grinning. 

“Yeah, fair enough,” you admit, sliding your coffee across the table to her. You snag a couple of sugar packets for her as well, and she nods gratefully.  

“Thanks, sourpuss.”

“What are you doing here?” You ask, choosing to ignore the nickname. “Thought you were over in Boston for the winter?”

“Still keeping tabs on me?” Svetlana says, grinning. “Nice to know you care.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You sink your knife through the stack of pancakes, cutting them easily in half, then start to divide them into more bite-sized pieces. A blueberry bursts under the pressure, a shoot of purple-blue pulp.

Svetlana watches the steady movement of your knife for a second, scuffed silver against chipped ceramic. “I need a favor.”

“Everything okay?” You ask, sitting up a little straighter. “Is Ivan —”

Svetlana waves a dismissive hand in the air. “No, no, I’m fine. You beat the shit out of Ivan bad enough that I think he’s still scared to step foot in New York.”

You relax, slightly. Ivan had been a fucking creep. Watching Svetlana had been a favor to her father, who had pulled strings at the Bureau to get recommendations for a private protection agency. You’d initially thought Svetlana was just a spoiled rich girl, but had become quickly endeared to her and deeply protective. When Ivan, a scorned ex-boyfriend, had laid in wait in her New York apartment for her, you’d reacted proportionately. 

It’d been a little bloody, but the strawberry milkshake had made up for it.

“What’s up, then?” You ask.

“Do you remember Ilya?” Svetlana says, taking a deep pull of coffee. Her fingers are clenched tight around the mug, you note, knuckles white with tension. 

“The Boston hockey player friend?” You set the knife down and spear the first bite of pancake, hesitate, and then push the entire plate to Svetlana. She looks worn and a little tired, like she hasn’t eaten in a while. It was easy to miss — she was very deliberate with her makeup, but now that you were looking for it, it was obvious. 

“Oh, thanks.” Svetlana says, taking the fork from you with a little prodding. “That’s the one. He, uh, he’s been getting death threats, lately.”

“Credible ones?”

Svetlana laughs. “Someone left a dead rabbit on his doorstep. He said it didn’t freak him out, but… Jesus, Y/n. He sent me a picture, and it was fucking gruesome. He’s refusing to involve the police, too. Doesn’t want to blow it out of proportion.”

“Let me see?” 

Svetlana sets her purse down on the tabletop, winces when the leather sticks to the surface, and pulls it back to balance in her lap instead. After rifling through the contents, she extracts her phone and hands it to you. 

The photo is blurry, but unmistakable. 

“Christ,” you mutter, zooming in slightly. “Anything else showed up at the house?”

“Just that,” Svetlana said. “How’d they get his address?”

“Lots of ways,” you muse. “Probably followed him home from practice. The Raiders have a semi-open access rink, right?”

“This is so fucked,” Svetlana mutters. “Look, Y/n, I hate to ask, but Ilya is… he’s incredibly important to me.”

“I’ll fly out,” you say immediately. “No big deal, Sveta. More than happy to help. I just got off a gig here, anyway. I need the work.”

Svetlana brightens immediately. “Oh, god, would you? I’ll pay, of course.”

You nod, once. “Sure. He knows I’m coming?”

“He will,” Svetlana promises. It’s a bit of an odd answer. “Thank you, Y/n. Seriously.”

“Yeah, yeah. Finish your pancakes.”

Svetlana insists on escorting you back to your apartment to pack a bag. 

You grab a duffle from the closet and shove a few pairs of jeans and shirts inside, throw your toothbrush into a ziploc bag, and snag a tube of toothpaste and stick of deodorant from the bathroom. 

“Alright, should be good for a couple of days,” You say, dusting your hands off. “Anything I don’t have I’ll grab from Chuck’s house.”

Chuck, your buddy from the agency, retired last month after getting shot on a senator’s detail. He’d complained endlessly about the injury, but had confessed to you privately that he was glad — Chuck had wanted to get out of the field, focus more on raising a family. He and his wife lived in Boston, now, where she taught high school mathematics and he helped run clerical coordination for the agency. Chuck was always nagging you to pop by and visit, so you figured you’d swing by once you met Rozanov. 

“That’s it?” Svetlana asks, unimpressed. “Can I take you shopping?”

“Do I look like Julia Roberts?” You ask, exasperated. “Sveta, this is fine.”

“Not even a handgun?” Svetlana asks. 

“And how am I supposed to get that past TSA? The agency will ship gear after me.”

“Yeah, sorry, you’re right,” Svetlana says, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes. “Shit. Sorry.”

You cross across the room to her and fold her into your arms, one hand coming up to scratch at the top of her head. She presses her face into your chest, inhales a shaky breath. 

“I’m gonna figure this out, Sveta. I promise.”

“I know.” Svetlana says. “I know you are.”

Ilya is not pleased to see you. 

He’s definitely pleased to see Sveta, wrenching open the door as soon as she rings the bell to pull her into a hug, but he visibly startles when he sees you standing behind her. 

You reach out a hand and rap on the wooden door to check the material. “You have a peephole. Use it.”

“Yes, da, hello to you too, Mr. Bodyguard. No one is waiting to ambush me other than your cologne.”

You grin. You aren’t wearing any cologne. According to the game footage Svetlana had made you watch on the plane, picking unnecessary fights was classic Ilya Rozanov. While you’d only met Ilya tangentially when you were still on Svetlana’s protection detail, you could tell this was consistent.

“Let’s hope the only one lying in wait is Tom Ford, Mr. Rozanov.” You say, stepping past him, not sure that you could name what a Tom Ford cologne smelled like with a gun to your head. 

Svetlana hits him on the shoulder and whispers something to him in hissed Russian as you set your bag down by the door. Ilya ushers Svetlana into the kitchen and closes the door behind him with a soft snick. 

“You do not need to be here,” he says, arms crossed over his chest. He’s shirtless except for a pair of low-slung sweatpants, hair mussed. “She’s overreacting.”

“She just cares about you,” You respond, eyes straying slightly to his chest before you force yourself to look away. “Now go put a shirt on. I want to review protocol while she’s still here to stop you from being a total asshole.”

Ilya grins. “Impossible.”

“Oh, don’t I know it.”

