Once upon a time, when Aristride Amell was young and full of life, he fell in love with a boy named Woodrow Banks. He was a minor noble and a childhood friend, and Aristride confided in him for everything.
They were inseparable for a long time. Aristride wasn't sure when the relationship turned into love, but by the time they were teenagers, they knew they wanted to be together for the rest of their lives.
The problem was that Aristride had been engaged to Bethann Amell since he was twelve.
Aristride and Woody knew they had to keep their relationship secret to keep up appearances. As far as anyone knew, they were just best friends.
But as Aristride's wedding to Bethann grew closer, he wondered if he was making a mistake. He came out to his parents, the Walkers, asking them to reconsider the engagement and allow him to court Woody properly.
Not surprisingly, his parents exploded at the news. Not only would breaking off the engagement be an insult to the Amells, but marrying a man was frowned upon in the Chantry, even if it was legal. The Walkers were embarrassed that their son was gay and, worse, that he would consider lowering his station for Woody.
The Banks were an upper-middle-class family at best, while the Amells were the most prominent House in Kirkwall. Aristride's parents told him they had worked hard to secure this match for him and, if he went through with this, they would disown him.
Aristride's parents paid the Banks family to leave the country before Aristride could think of jeopardizing his future. The Banks bought a nicer house in Orlais and promptly moved.
Woody did meet Aristride the night before he left, in one of the most discreet places they could think of, the Hanged Man. Woody tried to convince Aristride to come with him to Orlais, but… the truth was that Aristride didn't want to leave his wealth behind.
His parents got it into his head that his relationship with Woody was inappropriate and a childhood dalliance at best. So he repeated that to Woody.
The look on Woody's face when Aristride uttered those words was seared into his brain. He left his love at the bar before he could change his mind.
Aristride told himself he had no regrets. He had become a powerful politician, whom people respected. He had more wealth than he knew what to do with. And Bethann had given him two beautiful children.
Though they had both become disappointing in their own ways. Gamlen was a spoiled unmotivated smart-ass with no self-respect and no future to speak of. And now Leandra, his pride and joy, had given her heart to not only an elf but a mage.
He wasn't sure what was worse.
Aristride thought of Woody again, like an old dream that had come back to haunt him. He could feel the Maker laughing at him.
"I can't believe you called the press without consulting me!" Bethann screamed at her husband. She was circling their grand master bedroom in a fit of rage, stomping her feet. Her sharp nails dug into her palms. Her brown skin was several shades darker than usual. "Do you realize what you've done?!"
There was a mess of clothes and makeup and tissue boxes and vase shards, all in a scattered mess on the white carpet floors. The maids would clean it up later.
Aristride had learned to deal with his wife's foul temper, but it still wasn't easy, especially when he compared it to Woody's calm and loving demeanor. He sat on their grand canopy bed, with rare red Orlesian silks, embroidered with real gold. He clenched the comforter, his knuckles whitening. "Bethann, I know this seems bad at a glance, but Leandra came home. She even agreed to a new lady's maid-"
"Which means nothing when you've all but legitimized her relationship with that knife-ear!" She interrupted with a snarl.
She threw a sock at him. It fluttered unimpressively in the air, before falling to the floor. She clenched her plush black feathered robe to her chest, which was heaving with fury and exertion. "How many favors to the Viscount did you throw away for this?!"
Aristride straightened up, his nose in the air, feeling indignant. "Those favors weren't a waste. Leandra would have gotten in a mess of trouble, had I not stepped in!"
Bethann picked up one of her expensive Antivan perfumes, but she stopped mid-throw.
With gritted teeth, she screamed, "Do you know what the press is saying about our family?! We're a laughingstock!"
Aristride rose to his feet, his fists balling. "I'd rather be a laughingstock than lose Leandra!"
That's when Bethann chucked the perfume in her hand right at Aristride's head.
He ducked and it shattered on the wall behind him, splattering all over their bed. The heavy aroma of spices and flowers choked the room.
Before Aristride could respond, there was a knock at their door.
"Everything alright in there?" Leandra's voice called out, full of concern.
Bethann straightened up immediately. "Everything's fine, darling," she called back.
"Oh," Leandra responded, not sounding convinced. "Daddy? You should hurry. We don't want to be late for the interview."
Bethann stalked up to Aristride and whispered harshly. "Do not let her go on TV. If she says anything about the Council, we're done for!"
"I won't," Aristride nodded. A bead of sweat ran down his temple, knowing his whole family would be in danger if that happened.
Bethann straightened up as she adjusted her robe, her voice still low. "I'll talk to the Council to take care of Leandra's rabbit."
Aristride's heart dropped. He didn't think his wife would involve the Council of Five in this matter. "Bethann, there's no need for-"
Bethann silenced him with a wave of her hand. Her voice was getting loud again as she threatened to yell. "I can't trust you not to make a bigger mess of things! Just don't make things worse!"
Leandra knocked against the expensive sylvanwood door, reminding her parents she was still waiting.
Bethann grabbed her husband, wrinkling his pressed suit, and practically shoved him outside.
Aristride almost bumped into his daughter when he stumbled out. He had a sinking feeling in his gut about Bethann's plan. He avoided dealing with the Council when he could. It was dangerous to ask for too many favors. He never knew what they would demand back.
Leandra blinked in a daze, and took a step back as Bethann shut the door behind Aristride.
She didn't take this as anything out of the ordinary, because it wasn't.
She looped her arm into her father's and they walked down the stairs together.
Aristride had a rotting feeling in his soul. It was almost like things were normal, so long as Leandra thought the world of him. Even now, she thought that Aristride and Bethann had fallen on hard times and gotten into the slaving business to save themselves.
She was wrong. The Council of Five had financed the Amell's wealth and influence since before this city was called Kirkwall.
When Bethann married Aristride, she didn't tell him anything at first. But she spilled a secret there. And then another. And then another, until eventually she told him the truth about her family and the Council of Five.
By then it was years into their marriage. He had unwittingly helped pass laws that benefited the family 'business' and made thousands of people disappear. The truth would ruin his name, even if he divorced Bethann. And while he wanted to leave, they had Leandra.
It was Aristride's idea to shield his children from this reality until they were older, or Bethann would have started conditioning them as soon as they could read and write.
By the time Leandra grew up, Aristride and Bethann knew that she would never be able to handle this reality, so they kept her shielded and hoped she would remain that way.
Gamlen, though, started to get involved when he was thirteen. Aristride would have preferred to have him find out when he was older, but the rebellious boy found the secret slave pens in the basement when he was raiding their wine.
