Each gift arrived with the same message:Rest. That's an order.
I changed into the robe, the cashmere soft against skin that knew only the starch of dress shirts. The touch of it against my shoulders reminded me of flannel sheets from my grandmother's house, winter in Montreal, and sleep without fear.
The bottle of wine breathed on the counter while I examined the book, fingers trembling slightly as I traced the signature on the title page. I'd never told anyone about my fascination with this novel, had never mentioned the battered paperback I'd hidden under my mattress as a teenager, reading by flashlight until dawn, heart racing at the relationship between Lestat and Louis. The control, the submission, the blood-bond that transcended time.
How had Algerone known? What else had he seen in me while I thought myself unreadable?
The wine tasted of oak and blackberries and memories of who I'd been when Algerone first claimed my loyalty. Young, hungry, and already shaped for service.
Late afternoon found me standing at the French doors in my study, gazing out at the manicured gardens behind the house. Three acres of meticulously maintained grounds spread before me with formal parterres, stone pathways, and a small reflecting pool centered around an antique fountain. A professional landscaping crew arrived every Tuesday and Friday. They worked silently while I watched from this same window, never speaking to them, never learning their names.
I'd owned this property for years but had never actually walked the grounds, had never knelt in the soil or pruned a rose bush or planted anything with my own hands. The garden existed as a status symbol, another box checked on the list of things a man in my position should possess.
What would it feel like, I wondered, to have dirt under my nails? To create something that grew rather than something that accumulated? Perhaps someday I might find out. The thought startled me with its unexpected appeal.
I moved to my desk, pulling out a notepad. My fingers itched for productivity and purpose. I began writing a to-do list for tomorrow. Security protocols to review. Assets to liquidate. Contingency plans for Macau. My handwriting grew smaller, tighter, more frantic with each item. The list stretched to a second page, then a third.
When I reached the bottom of the third page, I stared at what I'd created—a desperate attempt to reclaim control.
I was afraid of the stillness, terrified of the void that waited when the doing stopped.
A memory surfaced of Algerone, years ago, reviewing my first acquisition analysis. His approving nod. "Perfect, Maxime. This is why I keep you close." The rush of validation had been more potent than any drug, setting the pattern for decades to follow. Work, approval, and purpose in an endless cycle that defined my existence.
But now he wanted something else from me, something I wasn't sure I knew how to give.
I ripped the pages into tiny pieces, watching them scatter across the polished desktop like confetti in an act of rebellion against my own nature.
The couch called to me, its leather soft from the one indulgence I'd permitted myself when furnishing this space. I sat, then reclined, then sat back up again as a sudden rush ofanxiety propelled me to my feet. I paced the length of the living room, straightened a book on the shelf, and poured myself a glass of water I didn't drink.
I reached for my pen, but it slipped through my fingers, rolling beneath the coffee table. When I bent to retrieve it, pain lanced through my ribs, forcing a gasp. My body refused to cooperate, refused to let me work.
Eventually, I returned to the couch. I reclined again, the position sending only dull pain through my ribs rather than sharp agony.
"I am not tired," I told the empty room. But there was nowhere to go and nothing to do. The robe was warm. The air was quiet.
My eyes drifted to the ceiling, catching on a hairline crack I'd never noticed before. How long had it been there? What other details had I missed, rushing through this space without truly inhabiting it? The imperfection drew my gaze, a reminder that perfection was an illusion and control temporary.
My hand reached automatically for the tablet. I stopped short, fingers hovering over the glass. Not today, and not this time. I turned away from the screen, folded myself into the silence, and let the world spin without me.
A thought hit me with unexpected clarity, a question I'd never allowed myself to consider: What if there could be more than this?
My eyes closed. The world went dark.
I woke disoriented, theroom bathed in golden evening light. For one terrifying moment, I didn't know what day it was or what appointments I'd missed, or what crises remained unmanaged.
Then pain flared in my ribs, grounding me in the present. I'd slept, actually slept. Not the tactical four-hour rest I permitted each night or the calculated recovery period between tasks, but just sleep for its own sake.
I had done nothing. And the world hadn't ended.
I touched my face, finding a spot of dried saliva at the corner of my mouth. My hair, always perfectly arranged, felt rumpled against my fingertips. My body ached in ways I hadn't expected, but looser somehow, less clenched, as if my muscles had forgotten their constant vigilance for the first time in decades.
I couldn't remember dreaming, just emptiness, a black void of nothing, the first time my mind had truly quieted since I was a child.
I moved to the window, watching the sun sink behind the city skyline. Lights flickered on in office towers. Workers streamed out of buildings toward homes, families, and lives.
What would happen when I could no longer serve? When age or injury or circumstance removed my utility? What remained of Maxime St. Germain without Lucky Losers?
A memory surfaced of Xavier at twenty, brilliant and furious, challenging me across Algerone's desk: "You're just a function. There's no YOU in there at all."
