Where the blackout drapes are already drawn and the white noise machine is humming.
And where everything suddenly feels far too intimate and far too real.
When ‘shelter-in-place’ sounds professional until you’re actuallydoing it.
This is fine.
Totally fine.
I’m a professional.
The door closes behind us with a soft click.
Leaving only Ben.
Me.
And Marco.
27
Jess
I’m sitting on the floor of Marco Fiore’s primary suite at ten thirty at night trying very hard not to think about the fact I’m literally inside my boss’s bedroom during a media siege.
When “shelter-in-place” sounded professional until you’re actually doing it.
The white noise machine hums on low. Blackout drapes seal out the world. Ben’s sprawled across the bed like a tiny starfish, Frederick clutched to her chest, completely oblivious to the fact there are approximately seven paparazzi vehicles circling the block.
My phone buzzes. Filepe in the group chat.
Two more plates added. Recommend maintaining go-to-ground posture until dawn sweep.
Marco’s reading the same message on his screen, which lights his face in the dim light. His jaw tightens.
“Do you think they’ll leave by morning?” I ask quietly.
“Depends on whether they get better contentelsewhere.” His voice is tight. “Gianna’s monitoring the feeds. Let’s hope it’s not another ‘slow news’ day.”
I nod even though he’s not looking at me.
Ben shifts in her sleep and makes a soft sound that might be distress so I move to the edge of the bed instead.
“Hey sweetie,” I whisper. “You’re safe. Frederick’s got you.”
She settles. Burrows deeper into the pillow.
I stay crouched there for a minute, one hand on her shoulder, counting my own breaths. One, two, three. The Brave Rules work both ways.
When I glance back, Marco’s watching me. His expression warring between gratitude and something dangerous.
When your boss looks at you like you’re prey and you don’t entirely mind.
“I should take the floor,” I say, standing. “You take the bed with Ben.”
“Neither of us is taking the floor.” He gestures at the space. “There’s a reading chair. Window seat. We’ll make it work.”
“For how long though?” The question slips out before I can stop it. “Filepe said dawn sweep. That’s like, eight hours from now.”
