Chapter 29
CONNOR
After Mila left, the room felt different.
Not empty—just quieter. Like the air itself was still holding the shape of her, the warmth of where she'd been standing, the echo of her voice saying I'll come back.
I stood there for a moment longer than I should have, watching the door she'd just walked through, and felt the pull of it. The instinct to follow. To keep her in my line of sight where I could protect her from everything the world might throw at her.
But that wasn't what she needed.
And it wasn't what I needed, either.
She was expanding. Moving forward. Living her life the way she deserved to—without shrinking herself to fit inside my fear. Without making herself smaller so I could feel like I was doing my job.
That took discipline on my part. A different kind than I was used to.
The kind that meant standing still when every fiber of my training screamed to move.
I exhaled slowly and turned back toward the room.
There was a knock at the door.
Measured. Precise. The kind that didn’t ask permission so much as announce presence.
“Come in,” I said.
Ellsworth stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him.
He moved with the same composed efficiency he always did, as if he were entering a drawing room instead of the aftermath of something that had cracked me open.
His hands settled behind his back out of habit, posture immaculate, eyes already assessing before they landed on me.
He didn't fill silence with unnecessary words. Didn't fidget or check his watch or shift his weight like most people did when they were uncomfortable. He just was—steady, patient, competent in a way that made you forget he was even there until the moment you needed him.
Which, I was beginning to realize, was exactly the point.
The best operators were like that. Present without being intrusive. Capable without needing to announce it. Ready without broadcasting readiness.
Ellsworth had that in spades.
"Ellsworth," I said.
"Sir."
I crossed the room and leaned against the desk, arms folded across my chest. The wood was cool under my palms, grounding.
"I need to ask you something," I said.
"Of course, sir."
I studied him for a moment—the crisp lines of his suit that never seemed to wrinkle no matter what he did, the graying hair combed neatly back from his forehead, the faint scar near his temple that suggested a life lived before this one.
A life that had involved more than tea service and pressed linens.
There was something about him that didn't quite fit the butler stereotype. Something in the way he moved—economical, precise, like a man who'd spent years learning to conserve energy for when it mattered most.
"What exactly are you allowed to do?" I asked bluntly.
He tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question from multiple angles. "In what capacity, sir?"
"As a butler."
"Ah." He cleared his throat delicately, his expression perfectly neutral.
"Well, sir, my duties generally encompass household management, meal preparation and service, coordinating logistics and transportation, maintaining absolute discretion regarding the affairs of the household, and ensuring that The Sanctuary operates smoothly in all respects. "
He paused, then added with just the faintest hint of a smile, "I also handle correspondence, manage the security systems, coordinate with local vendors, and ensure that linens are properly pressed."
I waited.
He was being deliberately obtuse. I could see it in the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. The slight gleam in his eye that suggested he was enjoying this little dance.
"Ellsworth," I said flatly. "What other things? Operational?"
His grin broke through then—slow, deliberate, utterly unrepentant. His eyes lit up with the kind of enthusiasm you'd expect from a much younger man. Someone who'd just been handed the keys to something dangerous and fun and long-awaited.
It transformed his face entirely. Made him look less like a dignified butler and more like what he probably actually was—a man who'd spent decades doing extremely illegal things in extremely dangerous places and had loved every second of it.
"Ah," he said again, this time with relish. "You mean the interesting bits."
"Yeah. The interesting bits."
He straightened slightly, his posture still impeccable, but there was something looser about him now. Like he'd just been given permission to drop a mask he'd been wearing since I met him. Like I'd just said the magic words that unlocked the real man underneath.
"I have free rein, sir," he said, and there was genuine satisfaction in his voice. "Within reason, of course. The Danes were quite clear when they extended the offer to join The Sanctuary initiative."
"Which was?"
"Accept at your own risk." His grin widened, showing teeth. "And I accepted before they'd finished explaining the parameters."
I huffed a short laugh despite myself. "Sounds about right."
