Page 39 of Protect Thy Enemy

She waves off my protest like it’s an afterthought, which discombobulates the hell out of me even more. "Time served isn’t the point. It’s about potential, Agent Williams. You’ve already proven yourself under pressure. And, quite frankly, I’d prefer someone like you. Sharp, efficient, and, most importantly, a woman. This place is drowning in a boys’ club mentality. It’s time for a change, don’t you agree?"

I don’t know what to say.

While the words should feel empowering, something about them makes me feel like I’m walking into a trap. Like there’s more to this offer than she’s letting on.

My thoughts stumble, unbidden, to Agent Grant. What would he think? Probably that I don’t deserve it. That I’m overreaching.

If I wasn’t on edge, I’d laugh or cry. Here I am, standing on the brink of a career-altering opportunity, and all I can think about is the judgment of a man who has made it his life’s mission to make mine miserable.

Still, the idea of his reaction makes me hesitate. The look on his stupidly sharp, annoyingly handsome face when I tell himI’ve leapfrogged past his expectations? Almost worth the risk.Almost.

But my gut churns, warning me that this is too much, too soon. Opportunities like this aren’t handed out without strings attached.

"I’m honored," I say carefully, "but I think I need more time to grow into my current role before taking on something so significant. I want to be sure I’m truly ready."

Her smile doesn’t falter, but the gaze in her eyes shifts. A flash of something sharper, colder. "Of course," she says lightly. "Take your time. But let’s keep this conversation just between us for now, shall we?"

The knot in my stomach twists tighter. Not that I’d broadcast it to the entire agency, but this whole ordeal feels... wrong. It only amplifies the unease clawing at my chest.

"Understood, ma’am," I reply, keeping my expression neutral.

As I leave, the air in the suite feels stifling, too thick and perfumed. Everything about this place is too perfect. Too curated. It leaves an itch beneath my skin, one I can’t quite scratch.

On my way out, I nearly collide with Agent Harris. His sharp gaze snaps to mine, narrowing slightly.

"Agent Williams," he says, his tone clipped but not unkind. "What are you doing over here?"

The question is casual enough, but something about the way he looks at me makes my mouth go dry. For a moment, I consider telling him the truth and laying out the entire bizarre conversation with the First Lady. Despite everything, Harris has always seemed... decent. Straightforward. A hard-ass but fair.

But then her words echo in my mind.“The boys’ club is getting too big. It’s hard to know who you can trust.”

"The First Lady wanted to personally thank me for yesterday," I lie smoothly, forcing my lips into something resembling a smile. The guilt gnaws at me instantly, but I shove it down.

Harris studies me for a moment too long before nodding once. "Afternoon debrief is at 1500," he says. "Don’t be late."

"Yes, sir," I manage, and as he strides away, I can still feel his gaze like a weight on my back.

By the time I’m back in the West Wing, the unease is a constant hum beneath my skin. I try to shake it and focus on anything else, but the First Lady’s words and that too perfect smile cling to me, refusing to let go.

Something’s wrong. I don’t know what yet, but I can feel it. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s to trust my instincts. They’ve never let me down before.

***

I’m trying to focus on the simulation, trying to reset the damn thing, but my mind keeps drifting. The First Lady, her offer, and that strange, polished smile. None of that shit sits right. I should’ve felt flattered, but all I felt was thrown off.

I keep hearing Agent Grant’s voice in my head, his words echoing with disapproval.

I shake it off and reach for the start button when a smooth voice interrupts.

“Mind if I run it with you?”

I glance up, startled, and find myself staring into a pair of striking green eyes. His broad shoulders fill out his black T-shirt, similar to a certain asshole, and his long brown hair is pulled back into a casual bun. Unlike said asshole, he looks too laid-back for this place. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him during the debriefs or training.

He’s too good looking to miss.

If Luna were here, she’d tell me to ride him like a cowboy. And for once, I don’t think I’d be against the idea.

“Ezra Beckett,” he says with a casual smile, his gaze sliding over the room before landing squarely on me.

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