Thirty minutes later, Svetlana is fussing around in Ilya’s refrigerator while he monitors her from his seat at the dining table. True to form, Ilya did not end up putting on a shirt. You’re almost tempted to tug your own over your head, just to show him that two stubborn jerks could play this game, but then there’d just be two half-nude guys in the house, which you don’t think would positively contribute to this situation. 

“Why don’t you start from the top?” You say instead, leaning back against the bar and crossing your arms against your chest. “Have you had any contact with your stalker before the rabbit?”

Ilya scowls. “I am a professional hockey player, Mr. Bodyguard. I am unsure what you think you could handle that I could not.”

“If you want a dick measuring contest, Rozanov, you can do that on the ice. Try and keep it in your pants when Sveta’s paying me by the hour.”

Ilya grins, pushing up from where he was sprawled in a dining room chair to stalk into your space. “Buy me dinner first, yes? Then we can see.”

You tap your watch, mockingly. Yeah, okay, you’re being a bit of an asshole.

Svetlana scoffs. “Calm down, Ilyusha. He’s here to help.”

“No one asked your boyfriend to come here and babysit me!” Ilya exclaims. “I am fine on my own.”

“Not her boyfriend,” You say easily. “And I can’t help if you don’t let me, Ilya. Sit back down.”

“Are you going to make me?” Ilya asks. Svetlana sighs, stepping forward, and you shake your head subtly. Leave it alone. 

“I’m not here to prove to you that I’m capable of doing my job, Rozanov. I’m here to consult on the situation. If I believe that it genuinely merits protection, you can arrange for someone else from my agency if you’re not comfortable with me,” You say, spreading your hands slightly. A peace gesture.

“No,” Svetlana says, firmly, before Ilya even opens his mouth. “The situation does merit protection, and it will be you, Y/n.”

“Sveta, all due respect, but unless Ilya wants me here, cooperates with me, there’s not much that I can do.”

Ilya clears his throat. “Bozhe. You both talk of me as if I am not in the room. I am capable of making my own decisions.”

“Yeah, not if they involve a t-shirt, pal,” You remark off-handedly, then wince at your tone. “Shit, sorry. That was out of line.”

“So he can apologize,” Ilya muses. You flip him off. 

“Ilyusha, sit.” Svetlana orders, and steps forward to walk Ilya back into the dining table chair. He flops into it, posture loose, facing the opening to the kitchen. You don’t push off the counter; you don’t want to be too close, make it seem like you’re cornering him.

“Tell him, now. What you told me.” She says, and Ilya scowls. 

“Someone has been texting me,” Ilya grounds out. “They send me pictures, all ones that they should not have. Me at bar. Me at rink. Me through window of my bedroom. And then… the rabbit.”

“Alright,” You say. “Can I see the photos?”

Ilya dutifully pulls his phone from his pocket and opens the thread, holding it out for you to take. You focus mainly on the one taken through his bedroom window, eyeing the approximate angle on the photo. 

“Can I get a few copies of these? I’ll have tech take a look at the number, too. See if they find anything.”

“Tech” would probably be Chuck and a few beers, but it sounded more authoritative if it seemed to be more Q-branch-esque. 

“Yeah, of course,” Svetlana says. “I can take care of that. Ilya, go rest.”

“I am not tired.” Ilya scoffs, snatching the phone back from you. 

You gentle your expression. “Why don’t you take a nap on the couch? I’ll close the blinds, watch the door. It’s alright.”

“I don’t need your assurances, Mr. Bodyguard,” Ilya says, but picks himself up and trudges toward the living room. 

Thank you, Svetlana mouths. 

You spend the next three hours combing through security footage. Svetlana pulls up the feeds of the cameras on Ilya’s laptop while he’s knocked out on the couch, grainy squares of black-and-white time-stamped through last week. 

The footage is largely innocuous, but you make a couple notes to check out anyway. 

Ilya wanders back into the dining room — where you’d set up shop — about an hour after you’d finished watching the last of the footage. He’s significantly more rumpled, but his eyes have softened and a bit of color has come back to his cheeks. 

“Nice nap?” You ask, and he flips you off.

“Otyebis.”

“I know what that one means,” you laugh. “Fuck you too, dude.”

“I told you, Mr. Bodyguard, not until you buy me dinner first. So eager,” Ilya teases as he wrenches open his fridge. 

“Ah, Sveta said that there wasn’t anything in there. She went shopping. Asked us to pick up dinner, though. She didn’t want to cook.”

Ilya lets the fridge close, smacks his lips together thoughtfully. “Alright. How do you feel about pizza, Kevin Costner?” 

“Overwhelmingly positively,” you answer. 

“Mm. Then we will get Thai,” Ilya says, and you laugh. 

You wake before the alarm. You always do. Your eyes open to the dim gray of early morning and your body moves before your mind has time to catch up. Breathe. Listen. Assess. Nothing unfamiliar. No threats. No alarms.

Routine takes over.

You carefully shift, easing yourself out from beneath the weight against your side. Wanda makes a small sound in her sleep when you move, her fingers tightening briefly in your shirt like she’s searching for you even while unconscious.

You still.

Count to three.

Then you gently pry her hand away and stand. The room feels different when you’re on your feet. Bigger. Colder. Less… intimate. You grab your clothes without thinking shirt, pants, boots moving with quiet efficiency. This is how mornings work. Always have.

You don’t look back at the bed.

In the bathroom, the light clicks on and you stare at your reflection as you wash your face. Same scars. Same lines of tension in your jaw. Same person who knows exactly how to compartmentalize. 

You pull on your clothes, secure your holster, muscle memory guiding your hands. By the time you step back into the bedroom, you’re already halfway back into guard mode.

That’s when you realize Wanda is awake. She’s sitting up in bed, sheets pulled to her chest, watching you with an expression you can’t immediately place. Not anger. Not embarrassment.

Hurt.

You freeze.

“Oh–” You stop yourself. Reset. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Her mouth opens, then closes. “You didn’t,” she says quietly. “I woke up when the bed shifted.”

There’s a beat of silence that stretches too long. You nod, already turning toward the door. “I’m going to get a workout in. I’ll be back before breakfast.”

It’s automatic. Neutral. Professional. Too professional.

Wanda’s shoulders draw in slightly. You don’t miss it this time.

“Oh,” she says again. “Okay.”

Something in her voice makes you turn back. She’s not looking at you anymore. Her gaze is fixed on the rumpled sheets, fingers twisting into the fabric the way they do when she’s anxious. The rings click softly against each other.

