Turns out preparing for a trip to a mythical lost civilization isn't as glamorous when you realize you're also apparently the kind of guy who owns multiple tailored suits and gets yelled at by his executive assistant.
Lara packed like she'd done this a hundred times—because she probably had. I, on the other hand, packed like someone who wasn't entirely sure if snow boots and tactical gear belonged in the same suitcase. I was still deciding if I needed a second scarf when my phone buzzed.
The name lit up the screen like a ghost from a life I didn't know I had: Cynthia – Executive Assistant.
Hesitating, I stared at the phone like it might self-destruct.
Then I picked up. "Yeah?"
There was a pause. A deadly one.
"Mr. Curry." Came Cynthia's voice, razor-sharp with the kind of polished anger only seasoned professionals and furious librarians could pull off. "Thank God. I was beginning to wonder if you'd been eaten by one of those bio-startups you keep throwing money at."
I blinked. "I—what?"
"Three days." She snapped. "Three days off the grid. No calls. No emails. Your calendar's on fire. You missed the quarterly briefing, your Zurich contact is threatening to pull out, and your name was floated in a Forbes piece this morning with the phrase 'possible breakdown.'"
"I—uh…" I rubbed the bridge of my nose. "Right. I meant to call you. Things have just been… a little hectic."
"Hectic?" She repeated. "You're a financial investor, sir. Not a field agent for the CIA. You should stop your 'vacations', and do some actual work."
Which was a fair point, all things considered.
I turned slightly, catching sight of myself in the mirror. Same face. Same pendant hanging around my neck. But the man looking back at me wasn't just some guy with a magical notebook and a good imagination. He was someone real. With a reputation. A company. A team. A Cynthia.
How much had I written into existence?
"You still there?" She barked.
"Yeah." I said quickly. "I'm alive. I promise. Just… taking a short trip."
"Urgh, Where?"
"Norway."
Another pause. "Of course you are."
She didn't even ask why.
"Move the Zurich call to next week, and tell the press I'm not dead."
"I'll see what I can do." She said dryly. "And Mr. Curry?"
"Yes?"
"Next time you plan to vanish into a blizzard of secrets, maybe drop a text."
The call ended.
I stared at the screen for a few more seconds, then slowly set the phone down.
Lara appeared in the doorway, carrying her gear and a single brow arched in amused curiosity. "You look like someone just found out they're secretly important."
"I think I am." I said, dazed.
"To your friends, or in general?"
I grinned. "Both."
She rolled her eyes. "Then let's make sure you don't die in a Norwegian ravine. Come on, Investor Man."
-----------------------------------
Lara dropped her new gear onto the hardwood like it owed her money. Still moping about what happened in the hotel two hours ago.
"They even took my underwear." She muttered, voice flat as deadpan gets.
I stopped mid-step, halfway through setting down a bag of high-altitude protein pouches. "Wait—seriously? All of it?"
She gave me a look. One of those slow, quiet glances that said, 'Keep talking, and you'll die in your sleep.'
I raised my hands. "Right. Sorry. Mourning your undergarments with the appropriate solemnity."
She sank into the couch, arms crossed. Her jaw was tense, her gaze fixed somewhere far off that had nothing to do with my overpriced ceiling.
"Weird, though." I said, sitting across from her. "I mean, who robs a hotel room that precisely? Like they had a shopping list."
"They asked the front desk if I was at the museum while saying they were my assistant." Her voice had gone cold. "Four hours ago."
That gave me pause. "Okay. That's more than just creepy. That's... targeted."
She didn't respond right away. Just pulled her hair back into a quick ponytail, tight and neat, like she was bracing for war.
Then, quietly: "I think it's the same people I ran into in Istanbul."
I blinked. "What happened in Istanbul?"
She glanced at me, sharp and assessing. But she didn't answer.
"Lara?" I prompted.
"I'll tell you on the plane." She said. "When we're not sitting in a living room where someone could be watching."
I nodded. That seemed fair. Also a little terrifying. Because we were currently in one my house.
"You still have your passport?" I asked, keeping my tone casual. "Or did the Underwear Bandit get that too?"
She patted the inside of her jacket. "Always on me. They'd have to chop off my arm to take it."
