Jailbird
865 Words
The morning sunlight spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of our dining room, illuminating every polished surface in a soft, golden glow. The breakfast table, an expansive slab of marble adorned with an intricate floral centerpiece, was laden with fresh fruit, silver platters of scrambled eggs, smoked salmon, and croissants that looked like they’d been crafted by Michelangelo himself. Everything in this house screamed opulence, and yet, it was just another mundane morning.
I sat at the end of the table, absently stirring my coffee while pretending to listen to the debate unfolding between my father and Max. The two of them, seated across from each other, leaned forward with matching furrowed brows.
"Dad, this is reckless," Max said, his voice edged with frustration. "You’re gambling with the company’s reputation."
My father leaned back in his chair, the picture of unbothered authority. He picked up his espresso cup with the kind of precision that came from decades of closing deals and orchestrating empires. "We’re not gambling, Max," he replied, his tone calm yet final. "We’re seizing an opportunity. Risk is the price of success."
I rolled my eyes, hiding the action behind a long sip of coffee. They could argue about stocks, acquisitions, and whatever multi-million-dollar decision this was until the house collapsed. I had more pressing concerns—like the fact that the last of my croissants had been taken before I could reach for it. Typical. Even at breakfast, it felt like everyone around me was two steps ahead, leaving me to pick at scraps.
My gaze drifted to the sunlit pool outside, its water glimmering like liquid crystal. Yesterday’s incident lingered in the back of my mind, an irritation I couldn’t quite shake. My father’s overreaction—insisting on extra security, constant updates, and that man—had left me fuming. I didn’t need protecting; I needed space.
"Is something wrong, Sage?" my father asked suddenly, his tone softer than I expected.
I glanced at him and forced a smile, my irritation melting for a moment. As much as he frustrated me with his constant overprotectiveness, I loved him fiercely. He was the only one who had ever truly stood by me, even when I pushed him away. "I’m fine, Dad. Just not hungry," I lied smoothly, knowing he’d see through it.
He didn’t press me further, but I caught the subtle crease of worry in his expression. Ever since the poolside drama, he’d been hovering, watching, trying to shield me from invisible threats.
The sound of heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway, breaking the tension. I froze, my fingers tightening around the porcelain handle of my cup. And there he was—James, my newly assigned bodyguard, dressed in that same dark suit that only amplified his brooding presence. He moved with a quiet, controlled grace that reminded me of a panther, all power and precision.
He stepped into the dining room, scanning the space like a predator assessing his territory. His gaze landed on me last, lingering for a fraction too long. There was something in his eyes—amusement, maybe, or disdain. Either way, it set my teeth on edge.
"Finally decided to show up, did you?" I muttered under my breath, refusing to look directly at him.
My father shot me a warning glance but didn’t chastise me outright. James ignored my comment entirely, turning to my father with that maddeningly professional demeanor. "Sir, I’ve reviewed today’s security protocols and made adjustments. Miss Monroe will be safe."
"Good." My father’s voice was all business now. "Sage’s safety is your top priority."
I wanted to roll my eyes again but refrained. Instead, I focused on the remains of my untouched breakfast, silently fuming. The table might as well have been set for a prison sentence; I was the inmate, and James was my new warden.
As the meal wound down, I pushed my chair back and stood, fully intending to escape to the sanctuary of my room. But James’s voice stopped me cold.
"Miss Monroe," he said, his tone clipped, "if you’re ready, I’ll accompany you to school."
I spun to glare at him, my arms crossing defensively. "I don’t need a babysitter."
Before he could respond, my father intervened. "You do, Sage," he said, his voice carrying that infuriating note of authority. "James is here to keep you safe. End of discussion."
I wanted to argue, to lash out, but the look on my father’s face stopped me. It wasn’t just determination; it was worry, deep and unshakable. He wasn’t trying to punish me—he was trying to protect me.
With a resigned sigh, I nodded sharply and turned on my heel, marching toward the hallway. James fell into step beside me, his presence looming like a shadow I couldn’t shake.
As we walked to the car, I couldn’t help but glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He didn’t look at me, didn’t speak, but there was an air of control about him that made my skin crawl. I didn’t like him. I didn’t trust him.
But as much as I hated to admit it, I didn’t feel quite so exposed with him there.
- Writer
