Page 33 of Sawyer
Security is a symphony when it finally harmonizes—layers of sensors humming, radios chiming, operators moving like perfectly rehearsed instruments. I’ve spent forty-eight hours fine-tuning that symphony and now, as dusk settles violet over Saint Pierce, it’s showtime.
Floodlights bathe Kingsley House in amber and pearl. The wrought-iron gates—reinforced, magnet-locked—clack open at precisely nineteen hundred. On cue, valet attendants in dove-gray uniforms glide forward. Orange Team patrols the perimeter in staggered overlap, short barrel rifles slung discreetly beneath their jackets, earpieces pulsing steady comm traffic in my ear.
“Command to?One,” Malik’s baritone crackles. “First limo inbound. Credentials match pre-registration. Proceed?”
“Proceed,” I answer, adjusting my tux jacket. The black Brioni hides a Kevlar lining—bullet-resistant elegance. Sig rides undermy left arm. Micro radio throat mic loops my collar. Show, but with teeth.
The limo glides past manicured topiary, and as it halts, I step forward. The door opens, and Gregory Kingsley emerges—navy tux cut to midwestern broadness, salt-and-pepper hair immaculate, trademark Kingsley tie-pin winking under the floodlight.
He spots my BRAVO badge, and smiles warmly. “Mr. Maddox, I presume.”
I nod, and extend a hand. “Good evening, sir. Welcome home.”
We shake. His grip is firm, boardroom-tested. “Camille assures me you’ve turned this place into Fort?Knox.”
“We prefer ‘art-centric fortress,’” I reply. He chuckles. Briefcase in left hand—could hide anything, but I know from pre-check it’s his speech notes. Two Kingsley aides exit behind him.
“I appreciate you keeping my daughter safe.” His tone drops, genuine. “That mural incident scared the hell out of me.”
“We have eyes everywhere tonight. Enjoy yourself.”
He nods, steps toward the red-carpeted entry. A camera flash pops. Reporters hover just outside the gate, blocked by barricades. Gregory lifts a courteous hand, then disappears inside.
I exhale, scan feeds on my wrist tablet. The interior ballroom cams show caterers aligning hors?d’oeuvres trays while the string quartet tunes. Good.
“Orange check,” I murmur. An echo of “clear” sounds from Rae, Andersson, Malik, Riggs at their posts.
And then, at the top of the grand staircase, she appears.
Camille descends like liquid midnight wrapped in sapphire. The gown hugs her torso, plunges at the back into a waterfall of silk that swishes against each step. Her hair is pinned in an intricate twist, leaving her neck—a delicate line I suddenly crave to taste—bared except for a single diamond drop necklace. Blue satin gloves kiss her elbows. Every flashbulb aims up, but I’m sunk too deep to notice anyone else.
My heart, usually a metronome, misses a beat.
She glances down, finds me by the door, and her smile detonates quietly—private, incendiary. For all my training, I stand rooted as she reaches the marble floor and glides toward me.
“You’re supposed to be invisible,” she teases, voice soft as the silk brushes the tile.
“Impossible tonight,” I say, tone failing to hide the awe. “You’re luminous.”
She flushes a rose tint. “Professional distance, remember?”
“Respectfully attempting,” I murmur.
Gregory reappears, and intercepts his daughter. “Pumpkin,” he says, proud grin wide. “You look stunning.”
“Dad, the nickname.” She cringes good-naturedly, then kisses his cheek. “Everything’s ready. AV has your mic.”
He nods, turning to Sawyer. “Keep her in that spotlight and off the tabloids, hm?”
“We’ll handle it.”
As Gregory mingles, Cam’s gaze returns to me. For a sliver of a moment, the party noise recedes, and we just breathe each other’s air.
Rae’s voice interrupts. “Ingress gate secure, Phase Two donors arriving.”
Duty first. I incline my head. “Time to shine. I’m two steps away if you need anything.”
She touches my forearm through my tux—two heartbeats, then she’s gone, floating into the throng.