You recognize the sign.

“What is it?” you ask.

She hesitates, then lifts her eyes to yours. They’re too bright for someone who just woke up.

“Do you… regret last night?” she asks.

The question lands like a hit you didn’t see coming.

“What?” You shake your head immediately. “No. Wanda, no.”

“Because it feels like you’re already gone,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “Like you woke up and decided it was a mistake.”

Your chest tightens.

“This is just my routine,” you say, too quickly. “I didn’t think–”

“That’s the problem,” she cuts in softly. Not angry. Just honest. “You didn’t think about how it might feel for me to wake up alone.”

You stop fully now, boots planted, body facing her instead of the door. 

“I wasn’t trying to pull away,” you say, more gently. “This is how I keep myself grounded. Especially after… emotional nights.”

She swallows. “So last night was emotional.”

“Yes.”

Her gaze flicks back up to yours, searching.

“And not just physical?”

You take a step closer, careful, like she might spook. “If it were just physical, I wouldn’t be standing here right now trying to fix this.”

That earns a small, shaky exhale from her.

“I thought maybe you’d sobered and realized I crossed a line,” she admits. “That you felt pressured.”

You reach the edge of the bed but stop short of touching her. Deliberate. Respectful. You sink down to your knees, at the bedside. For once you're looking up at her.

“You didn’t pressure me,” you say firmly. “I chose you and I'd choose you over and over again.”

That does it.

Her eyes gloss over, and she blinks rapidly, trying to regain control. You curse yourself silently.

“I just–” She laughs softly, broken. “I woke up and you were already dressed. It made me feel like I imagined it.”

You reach up, finally letting yourself touch her. Your hand cupping her cheek, she leans into it. Her eyes closing and a tear rolling onto your hand as she nuzzles softly.

“You didn’t imagine anything,” you say quietly. “But I should’ve stayed. Or at least explained before I slipped back into autopilot.”

She nods, opening her glossy eyes.

“Can you… not disappear like that?” she asks. “At least not without telling me.”

You don’t hesitate this time. “Yes.”

She relaxes a fraction, tension easing from her shoulders.

“Okay,” she murmurs.

The silence that follows is different now, still heavy, but steadier. Real.

“I’ll make breakfast after my workout,” you add. “If you want.”

A small smile tugs at her lips. “I’d like that.”

You stand again, but this time you pause at the door.

“And Wanda?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t regret last night,” you say. “I’m just learning how to exist in the morning after it.”

Her smile softens, and this time it reaches her eyes.

“I think I am too.”

°○°○°○°○°○°○°○°○°

You went about the day with Wanda. A photoshoot, an interview, a tv appearance. You were there through it all just like always, but you caught yourself smiling fondly at her at times thinking; that's mine now. Though you'd shake it off, you'd slept with her, not asked her to be your girlfriend. 

“You seem distracted. That's unlike you.” Bucky noted, making you turn to him. He'd come up behind you, you heard his footfalls about twenty feet back. 

“Im not distracted.” You point back. “Theres just a lot going on today and after yesterday with that guy im trying to keep a higher alert.” 

“Mmmm okay I mean you are my boss so I'm not arguing with you, but you do seem different.” 

You rolled your eyes before glancing back towards Wanda as she signed autographs for the people in the audience. She glanced up and caught your gaze. A smile appeared on her face just for you before she moved her attention back to the audience. 

You walked up to be closer, not liking how crowded it was getting. You stood just behind her, at attention. She leaned back in her chair, so she was closer, but not touching. 

You checked your watch for the time, tapping Wanda's shoulder. “Its time to go so we can get you ready for that charity gala tonight.” 

She looked up with a smile that made you want to melt. “Of course,” she turned back to those remaining, “thank you all but I have to get going now.” 

You helped escort her to the car, keeping at bay all the fans outside trying to reach, grab, or have her sign something. If there was time she could have signed more and you wouldn't have stopped her. 

Once in the car and Bucky driving the car you let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding. 

“What's wrong?” Her hand landed on your forearm softly, her eyes looking up at you with concern.

“No it's nothing Wanda, just a long day. I'm sure it's been a lot for you too.” You confessed. “I just…” your hand found her thigh, squeezing gently. “I wish we had more time to just exist today.” 

“I do too, truly I want nothing more than to go home and have us order take out and watch sitcoms.” She squeezed your arm, letting her thumb brush the muscle. 

“Sitcoms?” You question with a teasing tone.

“Yes. The old sitcoms are my favorite.” 

“Well hopefully we can watch soon.” You smile and hope that it will be a reality soon.

°○°○°○°○°○°○°○°○°

The gala was relatively packed with many big names and veterans of all branches of the military. Your eyes swept the room. Keeping an eye out, but mostly on Wanda. You weren't too far from her though. 

Well it was more like she wasn't too far from you. Every time you tried to do a sweep she'd be right on you practically. So you ended up just letting her tag along while you did a quick one and then stayed nearby. 

“Code? Code is that you?” You internally and probably a little externally cringed at your old name as you turned to the familiar voice. One of your old troopmates came walking up with a smile. 

“Hey Raccoon.” You shot back with a smirk. “How's the garbage tasting these days?” 

“Okay listen you got us banned from the mess hall and I grab leftovers from the trash one time!” 

“Twice…it was twice. You thought everyone was asleep when you did it the second time.” She narrowed her eyes a moment before you both started laughing which caught Wanda's attention. Her hand on your arm almost immediately. 

“Who's this Y/N?” She asked with a smile, but there was an inflection difference. 

“Oh this is one of my old troopmates. We were in the academy together and then got put together.” 

“Amelia King at your service Miss. Maximoff. Is Code treating you well?” 

“Code?” Wanda's head did a little tilt that made you want to melt. 

“You didn't tell your boss your story?” Amelia asked and your head snapped. Giving her that look of ‘dont you dare.’ Amelia chuckled, moving and wrapping an arm around Wanda's shoulders. “Come sit down with me. This is a lovely story.” 

You groaned as you followed behind knowing there was no stopping her. 

Wanda looked back at you, apologeticly. 

You waved her off with a half smile knowing this would amuse her for days if not weeks. You sat down next to Wanda while Amelia was across from you two. A waiter brought over a glass of wine for Wanda and two beers for Amelia and yourself. You leaned back slightly, taking a sip. 

