Professional Integrity

The email popped into his inbox scarcely a month after his last contract ended, subject reading: EMPLOYMENT INQUIRY. He thumbed across his cell phone lazily, draped snakelike in his bed.

It wasn't the first time he'd received an employment offer from someone so famous. His services were invaluable to those in the spotlight. If you needed someone to trace threats and negate them before they even registered, he was your man. He scrubbed offensive messages from social media, chased leads with precision, and enjoyed it the whole damn while. What was someone else's nightmare was his good time.

The actor's name rang a bell: James Matthews. A quick google search later, and he'd gleaned several bits of information. One, he'd been in a bunch of high profile action movies and was widely considered a 'hunk'. Two, he'd just gotten married to a childhood friend, a lovely looking woman who his eyes lingered over.

And the offer wasn't for him to protect the actor. No. This was entirely about his wife.

"She's getting a lot of threats," Mr. Matthews' manager sighed in the interview. "You know the sort of thing. Heartthrob gets married, the fans lose their minds, so on."

"Seen it before." Mitsuhide nursed his coffee. "Anything else I need to know?"

"You'll be doing a lot of hospital detail."

Mitsuhide frowned. "I'm sorry to hear that. May I ask why?"

The manager chewed on the end of a pen cap. At last, they sighed. "Mr. Matthews was diagnosed with stomach cancer last month. His prognosis is... not excellent."

Oh. Well, that certainly changed things. "I'm sorry indeed. When should I be starting?"

Mrs. Matthews was not one of the Hollywood elite. As near as Mitsuhide could tell, she was a banking teller well up until her rushed wedding a month ago. She had long hair that threaded around her shoulders, dark, soft eyes, and long eyelashes. Everyone affectionately referred to her as 'Princess', for reasons he wasn't certain of and didn't bother asking after. He had a job to do, and precious little of that involved getting to really know his charge.

"Mitsuhide Akechi." He introduced himself with a shake of her hand and a thin smile.

"Goodness." She laughed, a tinge of sadness and fatigue hovering just around the fine lines of her mouth. Her voice was sweet and stable, like someone used to holding their own. "I love the name."

"Familial name. It's been passed down a bit."

"James would come and meet you, but..." The smile wilted a fraction. "You've already been appraised?"

"Mm, yes. My condolences. This is a difficult time for you both."

She didn't answer that, but her eyes told a story difficult to miss. "Well, at this point, all we can do is pray."

He spent every morning scrubbing her social media.

Whore. Gold digger. She's not even pretty. Just using him for his money... and they vanished with a click. Mitsuhide took a sip of coffee and calmly waded through the barrage of insults, barely impacted by them. He wasn't even sure she was checking her accounts, anyway. They spent most mornings together in the hospital, listening to the rush of doctors and a barrage of medical information. Mitsuhide wasn't privy to most of it. He sat in a chair outside the door, calmly checking I.D.s before allowing them access.

Still, meager though his involvement was with the couple, he realized the dynamic wasn't what he'd thought it was. They weren't married, per se. At least, they certainly weren't married for love. Oh, there was love alright. He saw it in the ways her eyes were bloodshot and tired every night when he escorted her from the hospital, how she cried on the phone to her best friend Sasuke, the way she sat in eternal stillness in front of the TV at home, barely absorbing the comedy on the screen. They had affection for each other. But in love? No.