Aristride regretted that more than anything. Gamlen was a joyous child before that night. Now, he would never recover his innocence.
Leandra huffed impatiently as her new lady's maid shadowed her steps. "Bellamy, you don't have to come."
Bellamy bowed her head, her freckles dipping below her wavy ginger bangs. She wore the usual plain black maid's uniform with the matching bonnet, unlike Mara. In an Orlesian accent, she said, "Your mother insists I do, my Lady."
Leandra looked at her father with those big doe eyes and placed her head on his arm. "Daddy, will you please tell her to stay behind?"
Aristride stiffened, avoiding her gaze. "I don't think that is a good idea, Sweetpea."
Leandra cursed under her breath, in a rather unladylike way, but didn't argue further.
Aristride glanced at Leandra's outfit and found a fit of possessive fatherly jealousy overtaking him. She was extra beautiful today, no doubt in anticipation of seeing her elven mage lover. Her long silky black hair was braided in ribbons and fastened with a giant bow. Her dress was soft pink and ruffled for springtime. The cloth was woven with intricate lace and pulled into a modest but flirty sweetheart neckline, the perfect embodiment of Kirkwall's darling.
Aristride grumbled to himself, wondering how this elven mage managed to seduce his daughter. He knew what he said to the cameras that night, but there was no truth in those words. It was a political answer to assure the press his daughter wasn't a slut. And she wasn't. But that didn't mean this elf wasn't a scoundrel.
He knew the nature of men, and he saw the photos the press leaked. His daughter was too innocent. The elf was playing with his poor naive girl's heart. There could be no other explanation.
But because Aristride knew the nature of men, he knew just how to get rid of Malcolm. And he'd do it today.
But Leandra couldn't be around to stop him.
As they walked out of the mansion, Leandra was humming, gleefully offtune, a clear skip to her step, even with her unwelcome tag-a-long.
The burn of jealousy was back when Aristride realized who that skip was for.
The perfectly landscaped flowers were blooming all around them, the breeze carrying a fresh scent of grass, flowers, and the sea.
Senhel opened the door to the long black stretch limo for Aristride, while Bellamy helped Leandra in.
Sylvain, the family bodyguard, was sitting in the front seat, patiently waiting for them to get going.
Senhel promptly drove out the driveway, the wheels crackling on the mixed stone gravel.
"Daddy," Leandra said, looking up at her bedroom where a new decoration was installed above the rose terrace. "Why are there bars on my window?"
Aristride crossed his legs, clearing his throat in discomfort. Another one of Bethann's ideas, not that he'd opposed it exactly.
"It's for your safety, of course," Aristride replied diplomatically.
Leandra rolled her eyes, letting him know she didn't believe him. "Sure," she blew out a heavy breath, ruffling her bangs off her forehead.
Aristride discreetly texted some new instructions for Senhel, and the old elf promptly changed the direction of the wheel.
Bellamy sat patiently at Leandra's side, trying hard to blend into the black leather seats.
After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, Leandra leaned forward and said, "I have some thoughts on what we should say to the press."
The corner of Aristride's lips pulled into a smile. That was his Leandra, so determined and brilliant. Guilt stabbed him with what he was about to say.
"You let me handle the press, Sweetpea. Too much publicity is a bad thing."
Leandra's mouth gaped, before her eyes flashed in anger, so much like her mother. "You're just trying to get rid of me!"
That was true, but he wouldn't admit that.
Bellamy flinched, folding her hands in her lap, as her green eyes watered, making sure to stare at no one in particular.
"Nonsense," Aristride lied, swallowing his shame. "Dulci was just saying how much she missed you, and how you never spend time together anymore. So I booked an appointment for you at the spa. Have a girl's day. Heather should be there, too."
What he didn't mention was that he had to bribe both her friends into coming by, giving them lavish gifts and promising to pay for their treatments.
"But what about Mara?" Leandra crossed her arms with a huff.
Aristride gritted his teeth. Normally he would argue with her, but today he said, "I could arrange for Ottavio to pick her up in the spare limo."
Leandra's face softened, but then she frowned. "I couldn't possibly skip the interview."
"Nonsense. Have fun with Mara. I insist. You've been so stressed lately. Take some time off to relax. You deserve it. I can handle this without you. Promise." He wasn't sure if he was laying it on too thick. But Aristride reached into his pocket to text his other driver to pick Mara up.
Senhel was already pulling up into the spa's lavishly manicured parking lot. The garden was lush like a jungle and it took a fortune in water costs to maintain.
"Daddy," Leandra huffed as she saw the brown wood building and kicked out a heel threatening a tantrum. "I'm perfectly relaxed. I don't need a spa day." The tension in her face and shoulders said otherwise.
Bellamy got out and held the door open for Leandra, silently urging her to get out with a curtsy and a wave of her hand.
"I said I'm not getting out," she repeated a little louder, on the verge of a yell.
Aristride grimaced, his pale pink lips wrinkling. "Sweetpea, please don't make a scene and just listen to me."
Leandra scowled and pointed an accusing finger. "Are you planning to do something to Malcolm?!"
He flinched. He should have known she would see right through him. She always was a clever girl. Still, he managed a convincing political smile.
"Of course not. If anything, I want to have a man-to-man talk, get to know him myself, and maybe even give him my blessing."
Not entirely untrue.
Leandra's face softened just a touch but disbelief still flickered in her eyes. Still, she wanted to believe him.
She finally relented with a sigh. "Better be nice to him, Daddy, or I'll make you regret it."
Aristride planned to be very nice, but not in the way she was hoping for.
Leandra slid out of the car and adjusted her skirt, the annoyance and disappointment clear on her face. Then she walked into the spa with Bellamy shadowing her steps.
If things went according to plan, Leandra's friends would, Maker willing, make her see some sense at last.
Senhel pulled out of the parking lot and drove downtown and to the news station. The large white tower was easy to spot in the sky. There were recent renovations done so a brand new projector displayed a live stream of whatever story was currently being recorded. Kirkwall's Daily News was already broadcasting a segment, speculating about details of the latest abomination murder victim, a mage noble named Arth Elliot.
"We extend our condolences to the Elliot family, and urge the Templars to solve this case quickly." A newswoman with long luxurious brown hair spoke to the camera, dictating effortlessly. She smiled uncannily even though the news was dark. "But hopefully the juicy gossip we have for you today will help put you in a better mood."
Senhel pulled into the VIP parking lot. Sylvain promptly got out and opened the door for Aristride.