“Go on, Raccoon. Tell her. Then she'll get your story.” 

“So, our girl here was eager from day one of the academy. Like so beyond ready to prove herself. We always talked about the kinds of codenames we'd like to have. You know something cool or funny. We exchanged stories of our family members who had served and the codenames they ended up with.” She took a sip of her beer and leaned in. “So we get to basic and go through the whole shebang. This one,” she tilts her bottle to you, “from day one had a plan ready each day of doing something that could end with her getting a name or suggesting one.” 

You suddenly remember how embarrassing it was. How eager you were back then. How badly you wanted to be a part of things, to fit into the only mold you ever knew. You try to hide your face. Then you feel Wanda's hand on your thigh. It's subtle. It's not possessive or anything just an, ‘I'm here. It's okay.’ 

“So her full codename is Code Name, but we all shortened it to Code. She was so eager for one that she ended up getting herself stuck with Code Name.”

Wanda lets out a giggle that turns into a laugh as her forehead finds your forearm. “I'm sorry I don't mean to laugh, that's just…I didn't expect that.” she's still laughing between words and you smirk. 

“I was very different back then. A whole different person. It feels like a lifetime honestly.” You take another swig of your beer. You barely remember yourself back then. “Now do you wanna hear how Amelia became known as Raccoon?” You ask, raising a brow at Wanda who nods eagerly, a huge smile on her face, finding it all amusing. 

That was the first thing you always noticed when you entered Aventurine’s office — not the grandeur, not the marble desk, not even the roulette wheel embedded in the carpet — but the quiet decadence that clung to the air like a confession.

He sat behind his desk now, one leg crossed over the other, a peacock feather swaying gently from his earring as he examined a glowing data slate. The glint of his magenta-cyan eyes caught the neon reflection from the skyline beyond the window. He looked composed, as always — amused, untouchable, dangerous.

You knew better.

“Another meeting with the board,” you said, stepping closer, voice even. “Want me to clear the hallway first?”

Aventurine hummed lowly. “Always so dutiful. I can’t decide if I should feel honored or insulted.”

You didn’t respond to the tease — you never did. It was a game between you two. He threw his words like dice, and you refused to play along unless you had to.

“I’ll take ‘honored,’” you said simply, scanning the corners of the room. No hidden devices, no unwanted visitors. Good.

Aventurine set the slate aside and leaned back in his chair. “You know, you make it difficult for me to indulge in paranoia. You’re far too efficient. Even the rats know better than to come near me when you’re around.”

You allowed yourself a faint smile. “That’s the idea.”

He grinned — the kind of grin that could buy loyalty or start a war, depending on who it was aimed at. “And what if one of those rats offered you a fortune? A promotion, perhaps? A chance to run your own security detail without having to babysit a degenerate gambler?”

“Then I’d break their arm,” you replied without missing a beat, “and escort them out myself.”

Aventurine chuckled, a low, musical sound. “Ah, devotion. You’re either the most loyal man I’ve ever met, or the most foolish.”

“Maybe both.”

For a moment, silence settled between you — not awkward, but weighty. You could see the faint tension behind his smirk, the subtle stiffness in his fingers as he toyed with his ring. You knew the signs. He was uneasy, though he’d never admit it.

You took a slow breath, stepping closer until you were standing beside his desk. “You’ve been on edge since the last deal with Penacony’s financiers. You haven’t slept properly in days.”

He tilted his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Have you been keeping watch while I dream, too? You’ll make me blush.”

“You pay me to keep you alive,” you said, tone soft but firm. “And that includes making sure you don’t destroy yourself in the process.”

Aventurine’s smile faltered — just slightly. “Destroy myself, hmm? I wouldn’t call it that. I prefer ‘taking calculated risks.’ It sounds much more poetic.”

You rested your hand on the edge of his desk. “Calculated risks are fine. But what you’re doing isn’t gambling anymore — it’s… punishment.”

His eyes flicked to you sharply. For a heartbeat, the mask cracked.

There it was — that wounded glint buried deep behind the self-assured smirk.

“Punishment,” he repeated quietly, leaning back, gaze distant. “Now that’s a word I haven’t heard since Sigonia.”

You didn’t flinch. You’d heard him mention the desert world only once before, in passing, during a night when he’d had too much to drink and the city lights had made him nostalgic.

“I know what you’re doing,” you said gently. “You keep throwing yourself into danger because it feels like the only way to make up for what you survived.”

He laughed — not out of humor, but defense. “And here I thought you were just a man of muscle and loyalty. Didn’t realize I’d hired a psychologist.”

“I’m not analyzing you,” you said. “I’m reminding you that you’re human.”

That stopped him.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The hum of the city outside filled the silence, distant and indifferent.

Finally, Aventurine stood, his movements slow and deliberate. He approached until he was standing just a foot away from you, tilting his head slightly to meet your gaze.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” he murmured. “Makes a man think you actually care.”

“I do,” you said simply. “You’re not just my employer, Aventurine. You’re…” You hesitated, words catching in your throat. “…someone I’d risk everything for.”

His breath hitched almost imperceptibly. You saw the emotion flicker across his face before he buried it again beneath that perfect, charming smile.

“You really are terrible at the whole ‘professional boundaries’ thing,” he teased, voice quieter now. “If you keep this up, people will think you’ve fallen for me.”

You met his eyes evenly. “Let them think what they want. My job is to protect you. That includes your reputation — and your heart, if I have to.”

He blinked, and for a fleeting second, his façade crumbled. His smile softened, no longer a mask but a fragile, genuine curve of lips that looked too human for someone so accustomed to pretending.

“Careful,” he murmured. “You’re making me believe in sincerity again. That’s dangerous.”

You exhaled through your nose, the ghost of a grin tugging at your mouth. “Then I guess we’re both gamblers.”

He chuckled quietly and turned away, walking toward the panoramic window. The city below glittered like scattered coins, and his reflection shimmered faintly in the glass — a man gilded in light but trapped by shadows.

“You ever wonder,” he said softly, “why I keep you around? It’s not just your skill or loyalty. I could buy both from a thousand mercenaries.”

You crossed your arms. “Then why?”

Aventurine’s reflection smiled at you — but the expression didn’t reach his eyes. “Because you don’t flinch. Everyone else looks at me and sees a liar, a manipulator, a man who’ll sell his soul for a winning hand. But you… you look at me and see someone worth protecting.”