"Good. Let's avoid that level of drama for at least twenty-four hours."
She leaned back with a sigh, her boots propped up on my coffee table like she owned the place. "This trip was supposed to be quiet. Routine. Maybe even normal."
I snorted. "Ah yes, the ancient-civilization-hunting kind of normal."
She gave me a look. "You say that like you weren't the one who dragged me into this with your mystery maps."
Touché.
Still, I couldn't help a grin. "At least you've got a place to regroup. Fully stocked. High-tech security. No creepy fake assistants."
"Yet." She muttered.
I tossed her one of the protein bars. "Here. It's banana-flavored lies."
She caught it without looking. "This feels like a very elaborate setup just to kidnap me."
"Trust me, if I wanted to kidnap you, I'd start by not getting roasted by my executive assistant in front of you."
That got a small smile. Barely there, but I caught it.
She took a bite, chewing slowly. "Still don't know what to make of you."
"Same." I said. "But I did pick you out a backup toothbrush, so that's practically a love letter."
She stood, stretching like a cat who knew how to kill you. "Let's check the gear. I want to make sure we have everything before you try to flirt your way into another ambush."
I stood too, mock-saluting. "Yes, ma'am. Ready to risk frostbite, sabotage, and cursed relics at your side."
She paused. "Just don't slow me down, Investor Man."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
We shared a look. Not quite trust. But we were getting there.
And if we made it out of Norway alive, maybe she'd even forgive me for the underwear jokes.
Lara unzipped one of the gear bags like it had personally offended her. A second later, she held something up between two fingers like it might bite.
"Arthur." She said, her voice already walking the line between concern and resignation. "Why do we have a titanium diving knife with a built-in bottle opener?"
I looked up from where I was attempting to wrestle a bundle of rope back into a vaguely respectable shape. "In case we get ambushed by an aggressive bottle of champagne?"
She stared at me. Not impressed.
"I like to be prepared." I added, only slightly defensive.
"For what, exactly?" She asked, tossing the knife onto the table with a dramatic clink. "A Bond villain's birthday party?"
"Don't tempt me. I already bought the cake."
She moved on, rifling through the next bag with the efficiency of someone who's packed for the apocalypse at least three times this year. I was more of a grab-everything-that-sounds-cool kind of guy.
She pulled out a thick, dark suit and held it up. "Please tell me this isn't a heated wetsuit."
"It's a heated wetsuit." I confirmed. "Also bullet-resistant. Possibly shark-repellent."
"Is it penguin-repellent, too?"
"Should it be?"
Her eyes narrowed. "How many expeditions have you actually done?"
I pretended to think. "Do pool parties count?"
"Only if they ended in hypothermia and betrayal."
"Then quite a few actually. Just not in frozen deserts."
She shook her head and pulled out a second wetsuit. "Why did you get two?"
"In case the first one catches frostbite."
"They're wetsuits. They don't get frostbite."
"Not with that attitude."
There was a moment—just a flicker—where her lips twitched. Like a laugh tried to make a break for it and got tackled halfway out.
She set the wetsuits aside and kept digging. "Okay, what is this?" She asked, pulling out a massive drone that looked like it was designed to spy on Mars.
"That's Sir Flies-a-Lot." I said proudly.
She blinked at me. "You named it?"
"There's a Lady Buzzington in the next bag."
"I don't have time for this." She muttered, but I noticed she didn't put Sir Flies-a-Lot down. She just set him on the table with a little more care than necessary.
Then, suddenly, her entire posture shifted. Rigid spine. Tense shoulders. Something flickered behind her eyes—focus, sharp and sudden.
"You know we can't take a commercial flight." She said, not even looking at me. "Whoever broke into my hotel room—they're probably already watching the airports. They asked the staff if I'd gone to the museum. That was hours ago."
I straightened, more serious now. "Don't worry. I've got us covered."
She turned, one brow lifting skeptically. "You do?"
I nodded. "As soon as I landed, I called New York. My jet's on its way."
Her expression froze somewhere between disbelief and exasperated awe. "You have a jet?"
I shrugged. "Technically, it belongs to my companies. But it listens to me better than Cynthia does."