Sylvain was broad and tall for an elf, with greying black locks he kept in a long braid. His face was chiseled as a stone with several scars marring his taupe skin. "Messere," he said shortly with a nod.
Aristride got out of his stretch limo and adjusted his pin suit, making sure his neutral gray tie was nice and straight.
With Sylvain following close, Aristride entered the white reflective tower. They promptly got on the elevator and rose to the sixth floor.
The room was expansive, divided up into little sections, with one of the wings closed off with soundproof glass. Behind the glass, the same brunette newscaster exuberantly read off a teleprompter.
There were wires everywhere and people scurrying about with different tasks. The room had a no-nonsense feel, but it still was decorated with abstract art and the occasional Andrastrian-inspired statue. The elven workers were separated from the humans and dwarves behind a large beige wall, relegated to grunt work.
Aristride was approached by a woman whose dark curly hair was streaked with gray. A headset cut into her poofy curls. She wore a smart business suit, completely black, with matching heels that clicked on the wooden floors.
"Lord Amell! Good, you're here." The woman had a deep commanding voice. She crooked her finger in a motion for him to follow. "Your interview is in twenty minutes. Let's hurry and get you in an esthetician's chair." She peeked over her shoulder, clearly looking for someone. "Will your daughter be joining us?"
"No," Aristride replied a bit too curtly. He found his fists balling as he followed the woman. He tried to relax himself as he said, "She had a prior engagement and couldn't make it."
The coordinator sniffed, her wrinkles deepening as she frowned. "Very unfortunate, but at this stage it can't be helped."
She then scribbled out some things on her clipboard.
Aristride placed his hand over his heart and said, "Actually, if you don't mind, I need a word with my House Mage."
The coordinator raised an eyebrow in concern. "There won't be time for your makeup."
He waved her off. "A man like me doesn't need makeup."
She bit her brown lip, clearly uneasy, especially with Aristride's tufting hair fluffing up. "This is highly irregular, Messere."
"I realize that." Aristride reached into his pocket and flashed her a glimpse of a heaping amount of sovereigns. "But I'm hoping you might overlook that."
The woman's tanned face flushed as she looked at the sovereigns. Then with a twist of her lips, she reached out and pocketed them before anyone could see.
"We have Serah Hawke in the elven changing room," she told him matter-of-factly. "I hope that's not a problem."
"Not at all," he replied with a nod.
Normally Aristride wouldn't dare set foot in the elven segregated areas, but in this case, it would make things easier for what he needed to do. It was clear that maintenance was not kept up with on this side of the wing, with the way wires were exposed and duct taped together.
Aristride waved his hand casually at the coordinator. "Be a dear and clear the room for me."
The woman flushed a shade redder and then with gritted teeth said, "Of course, Messere."
She led him to the changing area, a cramped long room with chipped paint and cracks in the floors and walls. The furniture looked like it had been recycled, and had odd stains and cat claw marks on them. There was no art on the walls. The only set of decorations were an array of posters for workplace rules and behavior.
There weren't a lot of workers, thankfully. Aristride recognized Malcolm lounging in a beat-up esthetician chair, in front of a long mirror. A poor elven cosmetologist with a thick Antivan accent was desperately trying and failing to convince him to cut the wild mane he called hair.
"I'm telling you. I can give you a look that'll make your lady swoon."
"I can make my lady swoon just fine!" Malcolm scowled, and he covered his hair with his arms, wiggling so she couldn't get a good angle. "Don't you dare touch me! My curls are my crown!"
The cosmetologist seemed used to unruly assignments. The tawny elf frowned, her ears wiggling in frustration. She placed her scissors near the back of his head. "I swear it will be just a little trim!"
Malcolm quickly hopped to his feet. "Nah, nah we're done here. I'm pretty enough."
Aristride found himself red with fury. He didn't understand how this buffoon managed to seduce his sweet little girl. Sure, the elf was handsome in a way, but his daughter was not that shallow. The scoundrel had to be tricking her. Either that, or it was some twisted blood magic. There was no way his daughter was truly in love with this idiot!
Finally, the coordinator clapped her hands, getting everyone's attention.
"Everyone, take thirty. Lord Amell wishes to speak with his mage."
The workers didn't need to be told twice. They eagerly abandoned their posts for the food spread out in their break room.
As everyone left the room, Aristride approached the Templar who was looking at his phone in the corner.
Aristride held out five sovereigns and placed them in his hand. "Why don't you get yourself something to drink?"
The mousey brown Templar's skin beaded with sweat as he debated what to do. He glanced at Malcolm. "That's not a good idea, Messere. Hawke's very dangerous."
Aristride gritted his teeth. Another reason he would never trust that elf with his daughter.
He motioned to Sylvain. "My bodyguard is well versed in Templar techniques."
Sylvain then flashed his handgun and cracked his beefy neck. "Also there's nothing a good gun can't fix."
Aristride swore the elf had some Ander in him.
He closed the Templar's palm forcing him to take the sovereigns. "All I'm asking is for ten minutes with the elf."
Aristride couldn't help but notice how Malcolm's ears twitched at that.
The mousey brown Templar seemed reluctant, but he stuffed the sovereigns in his pocket.
"Fine by me. I don't get paid enough for this shit," he muttered as he stalked out the door.
Soon it was just Aristride and Malcolm. Plus Sylvain.
Malcolm surprised Aristride by making the first move. Before the nobleman could react, Malcolm closed the gap between them and outstretched his hand with a goofy grin.
"Glad I can finally introduce myself properly, Ser. I'm Malcolm Hawke."
Aristride couldn't help but notice Malcolm's phrasing; 'Ser,' and not 'Messere,' as if they stood on equal footing.
He could have smacked the smile off the elf's smug face.
Aristride let Malcolm's hand hang in the air as he glared, his blue eyes icy. "I know who you are, Serah Hawke. I saw you in plenty of immoral photos with my daughter."
"Uuuuh," Malcolm took back his hand, attempting to look casual but failing badly. His shoulders hunched. "That's… not what I- I mean, I know that looks bad but-"
"It doesn't just look bad, it is bad," Aristride interrupted. His face flamed in anger. "You're the one that corrupted my daughter! I know her! She would have never consented to doing such lewd things!"
"You'd be surprised," Malcolm mumbled under his breath.
"Excuse me!" Aristride growled.
Malcolm jumped, with an expression that told the nobleman he wasn't meant to hear that. "No- No what I mean is you don't see the whole picture of Leandra and me."
