The silent master

The suit was a masterpiece of tailoring, but to Jax, it felt like a straitjacket. It was charcoal silk-wool, cut so precisely to his measurements that it emphasized every inch of his broad shoulders and narrow waist. He looked less like an assistant and more like a high-end weapon wrapped in a gift box.

"Two paces," Elias reminded him, his voice echoing in the marble foyer of the museum where the gala was being held.

Elias looked different tonight. He wore a tuxedo of midnight blue that made his silver hair shimmer like mercury. He looked ethereal, fragile, and utterly commanding all at once. But as they approached the heavy oak doors of the ballroom, Jax noticed the way Elias's throat hitched. His breathing was becoming shallow.

"Mr. Vance," Jax said, his voice low and instinctively steady. "Focus on the stride. Just keep walking."

Elias didn't look back, but his shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch. "I told you not to speak unless addressed, Jaxson."

"Consider it a tactical observation," Jax grunted.

They entered the room, and the wall of noise-clinking crystal, orchestral strings, and the hum of a thousand elite conversations-hit them. Jax immediately felt his old instincts flare. He scanned the room: exits, lines of sight, potential threats. He positioned himself exactly two paces behind Elias's left shoulder, a looming, silent shadow.

For two hours, Jax watched the world interact with Elias Vance. It was a strange dance. People wanted Elias's attention, his money, his genius-but they were terrified of him. Elias moved through the crowd like a ghost, offering clipped, brilliant responses while his hands stayed buried in his pockets to hide their shake.

Then, a man approached. He was older, thickset, with the predatory smile of a shark who had never lost a meal.

"Elias," the man boomed, reaching out a hand to clap Elias on the shoulder.

Jax moved before he even thought about it.

He didn't draw a weapon; he didn't have to. He simply stepped into the space between them. One moment there was a path to Elias; the next, there was a wall of muscle and charcoal wool. Jax didn't touch the man, but his sheer presence forced the intruder to stumble back.

"The rule is three feet," Jax said, his voice a low, dangerous vibration.

"Who the hell is this?" the man sputtered, looking up at Jax with wide eyes.

Elias stepped around Jax's arm, his face a mask of cold indifference. "This is my... security liaison. And he's quite literal-minded, Arthur. You were saying?"

The man beat a hasty retreat after two more minutes of awkward Smalltalk. When they were finally alone in a corner of the terrace, Elias turned to Jax. His face was pale, his eyes wide.

"I told you not to speak," Elias hissed, but there was no heat in it. He looked like he was vibrating.

"He was going to touch you," Jax said, looking down at him. "You didn't want him to."

Elias opened his mouth to snap a retort, but a sudden tremor took hold of his frame. He reached out, his fingers brushing against the cold stone of a balustrade, his breath coming in sharp, jagged gasps.

"Elias?" Jax's voice lost its edge.

The billionaire didn't answer. He slumped toward the floor, his knees buckling.