“I see someone worth saving,” you corrected.

That made him turn. The light from the window painted his features in gold, highlighting the faint exhaustion beneath his eyes. “And you think you can save me?”

“I think you’ve already saved yourself,” you said quietly. “You just don’t realize it yet.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The air between you was charged — not with the usual tension of power and duty, but something more fragile. Something that felt dangerously close to longing.

Then the silence broke with the sharp buzz of his communicator. Aventurine sighed, pulling it from his pocket.

“Duty calls,” he murmured. “A shame. We were having such a heartfelt moment.”

You smirked faintly. “Try not to make any suicidal bets before dinner.”

“No promises.”

He brushed past you, but as he did, his hand brushed your arm — a fleeting touch, almost casual, but deliberate. The faint scent of his cologne lingered in the air after he passed.

You followed him out of the office, shadowing his every step as always. His stride was confident, his coat sweeping behind him like a cloak of luck and arrogance. But you noticed — as you always did — the way his left hand stayed hidden behind his back, a subconscious gesture born of old fear.

You didn’t mention it. Instead, you stayed close, ready to intercept whatever threat dared to draw near.

That night, when the meeting was over and Aventurine finally allowed himself a rare moment of rest, you found him standing on the balcony of his suite. The city lights glimmered below, reflected in the rose tint of his glasses.

He didn’t turn when you approached, though he spoke as if he knew you’d come. “You ever get tired of guarding a man who keeps courting death?”

“No,” you said. “Because every time you take a risk, I’ll be there to make sure you live to place another bet.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “Always so confident.”

“Always.”

When he turned to face you, the wind ruffled his hair, and for once, he wasn’t smiling. His expression was open — raw, even. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not,” you admitted. “But you’re worth the effort.”

He looked at you for a long time, searching for deceit and finding none. Then, with a soft exhale, Aventurine reached up and removed his glasses, setting them aside on the railing.

Without their tint, his eyes were startling — vibrant, haunted, alive. “You really believe that, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t still be here if I didn’t.”

A faint, bittersweet smile curved his lips. “Then perhaps… for tonight, I’ll believe it too.”

He leaned back against the railing, gaze turned upward to the stars. You stood beside him, close enough that your shoulders brushed, neither of you saying anything more.

The silence stretched — comfortable, unspoken. And for the first time in a long while, Aventurine didn’t hide his left hand. It rested openly at his side, the faint mark of the past visible in the moonlight.

You didn’t reach for it. You didn’t need to. Just being there was enough.

And maybe — just maybe — that was the first gamble Aventurine didn’t regret taking.

Bucky sighs loudly when one of his most annoying employees walks in his office without knocking. He picked up where he left off with his list of complaints and it was giving Bucky a headache. Bucky sent you a text, asking you to come in his office. You’re Bucky’s bodyguard and you’ll do anything to protect him.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” You asked as you in his office.

“Yes.” Bucky answers. “Please show him the exit. He will not be working here anymore.” Bucky tells you.

“Will do, Mr. Barnes.” You complied.

“I’m fired?” He scoffs.

Bucky hums and nods his head.

“Let’s go.” You say to him, walking him towards the door.

“I know how to walk!” He smacks your hands away. “Don’t fucking touch me!” He says loudly.

He should’ve known better than to smack your hands, because the next thing he knew he got punched in the face. Bucky was watching in amusement as you escorted him out of his office. A few minutes later, you went back to his office.

“I would like to apologize for the way things got physical with him.” You apologized.

“No need to apologize. I enjoyed it.” Bucky says.

Bucky watched the way you winced and seen your slightly bruised knuckles.

“Get some ice for your hand.” He tells you.

You nodded before leaving his office to ice your hand. Later, Bucky asked you to come back to his office.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” You say, walking in his office and closed the door behind you.

“Lock the door please.” He says.

You locked the door and walked over to him. You sat on his lap, straddling him. You gave him a much needed kiss. Bucky’s hands found their way to your waist, giving it a small squeeze.

“I’ve been waiting for this all day.” Bucky says.

“Mmm, me too.” You say with a hum.

Bucky moved his lips to your neck. He placed soft kisses along your skin. You tilted your head to the side to give him more access. His teeth grazed your skin, biting down hard enough for a hickey.

“Bucky…” You breathed. “Everyone will see the marks.” You say.

“Cover it with makeup.” Bucky says against your neck.

You and Bucky are in a secret relationship. You two are risking it by having sex in his office. Even though, it’s not the first time you two have had sex in his office.

“I love it when you’re mean to everyone.” He says as he continues to mark up your neck.

“I love to protect you somehow.” You say.

Bucky’s hand disappeared underneath your dress and rubbed your pussy through your wet panties. A soft moan left your lips.

“You’re so wet.” He whispers. “Is all of that for me?” He asks.

“Yes.” You moaned. “It’s all for you.” You tell him.

Bucky moved your panties to the side and slid a finger inside of you and his thumb began rubbing your clit, making your mouth fall open and a string of moans leave your lips. He moved it slowly and at a teasing pace, making you whine. He smirks to himself, loving the affect he has on you.

“Bucky…” You whined.

“Tell me what you want, sweetheart.” He says.

“Your cock.” You tell him.

“You know how to get what you want.” He says.

You unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned and unzipped his suit pants. Your hand palmed his hard cock through his boxers, making him moan lowly. You bit your bottom lip as you took his cock out of his boxers and stroked it in your hand.

He took his fingers out of you, making you whine. You lifted yourself just enough for your pussy to hover over his cock. You lined his cock at your entrance and slid down onto him. A relieved moan left yours and his lips.

“We have to make this quick.” Bucky tells you. “We have to finish the workday after this.” He says.

You nodded and put your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself and lifted yourself up and sank back down on him. Bucky bunched your dress up above your hips and watched his cock disappear in your pussy, covered in your slick.

“Fuck…” He moans at the sight. “You’re taking my cock so well, darling.” He says.

You moaned in response and sped up your movements, his dirty words urging you on. Your clit occasionally rubbed just above the base of his cock. Your moans got a little too loud so Bucky covered your mouth to muffle your moans.

“Shh, sweetheart.” Bucky coos. “We don’t want to get caught, do we?” He says.

You shook your head no, moaning into his hand. He took his hand off of your mouth and slid a finger in your mouth. You swirled your tongue around it like you do with his cock before wrapping your lips around it. Bucky watched with lust clouded eyes.