"I think I've seen too many pictures of Leandra and you!" Aristride exploded, accidentally spraying spit. He balled his fists, ready to wring that skinny elven neck.
"Wait, shit!" Malcolm jumped back to avoid the splatter, ears drooping. "I'm fucking this up." He raked his hand through his curls. "What I mean to say is- I love Leandra." He met Aristride's eyes earnestly. "And I fully intend to marry her one day."
Aristride thought his face couldn't get redder. Then it did. "M-marry her?" He scowled. "Shall I give you one of the moons as well?"
"Not unless it's a wedding present," Malcolm joked.
Aristride could swear steam was pouring out his red ears.
Before he could recover, Malcolm took the nobleman's hand.
Sylvain put his hand on his gun, ready to shoot at the first sight of magic.
But Malcolm pleaded, "I know this is not the most ideal way for you to find out about Leandra and me. I admit, I don't know the protocol for things like this. I swear to you I'm not after your money or seeking a title." He squeezed Aristride's hand. "I just want to be in Leandra's life, however she wants me. I promise I would do anything to make her happy."
Aristride's face cracked, and he threw away Malcolm's hand. "How could you make her happy? How could you give my baby girl the life she deserves?! You're a penniless elf trapped in the Circle!"
Malcolm flinched and gritted his teeth. "I am your House Mage, aren't I? I would gain more privileges. It would be possible for us to marry, I'd get a job, and we would build a life together in some form. I thought you called the press because…" He stopped and laughed brokenly, the hurt clear in his voice. "I should have known you didn't step in to save me." He straightened up, his composure back. "So… why are you really here?"
Malcolm had Aristride pegged. He could have told Malcolm that calling the press and giving his little speech was all just an effort to win Leandra's trust back. As a politician, he knew it was best not to play the bad guy.
Especially when someone else could play the bad guy for you.
So Aristride answered Malcolm's question. He brought out his wallet and wrote a check worth ten thousand sovereigns. He showed it to Malcolm and gestured to his bodyguard with his pen.
"Leave Leandra. Sylvain will take you to a boat where you'll sail to Fereldan. I will make sure the Templars are not called. You can use this to start a new life."
Malcolm snarled, fire burning in his eyes. "I thought I said I don't want your fucking money!"
"Fine," Aristride huffed and added another zero to the check.
"Do you understand the word 'no'?" Malcolm gritted his teeth.
"How many zeroes do you want then?" Aristride growled, clenching his pen.
A dangerous chuckle sounded in Malcolm's throat. "Well, that only tells me you never planned to cash that check."
Aristride flinched. He'd been seen through again. Had he lost his edge?
Malcolm squinted his eyes and they flashed with golden light. "I'm marrying Leandra. I'm letting you know, not asking for permission."
Aristride glowered and snapped at Sylvain to bring over the briefcase he was carrying, his nuclear option. He knew the nature of men. They had weak wills, especially when it came to things like money. Love mattered little in the face of survival. He was offering Malcolm freedom as an apostate, to get the Templars off his back. Until the convenient moment, Aristride could report him and get him dragged to another Circle. Far away from Kirkwall.
Aristride was sure that the sight of a million sovereigns would make the strongest man cave.
"You can have this on top of the check."
Malcolm cupped his freckled fist and summoned a blue flame. "Take it away before I burn it all."
Sylvain pulled his gun on Malcolm, aiming for his head. "Put your spell away! Now!"
But Malcolm wouldn't. He continued to glare at Aristride until he shut the briefcase.
Lord Amell fumed. He didn't understand. "Well, what do you want then? What could I possibly give you to leave Leandra?!"
"Nothing," Malcolm growled, shaking the flames off his smoking hand. He ignored the gun still at his head and continued to glare at Aristride. He lowered his voice, his tone threatening. "So let's drop it. I'd hate for Leandra to find out about this conversation."
Aristride reeled. If Malcolm had just done what he'd asked, he could have played the doting understanding father, the shoulder Leandra cried on. Now, he could lose all the good grace he just earned.
The old man's heart pounded. He never expected Malcolm to actually be in love with his daughter. He was so sure the whiff of coin and freedom would send the rabbit running.
Now how would he get rid of the pest?
But he thought of Woody and his gut twisted. Astiride wondered what his life would be like if he'd left for Orlais with him.
For a moment, he wondered if he was wrong.
Before Aristride could recover, the curly-haired coordinator was back. She pointed to her clipboard and said, "You're both on in five. Are you done with your little talk?"
The woman froze at the sight of the gun at Malcolm's head.
Sylvain nonchalantly tucked it back into his holster like nothing was wrong.
Aristride gritted his teeth. He'd miscalculated. He was so sure Malcolm would take his deal and he'd go on the talk show alone and spin whatever tale he wanted. Now… he had no idea what he was going to say.
Malcolm gave Aristride a sly look and called out to the poor shell-shocked coordinator, "We're done. Be right out."
Aristride scowled at the elf's cockiness. He didn't understand how Leandra found this rascal appealing.
But there was a part of him that was glad. Leandra chose a loyal man, and he found a modicum of respect for Malcolm in that.
Of course, he lost that respect as soon as Malcolm opened his mouth.
He slung an overfamiliar arm around Aristride's shoulder as he slapped on an insolent grin. "Well, Pops. Let's tell them the news."
Sylvain promptly yanked Malcolm off, a loud crack dislocating his shoulder.
—-
Veronica Vázquez was a no-nonsense chubby woman with youthful olive skin and silky black hair that she kept in a strict shiny ponytail. It swayed unevenly at her back as she paced behind her large mahogany desk — pristinely organized and color-coded, just like her whole office.
She glared at Jaheem, sitting in one of her brown leather couch chairs. There was clear rage storming in her dark eyes as one of her polished nails dug into her cheek, creating a cavern. "Do I need to book you for an emergency Cleansing? Have you completely lost your mind?!"
Jaheem tried to remain nonchalant, and not at all like he had spent the night in Kirkwall's barracks. Still, there was a knot of stress forming in his shoulders, and his back ached from the hard beds.
"Everything worked out in the end, didn't it?" he shrugged. "I mean, I'm still on the case."
Veronica slammed her hands on the table with a thud, making Jaheem jump. Some pens scattered that were aligned on her desk. "You are so lucky you were born Rivaini royalty. If the Omenma name didn't mean something in Kirkwall, then you'd be locked up for a good five to ten years for trespassing on Circle grounds and interrupting a Templar's sacred duty! And our case would be thrown out completely!"
