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Arden

I T’S NOT HERE.

The one thing that could send me spiraling into a frantic mess is nowhere to be found. Today, of all days. I can’t even blame the universe.

I’m pretty sure it’s just me at this point.

My bedroom looks like a Category 5 hurricane swept through it. The comforter is on the floor, my closet is half empty, and the pile of laundry threatens to topple over. I shove my hands through my freshly blow-dried hair, exasperated. Where is my black lace bra?

“ Please tell me you've seen my lucky bra,” I shout, emerging into the living room like a storm cloud.

My best friend and roommate, Luna, glances up from her laptop. She’s wearing baggy sweats and an oversized hoodie, and her hair is a wild mess tied up in a bun. Her green eyes flick over to me, then back to her screen, clearly unimpressed by my meltdown.

She’s a best-selling author who’s missed her deadline. Twice. Her agent has been on her ass to finish the final chapters of her latest historical fiction novel, but Luna is too afraid to admit she has the big “WB.”

We call it WB because the phrase “Writer’s Block” is as forbidden as He Who Shall Not Be Named in our apartment. Luna is the biggest Harry Potter fan I’ve ever met, so neither He Who Shall Not Be Named nor WB should ever be mentioned here.

And by ever, I mean never ever ever. Even if you were on fire and the last man on earth was He Who Shall Not Be Named, you must not be extinguished by said man.

You must accept your fate and be burned alive.

The last time I accidentally said his name, I almost was. Luna nearly kicked me out of the apartment, screaming bloody murder.

That was a fun one to explain to Helga, our eighty-three-year-old veteran neighbor. The poor lady thought it was finally time to pull out her revolver, which looked like it could’ve been a prop from an old Western movie.

I still haven’t forgiven Luna for how long it took me to convince Helga that no one was trying to break into her apartment and steal her “loot.”

“It’s in the dryer,” she says without missing a keystroke.

“No, it’s not,” I reply, already halfway back to double-check the dryer even though I’ve checked it twice. I’m certain it’s not there.

Luna’s voice calls out lazily behind me. “Then it grew legs and walked away.”

“You’re no help at all,” I call back as I yank open the dryer door, rummage through the pile of clothes again, and confirm what I already know. Not here. I march back into the living room, leveling her with an accusing glare.

“You’re sitting on it, aren’t you?”

It wouldn’t surprise me. Because of how vocal she is, I know exactly how she feels about the bra. She hates it and thinks I should have thrown it out ages ago.

Honestly, it’s seen better days. It’s ratty, and there’s a sizable hole near the clasp in the back, but that doesn’t matter to me.

Luna blinks innocently, her fingers still flying across the keyboard. “And why would I sit on your bra?”

“Because you’re a thief.” I narrow my eyes. “A sneaky, conniving thief who doesn’t believe in luck but can’t resist testing fate.”

Luna finally stops typing. “Arden. It’s just a bra.”

“It’s not just a bra!” I snap, gesturing wildly. I feel like a madwoman. “It’s the bra. The one I wore during every major test, every interview, every—”

“I know, I know. You’ve worn it at every weirdly specific life event, got it,” she interrupts, holding up a hand. “You look like a madwoman, you know that?”

“Maybe.” I cross my arms. “But if you know what’s good for you, you’ll hand it over.”

Luna leans back, smirking, and slowly raises a single eyebrow. “What’s it worth to you?”

“You’re the worst.”

She bursts out laughing, reaching behind her to pull the missing bra out from under a couch cushion. “Relax. It’s all yours, Agent Superstitious .”

I snatch it out of her hands, glaring, but I can’t stay mad. Luna has that effect. Her quick wit and effortless charm make it hard to hold a grudge.

“Thanks,” I grumble, slipping the bra on under my shirt.

As I slip into my blazer, I catch sight of Luna, her laptop balanced precariously on her knees. For as long as I’ve known her, she’s always been like that—completely at ease, even when the world feels like it’s caving in around her.

