2. Jerome

Chapter 2

Jerome

A midst the sea of gowns and tuxedos, I observed every ripple of discomfort and unease, my gaze as sharp as an eagle among sparrows.

"Champagne, sir?"

I declined without breaking stride. No time for distractions tonight.

"Everything alright, Dawson?" My earpiece crackled with the voice of my colleague stationed across the room.

"Potentially. Monitor the duo by the stairs. Something's off."

"Copy that. Watching."

I continued to scan the room, each glance peeling back layers of facades to reveal the raw nerves beneath. It was in the way a gentleman's smile failed to reach his eyes, in the nervous laughter of a debutante, in the fidgeting of a businessman as he adjusted his tie for the tenth time.

Stay alert. Control the space, control the situation.

My observations were not just about spotting threats—they were about understanding the human psyche, predicting behavior before it unfolded. That was the key to preemptive protection. And I, with every fiber of my disciplined being, was a master of anticipation.

My gaze swept across the room, a silent sentinel amidst the laughter and clinking of champagne glasses. Despite the opulence, my posture remained unyieldingly professional—shoulders back, eyes sharp, movements fluid yet deliberate. My demeanor was an island of calm in a sea of festivity, betraying none of the tension that coiled within.

Focus. Eyes on the prize, Dawson.

It was then that the murmur of voices grew into something sharper. A raised voice sliced through the hum of conversation, carrying the unmistakable timbre of anger.

"Absolutely not! You're mistaken, and I won't stand for such accusations!"

My head turned towards the discordant note, eyes locating the source—a cluster of tuxedo-clad men near a velvet-draped window. Their faces were flushed, their gestures animated.

As I drew closer, the argument intensified.

"I know what I saw, and I'm telling you, it looked shady!"

"Your paranoia isn't my problem. Lower your voice before you cause a scene."

"Scene? I'll show you a scene if you don't start talking sense!"

"Enough." I reached the outer edge of the group. My presence alone seemed to act as a dampener, the heat of the quarrel diminishing as they became aware of my towering figure.

"Apologies." The fight draining from him under my steady gaze.

"Of course," the other man said, straightening his jacket as though trying to regain some semblance of dignity.

I watched them disperse, my keen eyes noting the lingering resentment, the clench of a jaw here, the tight grip of a fist there. Yet, the immediate threat passed, subdued by my intervention.

"Situation contained." I touched the discreet earpiece that kept me connected to the team.

"Copy that, Dawson. Good work."

"Excuse me, sir?"

The tone was respectful, tinged with a hint of uncertainty. I turned, my posture impeccable, my expression unreadable. The speaker was a man in his late fifties, graying at the temples but with an erect bearing that spoke of military discipline.

"Major Stevens," I acknowledged with a curt nod, recognizing the former officer despite the years that had passed since we'd last stood shoulder to shoulder.

"Never thought I'd see you in a suit," Major Stevens said, a wry smile playing on his lips. "You were always more comfortable in fatigues, out in the field."

"Times change, sir." My eyes, sharp as ever, flickered around the room, missing nothing.

"Indeed, they do," Stevens agreed, noting the vigilance in my stance. "I heard about your transition to private security. I must say, your reputation precedes you. It's comforting to know someone of your caliber is looking out for us tonight."

"Thank you, sir. I'm just doing my job."

"I remember when you saved our unit back in Kandahar. Took charge when everything went south. Your bravery and quick thinking were... well, they were something else."

For a fraction of a second, my composure wavered. Memories, unbidden and sharp as shrapnel, pierced the armor I wore—not of Kevlar, but of stoicism. My throat tightened. "It was a team effort, sir. I was only one part."

"Modesty. Another fine trait," Stevens remarked, his eyes holding respect and a depth of understanding that few could claim. "But don't sell yourself short. You made a difference."

"Making a difference is all any of us can hope for."

"Indeed. Well, I'll let you get back to it. Just wanted to express my gratitude, once again." Stevens extended his hand, which I accepted firmly, the handshake brief but conveying mutual respect.

"Enjoy your evening, sir," I managed, watching as Stevens melted back into the crowd.

Left alone with my thoughts for a moment, the weight of the past burst in, the pull of memories I kept locked away. I closed my eyes briefly, allowing myself this rare indulgence of reflection. When I opened them, the vulnerability had been banished, replaced by the unwavering gaze of a sentinel. Duty called me back, and I answered without hesitation, resuming my silent vigil over the oblivious guests.

I scanned the room—a reflex honed through countless hours of surveillance. There, on the fringes of the crowd, a man stood out—not for his attire, which was as tailored as any other guest's, but for the jittery tilt of his head, the way his gaze skittered from face to face, never settling, never engaging.

Something's off .

The man's hand darted to his pocket, then away, as if he were fighting an urge to check something hidden within. My pulse quickened, a silent drumbeat in my ears. Experience painted scenarios in rapid succession—none of them reassuring.

Maintaining a respectful distance, I shadowed the man, weaving through clusters of laughing patrons, my senses sharp. I noted the sheen of sweat on the man's brow despite the coolness of the ballroom, the rigid set of his shoulders.

"Excuse me, sir," I said, a hint of authority threading my calm exterior as I approached the stranger. "Is everything alright? You seem... troubled."

"Ah, no, I'm fine." He offered a shaky smile that didn't reach his darting eyes. "Just not fond of big crowds, you know?"

"Of course. If there's anything I can assist with, please don't hesitate to ask. It's my job to ensure everyone's comfort tonight."

"Thank you." The man turned away and resumed his nervous survey of the room.

My instincts refused to settle, a silent alarm that wouldn't be stilled by courteous words or forced smiles. As the man moved on, I lingered at the periphery, gaze locked onto the figure now threading through the crowd with a purpose that contradicted my earlier unease.

I'd be monitoring him.