Jaheem had to acknowledge she was right, but still, he had to point out, "The Omenmas are only nobility thanks to the Orlesian Chantry."
Veronica snorted indignantly. She squinted her dark eyes in a sneer. "Is that relevant?"
Jaheem's cheeks heated, thoroughly scolded. "I guess not."
She pointed a finger at him with a polished nail. "You better be on your best behavior from here on out, or I'm calling your mother and sending you on the first plane back to Rivain."
Now that was a threat. His mother was a famous and formidable seer and wouldn't hesitate whooping his ass for the stunts he'd pulled.
"Noted," Jaheem nodded, straightening his sore back.
Veronica sighed, some tension releasing from her face. But then she winced as she said, "One more thing. Your legal secretary- What's her name? Lenora? Leah?"
"Leandra?" Jaheem raised a shaved eyebrow as his stomach sunk.
"Her." Veronica snapped her fingers. "Fire her. She's involved with our main client. That's a clear conflict of interest."
Jaheem jumped out of his brown leather chair. "That's not fair, Veronica. She's worked very hard on this case. And she won't even have a speaking role in court."
"Big whoop," Veronica glared back, placing her hand on her curvy hip. "She's a liability now." She pointed her nose up in the air. "Kind of like you are. Your dumb dick got the bright idea of dating her while she was working under you. Technically I should write you up." Then she sneered with a squint. "But considering who she dumped you for, I'll drop it if you do the right thing."
Jaheem's shoulders slumped in defeat. Veronica could be harsh at times, but she was right. He had no idea how he was going to tell Leandra the news.
Veronica grabbed her purse and fished out a cigarette.
Jaheem raised an eyebrow as she cracked a window and lit the cigarette up with a rather dainty-looking lighter. From the minty scent, it was menthol.
"I thought you quit?"
Veronica growled. "You're stressing me out so fucking much, I've unquit." She took another puff and breathed it out the window, the sweet smoke billowing nebulously. She then pointed with her cigarette accusingly, the tip glowing red. "Jaheem, you're way too smart to be acting this fucking dumb!"
"I hear you." Jaheem rubbed his hand on the side of his head, feeling the grooves of the patterns shaved onto the sides. "Have anything else to yell at me about before I go?"
Veronica rolled her eyes and snarled, "Get the fuck out of my office, Omenma."
Jaheem didn't need to be told twice. He grabbed his briefcase and jacket and strolled out the door.
Jaheem was technically suspended. And since he had nothing better to do, he drove to Brett's office at the news station.
When he arrived onto the lot, he was surprised to see Malcolm and Lord Amell plastered on the screen. Lord Amell was sweating buckets, so much that he couldn't hide the pit stains under his arms. Malcolm on the other hand looked breezy and was clearly trying to get under the nobleman's skin.
"Oh, yes. Lord Amell and I are quite close now. He practically thinks of me as a son."
The nobleman gritted his teeth, trying to form a sentence but it wouldn't come out.
"My," the lady newscaster brushed some long brown locks off her shoulder with a wry grin, clearly intrigued. "That's quite a bold statement! Does that mean we can count on wedding bells in the future?"
Jaheem couldn't help but notice the clear panic in Lord Amell's eyes.
"Certainly not!" the nobleman barked out.
"Oh?" the newswoman was snickering behind her hand. "Does that mean your daughter is in an illegitimate relationship?"
"No, of course not!" Lord Amell's eyes bugged out. His ears went red. He seemed to have trouble finding his words. "My daughter is… exploring a relationship with my House Mage, but that- that doesn't mean I've approved of marriage!"
"You'll come around, Pops." Malcolm gave Lord Amell a playful shove that was much too casual. For some reason, he was hunching and favoring his left arm today.
Jaheem shook his head in bitter laughter as he stepped inside. He wasn't sure what Leandra saw in Malcolm, but he was certainly a character. Still, Jaheem had hoped they'd be talking about the civil rights case rather than domestic affairs.
He took the elevator to the third floor and strolled to Brett's office. Immediately, he knew something was wrong.
The door was askew. Brett was usually so anal about that, he made a point to always keep it closed.
When Jaheem knocked on the door, it fell open, and he found Brett's office a mess. There were random papers scattered everywhere. The file drawers had been cleaned out.
"Looking for your boyfriend?" A blonde woman said. Jaheem recognized her as one of Brett's colleagues.
"Eloise." Jaheem nodded in a curt greeting and turned to her, not bothering to correct her. She was the sort to tease and, though he knew she meant nothing by it, it still made him squirm, cheeks heating. "Did something happen?"
Eloise shrugged, sipping a steaming mug of coffee. "Brett turned in his badge today without any explanation. He refused to work his two weeks. The boss is pretty pissed and is shitting on the rest of us."
Jaheem looked at the mess and saw a strange yellowing paper sitting in the middle of Brett's desk that he hadn't noticed before. The texture and weight was more similar to old parchment, and Jaheem could tell it was handmade. On the middle of the parchment was a symbol that appeared to be stamped in blood- the Council of Five's inverted triangle.
The dripping red letters were perfectly inscribed. One chance to run. You won't get a second.
Eloise widened her brown eyes. "What's that?"
Jaheem didn't answer. He clutched his briefcase and stormed back to his car, folding the parchment neatly in his breast pocket.
When he got to his Mercado Benz, he tossed his briefcase in the backseat and sped to Brett's house in Midtown, just barely following traffic laws.
He weaved through the winding streets, passing cookie-cutter houses perfectly manicured to the HOA's standards. Soon he found himself at Brett's house and parked on the street.
He could still see Brett's car in the driveway, so Brett hadn't left yet. The car was a tiny used thing plastered with various bumper stickers. The old baby blue paint was covered with scratches and scuffs that Brett was too cheap to fix. He claimed that it wasn't worth the money, when it would just get scratched up again. Jaheem told him he could help with the cost, even offered to buy him a new car as a present, but Brett had accused him of trying to trick him into owing Jaheem favors.
So Jaheem let it go.
Brett lived in a rather adorable house nestled in a neat corner, pristine white wood gleaming in the sunlight. The red brick inlaid on the pavement was patterned in deco designs. There were a variety of flowers and shrubbery in planters in front to make it seem welcoming. Across the lawn were little statues of nugs with miniature outfits and matching hats.
Brett claimed the statues were just something his mother insisted on, but also went out of his way to change their outfits according to the seasons.
As Jaheem approached the door, he could hear someone inside banging around, opening cupboards, and shuffling furniture. He promptly rang the doorbell and everything stopped.