"Of course it does."
"I mainly wanted to see if it came with mood lighting and free snacks."
She blinked slowly. "So you summoned a private jet because you were curious about airplane snacks?"
"In my defense." I said. "It's a new jet. So it's supposed to have new snacks too. This is for science."
'And I never fly on a jet before.'
She looked me up and down like she was reassessing everything she thought she knew about me, which—fair—wasn't much.
"You're unbelievable."
"I've heard that before." I said with a grin.
She slung a bag over her shoulder with practiced ease. "Investor Man strikes again."
I gave her a mock salute. "At your service."
She passed by, muttering under her breath, "If you starts naming the socks, I'm out."
Too late. I'd already christened the thermal pair 'Frosty Justice'.
Lara crouched by the duffel bag like it had personally offended her sense of practicality. She pulled out a silver thermal blanket the size of a small tent and held it up with two fingers, the fabric crackling like guilt in a confessional.
"Arthur."
"Yes?"
"Are we planning to camp on a glacier or signal an alien mothership?"
"Little bit of both." I said, unbothered. "Can't be too careful with Norwegian winters."
She exhaled sharply, then dug deeper. Out came a pair of heated gloves—military grade. Good. Sensible.
Then the gloves were followed by… a scuba mask.
Lara held it up like she was expecting it to explain itself.
"We're not going diving." She said slowly.
"We might fall into something that requires diving." I offered, genuinely trying to sound helpful. "You never know when a hidden cave might flood."
She arched an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. Then her hand dove back in and came out with what looked like a mini blowtorch.
"That's for cutting through frozen locks." I explained before she could ask. "Or starting a fire. Or intimidating wildlife. Multipurpose."
She placed it beside her with delicate care, as if it might explode from sheer drama.
Next came thermal socks. Dozens. All neon-colored, some with motivational quotes.
"'Feel the Hill, Kill the Chill'? Seriously?" She muttered.
"Inspirational footwear is an underrated survival tool."
She was trying not to smile. I could tell. It was in the way her mouth twitched like a secret.
"So, is all this overkill, standard for you?" She asked, folding up a windbreaker that looked suspiciously reinforced with kevlar.
"Let's say I like being prepared. I've done expeditions before." I said, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. "But never anywhere this cold. I might've overcompensated."
"Might've?" She said, pulling out what could only be described as an inflatable thermal igloo.
"Okay, that one was a joke I bought to get a reaction from you."
She shook her head and zipped the bag shut. "Remind me never to let you pack for me."
"Oh, don't worry. I wouldn't dare touch your underwear drawer."
She paused, her expression deadpan. "They stole my underwear."
"Rude and criminal. Honestly, what is the world coming to?"
"They even took my backup sports bras. Do you know how hard it is to find ones that don't chafe in the jungle?"
"I can't say that I do." I said thoughtfully. "But I can empathize deeply as a man who once wore linen boxers on a boat in January."
She snorted and finally sat down on the edge of the couch, brushing her hair back with one hand. She looked exhausted but steady. Her kind of steady. The kind you got from patching up your own wounds on the side of a mountain.
"So." I said, easing down into the chair opposite her. "Lara Croft. I've read about your expeditions. But you're not exactly an open book."
"That's intentional."
"Still, I'm curious. You're not the version I remember hearing about."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Version?"
"Figure of speech." I lied smoothly. "Just… people talk. Everyone's got their myths. Some think you've fought cults in South America. Others say you discovered a temple inside an active volcano."
"Didn't happen." She said, shrugging. "Though I did get heatstroke in Ecuador once. Might be where the volcano thing came from."
"And no ancient curses? No glowing artifacts that whisper your name in the dark?"
"Nope. Just a lot of old stone, bad funding, and too many men with guns."
I tilted my head. "So you're saying it's all so… normal?"
"Mostly. I mean, some things I've found are hard to explain. But I prefer science over superstition. Less disappointing."
I smiled. "You're like an action movie filtered through a geology textbook."
"Better than being filtered through a comic book."
She said it with a smirk, and I was honestly impressed.
"Investor Man disapproves." I said solemnly.
She stared at me, clearly unamused.
"But Investor Man forgives."