His free hand found its place on your ass cheek, giving it a squeeze before helping you with your movements. Usually, Bucky lets you do your thing when you’re riding him, but he wanted to make this quick cause you two are still at work. Not that you minded. Little does he know that you love it when he helps you with your movements when you’re riding him.

Bucky’s finger left your mouth to rub your clit. A gasp left your lips at the feeling of his spit covered finger against your clit. He put his lips on yours to muffle your moans. His tongue licked across your bottom lip. You parted your lips just enough to allow him to slide his tongue in your mouth. His tongue explored every part of your mouth. His lips left yours so you two can breathe. You bit your bottom lip to keep your moans muffled.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” He pants. “I’ll take my time with you tonight.” He promises.

Bucky is a man of his word. He means it.

You lost rhythm with your movements for a short moment due to your orgasm building up, but you regained it. Bucky rubbed your clit faster to get your orgasm to build up faster. His orgasm was building up just as fast.

“Bucky, I-” A whimper left your lips before you could tell him that you’re about to cum.

“Cum for me, baby.” His voice sounding raspy. “I’m close too.” He says.

Your nails dug in the fabric of his suit jacket and you bit down on your bottom lip to keep yourself from moaning loudly as you came. Bucky gave your clit one last rub before focusing on his own orgasm. His free hand joined his other hand on your ass, helping you move up and down so he could cum. He came inside of you shortly after you came. Your movements came to a slow stop. You sat on his lap panting and staring in his eyes. He gave you a sweet kiss before you got off of his lap, his cock slipping out of your pussy.

You stood on slightly wobbly legs and held onto his desk as you readjusted your panties and dress. Bucky put his cock back in his boxers and redid the zipper and button on his pants and buckled his belt before standing up to walk you to the door. As soon as he opened the door, someone he’s supposed to have a meeting with barges in his office without permission.

“You’re late!” The man practically hisses. “Our meeting was supposed to start 10 minutes ago!” He says.

“I was talking to an employee.” Bucky says, referring to you.

The man looked at you, looking you up and down while giving you a dirty look.

“It took you 10 minutes to talk to her?” The man laughs. “What were you guys talking about? Making her overtime?” He says sarcastically.

“We’re done here.” Bucky said to the man. “Y/N, you know what to do.” He says.

You nodded and motioned the guy towards the door, but he didn’t listen to you.

“I don’t need some little girl dressed like a Barbie to tell me what to do.” He says.

“You’re gonna regret saying that to her.” Bucky warns the man.

“Why? What’s she gonna-” You punched him in the face, giving him a bloody nose before he could finish his sentence. “You bitch!” The man shouted, holding his nose.

“Mr. Barnes asked you to leave. Don’t make him repeat himself.” You say.

You grab his arm tightly and used all of your strength to drag him out of Bucky’s office and building. Then you went back to Bucky’s office. Bucky had an amused look on his face.

“Remind me to reward you tonight when we get home.” Bucky says with a wink.

“Will do, Mr. Barnes.” You say, smiling at him before going back to work.

🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵

You moved with ease throughout the evening, keeping mobile with your head on a swivel, eyes never leaving your two clients for more than a couple seconds. After a cocktail hour, everyone had sat down for dinner and a round of awards and speeches, leaving you here for a relatively easy period.

You didn’t work alone, no. You were here as part of a group. Part of a company, actually, and it belonged to your father. He ran a security conglomerate which focused heavily on government contracting, ranging from secret service duties, to vehicle brigades, to protection and procurement of goods, virtual and physical, and you knew every single part of it. You loved your job, and you loved working with your dad. For as long as you could remember, you would spend all of your free time in his office with him as he went through schedules, and escape plans, and all sorts of strategies to keep his patrons and their assets safe. You were always flitting around, learning new things, earning you the nickname ‘tweety bird’ from him, which correlated to your codename Redwing.

You’d picked it all up so easily, you were a natural, which earned you your first presidential-adjacent gig much younger than anyone else around. Sure, it started as you going to school and posing as another student to protect the president’s son, even thought you were a few years out already, which wasn’t necessarily glamorous, since you were meant to fly under the radar, but it was an independent job. One that was coming to a close, though, as this was your eighth year of doing the same. Soon, the president would be out of office, and the security detail on his family would be greatly reduced, likely no longer requiring your services.

Even as you let your mind wander, blocking out the droning speeches and rich people backstories, you remained on high alert. If anything bad was going to happen, you had a feeling it would be at an event like this one. An event where everyone had their guard down because it was for a universally agreeable good cause. But for some reason, heading into it tonight, something was churning in your gut.

After not being able to ignore the way your stomach twisted and turned, you had gone to speak to your father about tonight, requesting backup in addition to your other two friends, Natasha and Daisy, who often accompanied you to guard shifts associated with larger crowds.

Usually he was on the same page as you, but lately, your requests had been met with more protest, likely due to your little brother’s input buzzing in your father’s ear.

Your brother, Dylan, had just freshly turned eighteen, and with it came more responsibility in the agency. For being so much younger than you, your father was giving him mountains of control, including this event of your two most important clients. With your request of a team came the the caveat that your brother would be leading it.

Dylan was, to put it nicely, an oaf? Incapable of performing a task without crashing and burning, which made your blood boil. Probably from the fires he created and you subsequently had to put out. You had no room to complain, though, as your father dismissed you from his office.

So Dylan ‘led’ your team this evening, packed with his twerp friends who were more capable, but just as reckless as him. They’d listen to some of your orders, but not without the confirmation of your brother, who knew better enough sometimes to listen to your input.

You let him think he was in the lead tonight, executing a plan you had essentially spoon fed to him in your meetings leading up to the event. There were several backup plans and exit strategies that had their own code names, made by you, of course. All Dylan, or ‘The Chief,’ as he liked to go as over coms, had to do was keep an eye out on the cameras for any suspicious activity around the venue, and be prepared to drive away if he called for extraction due to suspicious activity. That was it. You and your two trusty companions would take control of everything inside the banquet, while two of Dylan’s friends surveilled the outside. Should be easy, right?

Dylan had been instructed to give an update through your earpiece every three minutes, on any action seen in the camera footage. Every time he did, though, it was accompanied by music blasting in the car, and the increments kept getting further and further apart. Almost like he was forgetting about his responsibilities and the importance of this event on your shoulders, should something go wrong. You rolled your eyes and kept a watch of the room. If you had such little backup, it was on you now to do this job, without the team you had specifically requested.