Jaheem cocked his head, trying to get a good look through the side windows, but they were covered with polka dot curtains. Then a minute later, Brett opened the door with a manic look in his eyes, holding a kitchen knife.
He screamed and Jaheem jumped back.
Brett held the knife to his heaving chest. "What-?! The fuck-?! Are you doing here?!" He glared, his ocean eyes stormy. "I thought you were an assassin!"
Jaheem couldn't help the chuckle bubbling out of his throat. "I don't think many assassins ring the doorbell."
Brett scowled, tossing his knife on the side table with a clatter. "You're such a comedian," he spat snarkily. He rubbed his hand through his sandy hair. "Y'know you wouldn't be laughing if you saw the threat I just got."
"You mean this threat?" Jaheem unfolded the Council of Five's 'letter.'
Brett paled at the sight of the ominous bloody symbol and quickly pulled Jaheem inside, slamming the door.
Jaheem glanced around the spacious family home, now in disarray with clothes and knick-knacks everywhere. Every wall was an eggshell color with rustic furniture and decorations, all matching. There was an occasional pop of fresh greenery to break up the monotony. He recognized some white, yellow, and pink lilies picked from the garden outside.
There were family photos still plastered on the walls and coffee tables. Brett looked similar to his mother, while his father and sister looked more alike with their darker eyes and brown hair. Brett's parents had long since retired to Antiva, and his sister was studying in Val Royeaux to be an architect, so he lived alone most of the time, unless his family decided they were homesick and wanted to visit.
Jaheem eyed the suitcases tucked at the bottom of the stairs. "So you quit. Does that mean you're leaving the country?"
"Do I have a choice?" Brett muttered. He had a pair of wireless headphones and various chargers in his hand that he promptly stuffed in a side pocket of his suitcase.
Jaheem cocked his head. "You could always stay with me."
Brett flicked his eyes up to Jaheem's in confusion, slightly flushed. "What does that mean?"
Jaheem stuffed his hands in his pockets, feeling shy for a reason he couldn't discern. "I have a safehouse for times like these. It's very secure and you're welcome to stay as long as you like."
Brett's eyes widened before he started stammering. He bit off his sputter with a grit of his teeth and said, "No offense, rich boy, but I don't trust your guards. Anyone who is paid to protect me could easily be bribed to kill me."
Jaheem smiled good-naturedly, hoping to put Brett more at ease. "I understand that logic, but my staff is like family. We go back generations. They would never betray me."
Brett snorted in disbelief. "Well, I'm not betting my life on that."
He grabbed a picture of his family. They were dressed up in their Sunday best, while Brett was in graduation robes, clutching his college diploma. He promptly stuffed it into his suitcase.
Jaheem tried to hide the sting of Brett's lack of trust in him, but still, he winced. He glanced wistfully at the photograph of Brett's family sitting on top of the suitcase.
"You should at least let your family know you're leaving. They'll be worried if they come back and you're gone."
Brett stopped his packing frenzy for a moment and slumped his shoulders. "Better that I don't." He met Jaheem's gaze, his stormy eyes glistening with fear. "After what I found out… No one is safe around me."
Jaheem raised a thick eyebrow. "What did you find out?"
But as soon as he said that, a red dot appeared on Brett's temple.
Jaheem dove onto Brett, tackling him to the ground. No sooner than he did, a bullet soared from a crack in the living room curtains and hit an urn on the fireplace mantle where Brett's head once was. Shards of clay and Brett's grandfather's ashes scattered everywhere.
Bullets continued to fly into the house, breaking the TV, and vases, and filling the walls with holes.
Jaheem pressed Brett onto the floor, his large body shielding him. Brett shivered in fright, clinging to him, jumping at every crash and bang.
"We're gonna die! We're gonna fucking die!" Brett cried.
Jaheem hushed him gently. "You'll be fine. I'll make sure of it."
Brett relaxed marginally and pulled Jaheem tighter. Jaheem felt a guilty thrill as he did so.
A few moments later the door was kicked open by a burly man in a black ski mask. He zeroed in on Jaheem and Brett, aiming his machine gun at them.
Jaheem scooped Brett up and shoved him behind the couch, diving after him. He pressed a button on his belt and a strange hexagonal barrier popped up, sparking as it repelled the incoming bullets.
Brett's eyes bulged. "You're a mage?!"
Jaheem scoffed. "I wish. That would make this easier." He reached into his breast pocket. "But Rivain found a way to make portable magic with a little help from the dwarves. But uh… that's a secret." He winked at Brett.
The assassin continued to spray bullets, and cracks began to form in the barrier.
Before it could shatter, Jaheem pulled out a strange gun. It was tiny and silver but it had a wide barrel, too big for any standard bullet. There was a blue crystal at the tip blocking the opening, and a strange arcing sigil engraved within it, tracing into the silver.
Jaheem pulled the trigger and the crystal lit up. It took a moment to charge but soon a beam of crackling blue energy soared at the assassin. It punched through the barrier and hit the assassin square in the shoulder, making a huge scorching hole in the floral wallpaper behind him.
All the bullets stopped as the man's arm fell to the floor.
The assassin howled in pain, blood spurting from his wound. He abandoned his machine gun, still attached to his fallen arm, and fled out the door.
There was the sound of wheels skidding away.
Jaheem chased after the assassin, magic gun in hand. It would take a moment for his gun to recharge so he fumbled with his pocket. He staggered out onto the porch and whipped out his phone aiming it at the fleeing car. He quickly zoomed in to capture the license plate, but unfortunately, his shaky hands made the photos too blurry to be properly useful.
But it was clear upon close inspection, that this was an undercover Templar vehicle. He could see their emergency lights shaped in a flaming Sword of Mercy insignia, even if they were currently turned off and obscured from inside the tinted windows. Even the material and thickness of their wheels were a dead giveaway.
Brett's neighbors peeked out their heads, staring at Jaheem suspiciously.
Jaheem cleared his throat and tucked his gun away.
A few moments later, Brett stormed out juggling a briefcase, and two very full suitcases. "Well, I don't know how to explain to Mother how a man's severed arm stained her pristine carpets. Maybe I just won't."
Jaheem chuckled, sticking his phone back in his pocket. "I'll have my people collect it. Might be useful in identifying the culprits."
Brett flinched at that. "Well, that's my cue to leave. Don't you see how nicely the Council's asking?"
Jaheem placed a hand on Brett's chest, noticing something strange about his car, particularly the gas tank. "Let me see your car keys."