"Investor Man is about to carry his own damn bags."
"Investor Man regrets everything."
-----------------------------------
The private terminal at Reagan National didn't smell like jet fuel or desperation like most airports I'd been dragged through. No, this place reeked of freshly ground espresso, polished leather, and the subtle, smug scent of wealth. Everything was clean lines and muted tones—charcoal and cream, brushed steel and floor-to-ceiling windows that let you watch your wallet take off before you even boarded.
It was quiet, like the lobby of an upscale hotel, but with more tailored suits and fewer smiles. Lara took it all in with that calculating, lowkey-jaded expression she wore when analyzing ancient ruins or overpriced croissants.
I followed her gaze toward a businessman arguing with his assistant over his dog's emotional support status. Another man nearby was typing furiously on three phones while sipping something that looked more expensive than my first car. The kind of place where no one asked questions—unless it was about your net worth.
People around us were dressed like they were auditioning for a billionaire reality show—tailored suits, sleek sunglasses, conversations spoken in whispers and worth millions. Lara gave them one glance and made a face like she'd bitten into a centuries-old lemon.
"This place is too clean." She muttered.
"Too clean?" I echoed.
"Yeah. Where's the panic? Where's the guy sprinting through security with one shoe? Where's the family yelling about missed flights and overpriced sandwiches?"
"This is where people fly when they don't miss flights. They just delay them until they feel emotionally ready."
She shook her head, muttering something British and biting under her breath. But her attention shifted fast—like it always did—when she caught sight of the tall figure pacing near the glass exit doors.
"Is that him?"
Max.
Thirty-two. Flight jacket. Casual scowl. The exact posture of a man whose soul had been worn down by years of sarcastic disappointment. His hair was rumpled from running a hand through it too many times, and when his eyes landed on me, they flared like someone watching a toddler juggle knives.
"Look who finally decided to grace us with his presence." Max called out. "I was supposed to pick you up somewhere else, but you left me in Bar Harbor with nothing but a fishing boat and a week-old baguette."
"Hey now, that baguette had character." I said, grinning as I walked toward him. "And you looked like you needed a little vacation."
"You said you were stepping out to 'get a coffee,' Arthur."
I raised a finger. "I never said I'd come back with it."
Max turned to Lara without missing a beat. "And you must be the real Dr. Croft."
Lara crossed her arms, one brow quirked. "You sound surprised."
"Oh, I am." He said flatly. "Last time he mentioned a 'Lara', she turned out to be a golden retriever he'd helped rescue in Peru."
"Max, that was two years ago." I protested. "And her name was Lana. Totally different phonetic vibe."
Max gave me the same look teachers give the kid who always volunteers to help just so he can steal chalk.
"I assume you've already told her nothing about how often you disappear." He said to no one in particular. Then, to Lara: "I'm Max. Pilot, glorified babysitter, and designated snitch to his assistant. Don't worry, she pays me in stress relief candles."
"You tell on me?" I asked, mock-wounded.
"She likes to know when her boss is jetting off to obscure locations with dangerous women and no itinerary."
Lara smiled, sharp. "Dangerous?"
Max tilted his head. "I mean… you're not not."
She looked proud.
Max turned, motioning toward the private jet gleaming under the afternoon sun like it had been waxed with unicorn tears. "Your flying midlife crisis awaits, sir."
"Oh good." I said. "It's been hours since my last identity crisis."
Lara leaned in as we followed Max. "Does he always report on you?"
"Every time I breathe in a suspicious pattern." I whispered. "He's the human version of a security breach. But he makes great cocktails and knows how to land a plane upside down. So I keep him."
Max, without turning: "I heard that."
"You were supposed to."
Lara smirked. "Investor Man really does have a sidekick."
"Investor Man has layers, thank you very much."
As we stepped onto the tarmac, the hum of engines echoed in the distance, warm wind brushing against us. Lara glanced at the sleek plane, then at me, eyes narrowed.
"You're enjoying this way too much."
"I enjoy very few things, Lara." I said solemnly. "This jet, messing with Max, and rare artifacts possibly cursed by ancient water gods. In that order."
Max sighed audibly ahead of us. "We're all going to die."