I’ve lived with her most of my life, but it never feels like enough time. She isn’t just my roommate. She’s my family. The one who’s always been there, steady as a heartbeat.

Luna didn’t have to let me stay back then. She didn’t have to share her parents, her home, or her life, but she did. And somehow, she made me feel like I belonged there and wasn’t just some kid they took in out of pity.

She’s been beside me every step of the way, reminding me who I am when I start to forget. And now, as I’m about to walk out that door to start a job I’m still not sure I deserve, her presence feels like the only thing keeping me grounded.

“Break a leg today,” she calls out as I dart back to my room to grab my heels. “And try not to trip over your own feet while you’re at it.”

I roll my eyes. “Noted.”

***

People love to talk about fresh starts like they’re some kind of gift. A reset. A chance to do things right this time.

But in my experience, a fresh start just means pretending the past doesn’t follow you through the door. It always does.

And today? Today’s no different.

I adjust my blazer again and step through the towering glass doors of headquarters. It’s all steel, silence, and too many reflective surfaces.

Inside, the air is cold and smells faintly of new furniture and nerves.

Mine included.

The click of my heels echoes across the marble floor, each step louder than it needs to be.

The woman at the front desk doesn’t bother looking up when I approach her. “Agent Arden Williams?”

“That’s me.”

“Conference Room A. Fifth floor.” She doesn’t point, doesn’t glance. Just goes back to typing, proving that customer service is truly a dying art.

I don’t expect red carpet treatment, but damn. A little human interaction wouldn’t kill her.

I head to the elevator and squeeze in beside a crowd of people in suits who all seem to know exactly where they’re going. I don’t. But that’s fine. I’ve never needed directions to figure out where I don’t belong.

The ride up is quiet, pressing into my skin like an itch I can’t reach. By the time I step off on the fifth floor, my nerves have cooled into something else entirely.

Focus. That’s what this takes. Not nerves. Not doubt. Just focus.

The conference room is massive. Floor-to-ceiling windows with a table long enough to host a summit. Sunlight pours in from each side, bouncing off every surface like it’s trying to blind me on purpose.

I barely have time to take it all in before the door opens behind me.

“Agent Williams?”

I turn to find an older man with a no-nonsense expression and penetrating gaze standing there. His hair is going gray around the edges, but nothing about him reads soft.

“I’m Supervisory Agent Patrick Harris. You’ll be reporting to me during the evaluation.”

I close the space between us and offer my hand. “Agent Harris. It’s a privilege.”

It’s the truth. I’ve read the stories. Heard the rumors. Special ops legend, war hero, all of it. The kind of man who doesn’t hand out praise or second chances.

Harris studies me for half a beat before handing over a badge. “We’ll see if you still think that in a few weeks.”

Fair enough.

I’m clipping the badge to my jacket when the door opens again. Two men enter. Both carry the same air of authority, but that’s where the similarities end.

The first one with dark hair, tailored suit, and a half-smirk that looks like it’s been earning him trouble since birth steps forward with an outstretched hand.

He reminds me of Luna.

“Agent Tate.”

I take it, my grip steady. “Arden Williams.”

“Welcome to the team.” His voice is smooth, like the kind that usually gets its way. But there’s something in his tone like he’s already measuring me.

I wish I could say that’s the first time I’ve felt that.

Since the beginning, it’s been a game of comparisons. Like I’m being weighed against a scale no one ever explains. I used to think it was because of how I looked—normally being one of the only Black women in a room full of people who aren’t. But this feels... different.

Behind him, the second man stays quiet. Taller. Broader. But there’s no charm in his expression, no effort to be approachable.

Where Tate radiates ease, this one is contained. Unmoving. Controlled in a way that makes you wonder what he’d look like if he wasn’t.

His suit is darker. His presence a little heavier. And when his icy blue eyes meet mine, I feel it.

A flicker. A pause.

He looks at me like he’s trying to solve a problem, and I can’t decide if I’m the problem or the solution.

“Agent Grant,” he says. His voice is low, gravel-lined, like he doesn’t speak unless there’s a reason.