He didn't ask. He just frisked Brett's pockets.
Brett's face went beet red. "Jaheem-"
But before Brett could protest further, Jaheem pressed the button on the remote start and the tiny modest car blew apart at the seams.
They were thrown off their feet as a large fireball flew into the sky, shattering all the windows nearby with the force.
Jaheem found himself on top of Brett again, and a welcome heat bloomed on his cheeks at the compromising position, especially when Brett was so flushed beneath him.
But this wasn't the time to explore whatever that was. Reluctantly Jaheem jumped off Brett and helped him up.
Brett looked around at all the damage to his home and at the remains of his poor car. "My parents are gonna kill me…"
Jaheem picked up one of Brett's suitcases. "Let's make sure the Council doesn't kill you first." He pulled out his car keys and turned on his car remotely.
He braced for another bang, but his car just purred like a kitten. Perhaps they didn't have enough time to rig his gas tank.
He turned to Brett. "My car's safe, I think. Let's hurry."
"You think?!" Brett looked like he wanted to argue, but with his neighbors staring at him…
"Brett, dear. What's happening?" An elderly dark-skinned woman with a nightcap approached. Like everyone else, she was staring at the wreckage in shock.
"Uhhhh…" Brett droned on unhelpfully, seeming unsure how to answer that.
Jaheem placed a reassuring hand on Brett's shoulder, making him jump, and dragged him to his car. "Everyone please go back inside and contact the authorities." He said it with so much gravitas that no one wanted to argue with him. Then with a wry smirk, he opened the door for Brett.
Brett grumbled, reluctantly ducking inside. "Just take me to the airport."
"Noted," Jaheem nodded and slammed the door shut.
His car's dark blue paint was chipped and slightly scorched, but it was installed with magical reinforced silverite steel and bulletproof windows. They were now cracked with embedded shrapnel, but they held up remarkably well for how close it was to the blast.
As he walked back around to the driver's side, he noticed scratch marks where someone had tried to pry open his gas tank. He was grateful he actually remembered to lock it this time.
Jaheem got into the driver's seat as Brett threw his suitcase in the back, and Jaheem did the same with suitcase he was carrying. Brett held onto his briefcase, though, and settled it on his lap, his paling hands clutching it like a lifeline.
He noticed that the brown leather bag was Brett's work briefcase, and wondered why he would take that along when he was so determined to leave his job behind.
Jaheem pulled off the curb and sped out of the cul-de-sac.
They were silent for a few minutes. The cookie-cutter houses passed by, completely oblivious to the neighborhood's peril.
Jaheem glanced at Brett. He was trembling, chewing on his fingernails, muttering to himself. Jaheem didn't know how to comfort him.
"Are you going to tell me what you found out?"
Brett flinched at the question. "Don't ask me that." Then he went back to chewing.
"Hard not to, considering we were both almost killed," Jaheem chuckled anxiously, his nerves finally getting the better of him.
Brett scowled, clearly annoyed that Jaheem wasn't taking this seriously. "If you were smarter, you would flee with me. You have as much of a target on your back as I do."
"Oh?" Jaheem raised an eyebrow as he turned onto the highway. The corners of his lips curled up in a smile. It did sound nice to just disappear into the horizon with Brett. "Where would we go?"
"I don't know," Brett shrugged as he threw his head back against the seat. "Not Orlais, though. My sister's crazy for living there."
"Agreed."
Brett laughed, and Jaheem was relieved that he could hear it.
Jaheem drove along the highway in the direction of the airport the way Brett had requested, though he had reservations that the Council would let Brett leave so easily. And just like he'd thought, after a few minutes of driving, he noticed the same black undercover Templar vehicle that had shot at them tailing them a few cars behind.
He immediately slammed his foot on the gas pedal, weaving through cars to get ahead of them.
Brett's knuckles whitened on the door handle. His eyes flicked to the passing signs overhead.
"What are you doing?! You missed my exit!"
Jaheem could have told Brett that he fully expected more assassins to be laying in wait at the airport but he gritted his teeth and said, "Just taking the scenic route."
He tried to outmaneuver his pursuers. But with traffic blocking him, their car quickly got closer and closer until they were riding his tail.
Jaheem saw the burly assassin from before driving unsteadily with his remaining hand, his shoulder haphazardly patched up with blood-stained bandages. The car's front window rolled down and a twiggy man in a similar ski mask aimed a magnum with a laser pointer.
The man tried to shoot out Jaheem's window, but the bullets embedded themselves in the glass instead, cracking it.
Cars scattered away from Jaheem as they avoided getting caught in the firefight.
The twiggy gunman realized shooting the windows wasn't working, so he tried to shoot out the wheels.
They only sparked against the barriers.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"
Brett's screams rang in Jaheem's ears as he cut across the lane and swerved off into the nearest exit.
They turned on the windy road until it dropped them off into the industrial district. It was an expanse of buildings with towers stretched high into the sky, throwing plumes of smoke into the clouds. This was where the city processed all the drakestone, cobalt, and other ore dug up from The Bone Pit.
Jaheem was driving so fast that he almost careened into some scaffolding when he turned the corner.
Brett choked on a sob. "This is the worst place to die!"
Jaheem clenched his fists on the steering wheel. "We're not going to die." He reached for his magic gun in his pocket, waiting for their pursuers to come into sight.
They skidded around the corner, clipping the scaffolding and it rumbled and swayed. Still, the assassins drove on. The twiggy hitman hung out the passenger's window and aimed what looked like a mini rocket launcher at their car.
Jaheem knew he had to act fast. He turned to Brett. "Drive for a while."
Brett's eyes widened as Jaheem let go of the wheel and rolled down the window, drifting them toward a fire hydrant.
They would have plowed right into it if Brett hadn't straightened the wheel. "What are you doing, you idiot?!"
Jaheem didn't respond but ducked out of the car, aiming the gun's barrel. He pressed the trigger, charging up the gun.
A moment later a rocket whizzed past the car and blew a chunk out of the building next to them, spraying them with debris.
At the same time, Jaheem released a ray of electricity, bursting like a cannon, and aimed it directly at the assassins.
"JAHEEM!" Brett's terrified scream filled his ears as the wall in front of them crumbled.
Jaheem was pelted with some shattered concrete and his aim veered off. He almost fell out of the car, but Brett caught him by his suit.
The magical crackling beam flew past the assassins and exploded into the scaffolding, unfortunately.