Dylan’s friends seemed to go quiet, too, which you were hoping wasn’t due to capture or something worse, but when you heard conversation about a fantasy football draft in your ear, you knew they were at least alive, although not helpful at all.

You were sick of running blind, though, so you casually made it look like your were scratching your ear and turned away from the crowd.

“Chief, status report.” Nothing. You waited thirty seconds. Silence.

You turned back to the room, the gnawing feeling in your stomach growing as you looked out at the crowd. Natasha, code name Widow, was making her way around with a tray of champagne flutes. Daisy, codename Blossom, sat in a vent somewhere, watching from above and monitoring everyone’s trackers. The three of you sighed and continued on, hoping this night wouldn’t be every eventful, but that’s never how life goes, is it?

“Blossom, report on coms. Is everything working?”

You waited a second for the response.

“All is good, Redwing. It’s a human, not technology error.”

You rolled your eyes for the thousandth time that night, but were pulled out of your annoyance by a searing sound. In the next moment, just as you were about to ask for any other possible news from Daisy, a crackling took over your ear.

You fought the urge to wince and draw attention to yourself. It was probably Dylan finally getting back to you, but the voice that came through was one you’d never heard before. It was low and urgent.

“Get them out of there.”

You couldn’t help the way your eyes went wide and you whisper yelled, turning into the fake plant you found yourself nearby.

“Who is this? This is a secure line! What’s going on?”

You were surprised by the warning firmness of the speaker, it was menacing, who did this person think they were? Was that a threat?

“This is Bootleg. Your clients are in danger. What’s about to happen isn’t meant for them. Find a way to get them to leave.”

You sighed and nodded, although the disembodied voice named ‘Bootleg’ wasn’t reassuring. You knew to never turn down a tip, though. You weren’t going to risk it with clients like this. So you let out a sigh and made eye contact with Nat across the room.

“Execute plan beta sixteen alpha.”

She gave you a curt nod and increased her pace in a way only someone with your type of training could pick up. She was circling to make her movements seem undetectable, but she was ultimately going towards the First Lady and her son. Nat tripped, spilling the tray of champagne on their laps, causing them to gasp and look down. You could tell they were ready to yell, but they looked to your face and you nodded, signaling them to get up, brushing away anyone with apologies or offers for help, saying they were just going to clean up. The rest of the rich party goers didn’t pay it a second thought besides whispers of clumsy waitstaff. It’s not like they would bother to remember the face of one of them, though, and were too busy watching a fumbling Nat to see your approach to take your clients out of the venue. You did your best to move slowly to the same exit as them, and as soon as your bodies were behind the closed ballroom door, you were rushing them towards the back service door to get in Dylan’s getaway vehicle.

You ducked their heads under your arms as you rushed them out, and shoved them into the back of the town car, only giving a quick, breathless word to your clients and your brother.

“Take them home, Dyl. Fast. Don’t let yourself get tracked. I’ll take the decoy car. Go, now!”

He nodded like a bobble head, shifting the car in gear and peeling out of the lot as you jogged over to the other vehicle where Daisy and Nat were already waiting in the front seat for you. They moved fast.

You hopped in, Daisy expertly backing out until she hit the street. Just as she put it in drive, you flinched at a sudden noise and looked out the back window to where an explosion happened in front of the venue and soldiers dressed in all black rushed in through the cloud of smoke. This would definitely hit the news tomorrow, but you were sure your father would commend you for the safe delivery of two of his most important packages.

Daisy and Nat had been by your side for as long a you could remember. When you were in elementary school, you remembered a brooding girl sitting at the end of the lunch table, arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed, with the angriest pout you’d ever seen. You walked over and plopped down with your tray.

“Hi.”

She looked up from her meal and to your smile and simply gave a blink of acknowledgment, face unchanging.

“Are you okay? Something wrong with your lunch?”

She shook her head and took a deep breath, sitting up to eat a tater tot.

“No. Something’s wrong with my shirt.”

You tilted your head to the side. “What about it? I think it’s beautiful. I love Daisies.”

She shrugged and continued to pick through her food. “Yeah, I guess they’re alright. But my mom forced me to wear this. I had a plain black shirt picked out and she gave me this. I don’t wanna wear daisies.”

You giggled and looked down at the plain black shirt on your body. “Trade?”

For the first time, you watched the corner of her lip reach a smile, your new friend who would soon earn the shirt flower as a nickname. That little grin was huge compared to the tight line her lip previously held. That was the start of a bunch of mini smirks and teamwork.

Nat had been around since you were in diapers. Her parents had worked for your father’s organization their entire lives, so when they passed as she was in her teens, your family took her in.

She was always incredibly smart, her wit challenging you and Daisy, but the two of you would hit her right back. The timeline of her moving in with you, too, was a few years before the presidential gig started, but she rose through the ranks with you, through every single job, the two of you bringing Daisy on board who caught on quickly. Your grouping was nearly unrivaled. Nearly.

Daisy and Nat physically stood by your sides as the three of you looked on to your father talking on a podium. Your best suits were pressed and tailored perfectly for the special occasion. It was his retirement party in your family’s backyard garden where he was noting the successes of the company under him, including the recent incident from which the two important clients had been saved.

The three of you lightly nudged each other’s arms in commendation for the quick act despite your lack of backup, a small smile on your face, a smirk on Nat’s, with Daisy looking as composed and stoic as ever. You father continued in his speech, noting the valiant effort that needs to be maintained in a generational business like this, one that should be rewarded and carried on for the generations to come. You stood straight, chin up with pride at your hard work and dedication finally paying off.

“I was a young pup, only in my early twenties when I took this business over from my father. He deemed me most fit for the job, so it is my pleasure to do the same, keeping this line of work led by my family. I’d like to name my replacement, someone who valiantly saved the president’s son and wife. Someone who the son has raved about for returning them home to the White House safely. My wonderful child…”

You were ready for the culmination of years being under his wing. He gestured his arm out to the side and you braced yourself for the good news, except the arm wasn’t outstretched towards you. It was directed towards the other side of the stage and everyone’s eyes followed. “Dylan.”

Dylan was jerkily shoved forward by one of his friends, having been zoned out for the entirety of your father’s speech, but at the sound of cheering and clapping, a smile grew on his face. He waved at the crowd, walking over to the podium to shake your father’s hand and give a word of his own.