The name lands like it has weight. Holden Grant. I know it. Everyone in the agency does.

Brilliant. Cold. Deadly.

And apparently exactly as unwelcoming in person as his reputation suggests.

I keep my expression neutral. “Pleasure.”

He doesn’t respond. Just drags his gaze over me once, then dismisses it like he expected more.

But instead of shrinking under the weight of his gaze, I meet it. Head-on. Maybe it’s pride or spite or something in the middle but I refuse to let him rattle me. If he’s looking for weakness, he’ll have to dig deeper than that.

The moment sticks longer than it should.

Something about him scrapes at my nerves. Not because of the way he looks at me, but because a part of me notices too much in return.

His face is like an impenetrable fortress. Infuriatingly unreadable but still annoyingly magnetic. The kind of man who knows exactly how much of himself to reveal. Which is nothing.

But those eyes? They’re the only thing that gives him away.

Tate hides a smirk behind a cough.

Harris doesn’t flinch. “Agent Park will join us shortly. For now, let’s begin.”

We take our seats. I don’t miss the way Grant sits across from me, hands still, gaze unbothered.

But I can feel it on me.

The silence drags for a moment before Harris speaks again, his voice harder now, professional, but with an edge that makes everything feel more serious. "I’m sure you’ve read the email, but I called this meeting to go over it with you again in person so there isn’t any confusion. You were selected for this opportunity because of your performance at the FLETC and Rowley. You and Agent Park were at the top of your class. You’ve been chosen for your high marks, skill sets, and ability to operate under pressure. But the real test begins now."

I press my tongue into my cheek, fighting the urge to ask the nagging question. Agent Park and I were at the top of our class with another woman. But she’s not here now.

She was good, right up there with me, and then, out of nowhere, she disappeared. Rumors started circulating. Whispers about her being exposed as some kind of spy. I didn’t believe them, of course. I was too busy trying to stay at the top of my own game. But I won’t lie, a part of me wonders.

No one’s said anything about her since, and I’m starting to think they never will.

But that question stays lodged in my throat. I can recognize now isn’t the time to ask about her, not when Harris’s eyes flick to me with expectation.

Harris lets his words hang in the air for a second before continuing. “However, this is not training you can just repeat if you fail. You’ll be evaluated based on how you perform in a series of real-life simulations in our training center. Your performance here will determine your readiness for what comes next.”

A brief flicker passes between Tate and Grant. I don’t have time to analyze it before Harris keeps going, delving into the specifics.

“You’ll be running through various scenarios that test your teamwork, decision-making under pressure, and most importantly, your ability to protect the president and the First Family behind the scenes. There are no second chances when it comes to lives on the line, so if you fail. You’re out.”

Harris’s gaze lands on me, colder now. “Your first simulation will start in a few days. You’ll be working with Agents Tate and Grant, but I’ll be in to oversee your progress. Keep up. Don’t disappoint me.”

I nod once, but the weight of the expectation settles on my chest. I can do this. I have to.

Before I can fully process what he just said, the door to the conference room opens again. A new man enters. He’s a little taller than I remember, with warm hazel eyes and features that give nothing away, but if my memory serves me right, I know there's something more. Something dangerous behind that stillness.

Agent Park.

“Agent Williams,” he says, nodding. “Good to see you again.”

“You too.”

He doesn’t offer a handshake. Neither do I.

Something unreadable passes between him and Grant. Not tension, exactly. Not warmth either.

Grant watches him closely, but his face stays neutral.

Harris speaks again. “This team is being built carefully. You’ll be tested, alone and together. We’re not looking for decent. We’re looking for exceptional. I expect you to act like it.”

Grant’s eyes land on me again. This time, they don’t move.

Challenge accepted.

“Dismissed,” Harris says, standing. “Schedules will be sent by end of day. And Agent Park, be on time next time.”

As we file out, Park falls in beside me.

“Well,” he says, voice light. “Should be fun.”

“Fun’s not the word I’d use.”

I glance back.

Grant’s still in the conference room, watching us leave.

Watching me.