Ellsworth's expression softened into something more genuine. More human. "I admire James Bond, sir. Always have. Since I was a boy watching Connery on the screen at the local cinema. The discipline. The resourcefulness. The unflappable composure under pressure. The sense of mission."
He paused, his gaze drifting briefly toward the window where Paris sprawled out below us, indifferent and beautiful.
"Not the womanizing, mind you," he continued.
"That's rather distasteful in practice. And the drinking—good Lord, the man's liver must be made of titanium.
But the rest? The ability to adapt to any situation.
To improvise with whatever's at hand. To serve something larger than oneself with unwavering commitment. "
His voice took on a quieter quality, something almost wistful.
"A man needs purpose, sir," he said. "Without it, we're just marking time until the clock runs out. And that's no way to live."
I understood that more than he knew.
More than I'd ever admitted to anyone except maybe Mila.
"I'd been bored to death in retirement," he admitted, and the words carried weight.
Real weight. The kind that comes from lived experience rather than casual complaint.
"Puttering about a flat in Chelsea. Same four walls every day.
Reading the same newspapers cover to cover even when there was nothing new to read.
Drinking the same tea at the same time every morning because what else was there to do?
Taking walks in the same park. Nodding at the same people. "
He shook his head slightly, as if still bewildered by how he'd ended up there.
"My wife passed seven years ago," he said quietly. "Breast cancer. Eighteen months from diagnosis to ... the end. We fought it every step of the way, but some battles aren't meant to be won."
I stayed silent, letting him talk.
"No children—we tried for years, but it wasn't in the cards. No grandchildren to spoil or embarrass with terrible jokes. No family dinners to organize. No reason to keep the flat tidy except habit."
His voice didn't waver, but I caught the weight beneath it.
The quiet grief of a man who'd built a life around someone and then had to learn how to live without them.
Who'd discovered that all the rituals and routines that had once meant something were suddenly just empty gestures performed for an audience that no longer existed.
"So, this," he said, gesturing vaguely around the room with one hand, "when Mr. Dane approached me, I hoped it might become my life. A second act, if you will. Something that matters. Something that requires the parts of me I thought I'd retired along with the uniform."
He met my eyes directly.
"Something worth getting out of bed for."
I nodded slowly, understanding settling into place like pieces of a puzzle I hadn't realized I was solving.
Ellsworth wasn't just a butler. He was a soldier without a war. An operator without a mission. A man with skills most people couldn't imagine and no outlet for them. And Micah—brilliant, calculating Micah—had recognized that and given him both a purpose and the freedom to pursue it.
"What did you do?" I asked. "Before this. Specifically."
"SAS," he said simply, and there was pride in it. Earned pride. "Twenty-two years. Started as regular army, then passed selection on my second attempt. Spent most of my career in counter-terrorism and covert operations."
He paused, considering how much to say.
"Mostly wet work, though we didn't call it that," he continued.
"Hostage rescue. Target elimination. Infiltration and exfiltration in denied territories.
The sort of thing that doesn't make it into the official record.
The sort of thing that gets filed under 'training exercise' if anyone asks, which they rarely do. "
"Iraq?" I asked.
"Three tours. Afghanistan as well. Northern Ireland before that, though that's dating me rather badly. Some other places that are best left unnamed."
I straightened slightly, respect shifting my posture. "You miss it."
"Every day, sir." His smile was faint but genuine. "The adrenaline. The clarity. Knowing exactly what needed to be done and having the skills to do it. Having brothers beside you who'd die for you without hesitation and knowing you'd do the same for them."
He adjusted his cufflinks—a small, precise gesture that somehow felt significant. Like he was buying himself a moment to gather his thoughts.
"Retirement is supposed to be restful," he said. "Everyone tells you that. Your commanding officer. Your mates. Your wife, if you're lucky enough to have one. They say you've earned it. That you've done your bit. That it's time to let younger men handle the sharp end."
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.