Mr. Price

Rain lashed the cobblestone streets of London, drowning the city in flickering lanterns and the hollow echo of carriage wheels slicing through the storm.

Julian St. James sat in the corner of a parlor. Dark mahogany walls soaked up the little light in the room, turning it into a cavern of quiet opulence. The scent of aged whiskey and damp wool hanging in the air. He had been drowning in the quiet chaos of his own making—a man untethered, unmoored. A man who, despite his wealth, his status, his heritage, had no direction beyond the next wager, the next fight, the next momentary thrill to stave off the abyss.

Then, the door opened. Not with force, not with hesitation—but with intent.

A man entered, tall and rigid in posture, dressed in a sharply pressed three-piece suit, his polished shoes leaving no imprint on the water-slicked floor. His presence was an immediate disruption to the atmosphere of squandered potential and whispered scandal that surrounded Julian.

The stranger’s eyes, calculating and unblinking, fixed on him.

“Mr. St. James.” Even. Measured. A statement, not an introduction.

Julian exhaled through his nose, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before looking up.

“If you’re here to waste my time, I suggest you leave before I start charging for it.”

Mr. Price remained unfazed. “On the contrary, Mr. St. James. I am here to ensure your time is never wasted again.”

Julian raised a brow. “A valet? A solicitor? Or something in between?”

The man’s lips barely twitched. “Mr. Price. Consider me… a necessary asset.”

Julian studied him now—the precision of his stance, the confidence in his voice, the absolute certainty in his presence.

“And what exactly would you do for me, Mr. Price?”

Price leaned in just enough. “To keep you from drowning in your own brilliance, sir.”

A pause.

Then, against all better judgment, Julian grinned.