Or maybe, fortunately. The already weak scaffolding quivered and collapsed, raining metal poles and rubble right on top of the assassins' car.
Jaheem staggered back inside the window of his vehicle, and took the wheel back from Brett, speeding off as he dodged the debris from incoming collapse. He weaved through the buildings in a haphazard pattern.
Jaheem felt tired and battered. His body was covered in bruises and he had a cut on his forehead, seeping with blood.
He could feel Brett boring a hole in his head with his eyes. His jaw twitched nervously. "What?"
Brett scoffed, almost amused. "Where should I start?" He counted off on his fingers, which were still shaking. "Your magical technology? Your gun that shoots lasers? Your military-grade vehicle? You were like a superhero back there!"
Jaheem found a carefree laugh in his chest making him forget how much pain he was in. "Sweet Oyah, be merciful. I'm the farthest thing from that."
Brett frowned as he looked at Jaheem's battered body, clear guilt on his face. "You're hurt."
"Nothing a healer can't fix," Jaheem reassured him.
Brett bit his lip. "Thank you… for saving me..." His voice turned harsh again as he scowled. "You shouldn't have, though! It was idiotic and reckless!"
Jaheem rolled his eyes, knowing Brett would say that. "Well, if it's to save you, I'll be idiotic and reckless every time."
Brett's ears went pink. He threw his head back in a groan, glaring. "Great! Now, I don't know how I'm going to repay you."
"Just buy me dinner," Jaheem winked.
He chuckled as Brett froze, blushing from head to toe.
Jaheem pulled into an abandoned warehouse and turned off the motor and lights. He then got out of the car and started searching the bottom.
Brett tried to peek over the ledge to see what Jaheem was doing. "Why did we stop? They'll come back any second."
"I want to make sure we won't be followed." Jaheem was pulling something that seemed to be stuck to his car. Eventually, it popped off and Brett saw a little black transmitter with a glowing red dot.
Jaheem grimaced. "I should've anticipated a tracker." Then he dropped the device on the ground and crushed it to pieces with his foot.
Brett's pale face turned white. "You're way too calm about all this."
"I'm not calm at all," Jaheem laughed. His heart was still pounding in his chest. His skin was sticky with nervous sweat. He could feel every ache and bruise. "I've just experienced this way too many times."
Brett collapsed into his seat, holding his head in his hands, trembling. "Once was enough. I'm taking the first flight out of Kirkwall. I don't care where!"
Jaheem made a comedic pout. "And leave me?"
Brett flushed again, stammering incoherently.
Another bright laugh bubbled out of Jaheem as he got back in the vehicle, quite pleased with Brett's reaction.
Jaheem didn't turn on his car, instead, he pulled out his phone and started texting someone.
Brett looked at Jaheem impatiently. "Why are we sitting here? They'll catch up soon."
"Unlikely," Jaheem grunted, still texting. "But just in case…" He pressed a button on the dash and the car cloaked itself, melting into the shadows. "That should do it."
Brett's mouth fell open again, and he shook his head in disbelief. "Must be nice to be a rich boy."
"If you can handle the occasional assassination attempt…" Jaheem chuckled, his dark face too bright for that statement.
Brett gulped, clutching down at the briefcase still in his lap. He glanced at Jaheem. "Who are you texting? Leandra?"
Was that jealousy in his voice?
"Actually, it's my bodyguard Lanelle. She'll have some men collect the evidence at your house. She'll bring a different armored car for me to drive you to my safehouse, and she'll drive my car as a decoy."
There was no room in Jaheem's voice for argument.
Not that Brett seemed in the mood to argue. His shoulders slumped as he realized he was trapped in the middle of this conspiracy.
Jaheem finished typing and put his phone in his pocket. "Will you finally tell me why the Council's reacting like this?"
Brett's lip wobbled, but after everything, he relented. He cracked open the briefcase and showed Jaheem the documents he had hidden inside.
"So… I know I said that I wouldn't follow up on Leandra's case about her family's connection to the Council of Five, but… obviously, I did."
Jaheem raised a finely shaved eyebrow, very impressed. "You never could resist a good puzzle."
Brett's voice got breathy, bordering on a whisper. "Yeah, well, I solved the puzzle on who your mysterious five are."
Jaheem's eyes widened as Brett pulled out a chart he made.
"It was difficult to uncover their identities. They use code names and they cover their tracks well. Professional work. But since I knew their connection to the Amell family, I tracked their financial records and found some… strange shell corporations that were disguised to launder funds to certain parties."
Jaheem took a look at the list of names. Perrin Threnhold, the current Viscount, was named The Crown. Knight-Commander Guylian Smith was The Shield. Fausten Amell, a great uncle of Leandra's and patriarch to the family, was The Talon. A noblewoman he didn't know named Alvah Black was The Raven. But the most shocking of the names revealed was the Grand Cleric of Kirkwall, Elthina, who was aptly named The Saint.
To think one of the Maker's chosen would participate in the flesh trade. Jaheem gritted his teeth. So that's why the Grand Cleric would entertain no petition of his.
But there was another name that concerned Brett. "You should stay away from Leandra."
Jaheem flinched, feeling protective. "Leandra's not part of this. She tried to bring this to light."
"Does it matter?" Brett growled. "Leandra's mother is next in line to take Lord Fausten's place. You're not safe around her."
Jaheem rolled his shoulder, nonchalantly trying to let this news slide off his sore back. "Nothing I can't handle."
That's when Brett exploded bigger than Jaheem had ever seen. He grabbed hold of Jaheem. "When will you take care of yourself, you big idiot?! You're going to get yourself killed for no reason!" Brett shook him. "You get arrested for Leandra. You take on her battles! What's next? Will you throw your life away for a woman who doesn't see you for the treasure that you are?!"
Jaheem's cheeks heated as his eyebrows shot to the top of his head. "You think I'm a treasure?"
Brett flushed tomato red and shoved Jaheem away. "Shut the fuck up! I didn't say that!"
But Jaheem couldn't unhear it. He laughed breezily, only now starting to realize his heart had never pounded this hard around Leandra.
Brett pushed him further away and hugged himself, huffing, "When is your bodyguard coming? I'm bored."
Jaheem checked his phone. "At least half an hour. My estate is in the country."
"Rich boy," Brett muttered under his breath. He kicked his feet impatiently with a tiny temper tantrum. "What are we going to do? I forgot my phone."
Jaheem found another chuckle in his throat as he gathered the scattered evidence around him.
"I have an idea for something you could do," he said, handing the pages back to Brett. "You could write that article."