Meanwhile, your face fell. It was dragged downward in defeat. You quickly pulled yourself together, though, at a squeeze to your arm. You couldn’t even tell which side it came from. Your body was going numb. Shifting to plant your feet and fighting the burn in your eyes, you looked straight forward, no longer at the podium, although you had no way to shut off your ears.

“Wow, wow. Thank you. This is such an honor. At eighteen years old, I will be the youngest to ever run this organization.”

It seemed like he’s was at least doing well and presenting a strong face. That was rare.

“Haha, I beat ya, gramps! Okay, let’s party!”

You outwardly cringed, but your legs were paralyzed as his friends let out a whooping cheer and the party erupted in confetti. It was getting caught in your hair as Nat and Daisy dragged you away and inside, up the stairs to your childhood bedroom, jostling you like a rag doll. You felt almost catatonic.

As soon as you flopped down on your bed, though, you turned over and screamed into your pillow before sitting up, realizing this act of melodrama was going to wrinkle your suit.

You sat up and sniffled, rubbing your eyes and taking a deep breath to give yourself just a moment to think. You looked between your best friends and started pointing.

“Daise, can you pack up anything you think I might need from here? Whatever I can’t live without.”

You then looked to the redhead who was peeking out the window, watching your father enter the outdoor entrance of his home office.

“Nat, can you gather some home essentials? Food, first aid, some of the hidden and spare weapons. Only the ones they won’t sense are missing, okay?”

She nodded. “Yeah. We better do it quick. Your pops just came in.”

You bit your lip and your nostrils flared in anger and thought, rubbing your hands over your face. “Okay. That’s fine, I need to talk to him anyway. That should give you enough time to grab everything. Then we’re heading back to the apartment to get some essentials.”

The three of you were roommates in the city, renting out a place Daisy’s distant uncle owned, which allowed you some freedoms, as well as independence from the possible tracing of your location on government records. Even under a security conglomerate, you could sense things were going downhill, so it was a good choice to move out and detach yourself. At this point, you were barely traceable. Only one thing tethered you here on a paper trail: the company.

You stormed out of your room and down the stairs to the hall that held your father’s office. You were furious. You had no patience left for formality or kindness, this was all rage. You kicked in the strong oak door, splintering the wooden frame, and were met with the view of your father and brother clinking whiskey glasses, an old celebratory reserve poured in them.

You stomped over to the filing cabinets where your file, thick as a novel, was stored. Next to it, you pulled out two more, no less impressive. Your dad, even though he possessed several methods for tech security, still kept employee information on paper in case he accidentally hired a mole. Everything was under lock and key and 24 hour surveillance.

You dug around in the left side drawer of his desk until you found the cigar lighter, hitting the edge of the folders until they caught and throwing them into his metal trash can. It was only then that he and your brother let words come out of their dropped jaws and awestruck faces.

“Tweety Bird, what’s the issue, kiddo? Didn’t wanna celebrate with your old man and little brother?”

You scoffed as you put your hands on your hips.

“Celebrate!? Celebrate what!? Being snubbed? Overlooked for something I’ve dedicated my life towards!?”

Your father’s bushy brows furrowed in confusion, your brother’s face mirroring it in a mini version. “What do you mean? You haven’t been snubbed. Dylan and I agree you’re meant to run teams and operations. You wouldn’t want to be in charge. Plus, it’s tradition that the first son takes over.”

You threw your hands up in exasperation. Smoke was filling the room, but partially getting swept out the cracked windows that pointed toward the back yard. “You didn’t think to ask me, the one keeping your business afloat, to run it!? No one knows it better than me, but it’s so ridiculous. Just because I’m an older sister like Aunt Kay, doesn’t mean I don’t wanna be in charge! She wanted to leave this life, but I don’t!”

You heard a chuckle rise behind you. “What, Dylan?”

He shrugged with a smug smile on his face. “Aunt Kay didn’t want to leave this life. She wanted the company, too. But Gramps gave it to dad. That’s why she fucked off to who knows where and started that bank vault company.”

You gasped in shock and looked to your father but he seemed unaffected. You turned to him now, disgusted with the sight of your little brother. “What!? Do you hear yourself right now!? Just because we aren’t men!? That’s insane!! I’m the one who saved the president’s family. Not Dylan, me! He was too busy sitting on his ass and picking his nose to be of any help. Maybe we would’ve seen the team coming to attack the venue sooner if he would’ve done his job!”

Your chest was heaving and your face was warm from the yelling. Your father still calmly continued. “Dylan returned the family safe and sound. You were nowhere to be seen. He deserves this step of responsibility, but I have no doubt you can guide him like an invisible hand.”

You shook your head, moving back towards the door between the leather couches of the sitting area, pacing on the Persian rug. “No, no. Absolutely not. I refuse to keep performing thankless service. You’ve made a mistake. I no longer want to work for you and I no longer want to be a part of this family. This whole thing is fucked. I’m out.”

Your father sighed, about to speak up. “Bird, we-“

He was cut off by the arm of your brother, though. “No, dad. If she wants to leave, I think she should. I don’t want anyone here questioning my leadership. The president’s son will back me on that. He’s upset the extraction ruined a designer suit and thinks that I’m the best fit, too. I can run this without her.”

Your dad gave a hmph of affirmation, which sent you over the edge. After all those years of service, both your father and the president’s son still didn’t credit your work. You couldn’t stand this anymore, especially not when Dylan was fabricating lies in his own head about the greatness you performed.

“You know what, Dyl? Yeah, let’s have it your way. You guys will never need to see me again. Good luck not running this thing into the ground.”

You turned on your heel and marched out the door. When you turned the corner, you saw both Nat and Daisy waiting for you, double fisting duffel bags. You motioned for both of them to head to Nat’s car, walking quickly, but they were more than capable of keeping up. You heard Daisy speak from over your left shoulder.

“Bird, where are we going?”

As you barged through the glass front door and put on your sunglasses, you took a breath in of the air that marked your new life, outside the stuffy patriarchy of what you thought would be your legacy.

“Somewhere far. And don’t ever call me that again.”

Next >

Bonus A/N: Bruh, could you imagine being betrayed by your own father like that? Also, we’ll be seeing more of Daisy as the reader for Jake’s storyline in the future.