RUBY
The clock on my laptop read 9:47 p.m. when I allowed myself to pack up at the office. Miranda, my paralegal, nearly choked on her coffee when I announced I was heading home “early.” Her surprise was warranted—I haven’t left this early in months, maybe years. The truth is, I’ve been distracted for weeks, my mind wandering to the strange parade of limousines outside Athena’s house. They were there before, I suppose, but I never really noticed them until I complained about the music. Now it’s all I can think about. The precision of it all fascinates me—same time, same vehicles, and for what purpose?
I sit in my home office, reviewing merger documents while stealing glances at the circular drive next door through my window. The papers are spread across my desk in a display of industriousness, Post-its marking key sections that need attention. A half-written brief sits abandoned on my second monitor, cursor blinking.
The first limousine arrived ten minutes ago and a woman emerged, her face obscured by an umbrella wielded by the driver, which he handed off to asecurity guard who appeared from the house. The angle of the umbrella, the fluid transition from car to doorway—it spoke of practice and purpose, and it felt shady.
I take a sip of freshly brewed coffee—Ethiopian blend, Claire’s favorite. The familiar taste grounds me as I try to focus on the contract before me, its margins already bleeding red with my annotations. But then it happens. Another limousine, identical to the first, gliding up the drive.
“Seriously, Ruby?” I mutter to myself, but I get up to peer out the window anyway.
Four more vehicles arrive in quick succession, and each arrival follows the same routine—some women shield themselves with drivers’ umbrellas, while others clutch blazers or pashminas over their heads. I catch glimpses of their attire: tailored suits and cocktail dresses. Why are these women trying so hard not to be seen?
That’s when it hits me, the realization making me step back from the window, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. The property backs up against desert wilderness, a vast expanse of nothing. There’s just my house. My window, positioned to overlook Athena’s entrance like a theater box at the opera. The umbrellas aren’t for general privacy—they’re specifically blockingmyview.
My stomach twists. How long has Athena known I’ve been watching? Is that why she invited me for coffee that morning? To assess the nosy neighbor, figure out if I was a threat to whatever’s happening in that house? The thought makes me feel simultaneously foolish and increasingly intrigued.
Athena appears in her doorway, greeting another arrival. She’s wearing one of her signature white suits, immaculate as always, her wide-brimmed white hat tilted.Even from this distance, she emanates that particular energy—part mob boss, part Greek goddess. She turns, suddenly, and looks directly up at my window.
Fuck.My heart jumps into my throat, pounding against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. Do I duck away like a guilty neighbor caught peeping? Wave casually as if I just happened to be standing here, admiring the sunset two hours after it disappeared? Neither option seems particularly dignified.
Before I can decide, Athena raises her hand in greeting. Then she takes a few steps into her driveway, still looking up at me while she slides her hands into her pockets. Her posture suggests she’s waiting for something, expecting a response, and now I feel like I’m the one being watched.
I swallow hard and push open my window. The desert air rushes in, carrying the scent of the Mojave at night.
“Good evening, Ruby,” she calls up. “How about that coffee you promised me?”
My mouth goes dry. “You have company,” I call back, gesturing vaguely at her house.
She shakes her head. “They’ll be fine without me for a while. Let’s have a coffee.” Her tone leaves no room for negotiation. A pause, then, “Though perhaps something stronger might be better at this hour? I have an excellent bottle of Assyrtiko.”
I glance at my desk, at the pile of work. My coffee cup still steams, sending tendrils of aromatic mist into the air. “It’s a bit late for?—”
“For coffee, yes,” she interrupts. “But not for a nightcap. And we should talk, don’t you think?”
There it is. The conversation I’ve been dreading. The “mind your own business” talk that I absolutely deserve. Yether tone doesn’t match the rebuke I’m expecting. She sounds almost…amused. Playful, even.
“Give me ten minutes?” I reply, knowing I can’t get out of this.
“Excellent.” She smiles and it feels dangerous. She’s invited herself over and I clearly have no say in the matter. “I’ll bring a bottle.”
I close the window and lean against the wall, my heart still pounding hard. What am I doing? I should definitely not be having late-night drinks with my mysteriously magnetic neighbor who gets up to God knows what kind of shady business next door.
Everyone in Vegas knows about casino bosses—they operate in that gray space between legitimate business and something darker. They have their own rules, their own ways of handling problems. And I’ve just agreed to drinks with one who’s caught me spying on her business. The smart move would be to say I’ve changed my mind, cite work obligations. But there’s something in the way she looked at me, something that suggests saying no isn’t really an option anymore.
I swap my suit for black silk loungewear—still elegant but less formal. In the bathroom mirror, I pause to run a brush through my hair and touch up my lipstick. The woman staring back at me looks uncertain, and I don’t like that.
The gate buzzes exactly ten minutes later. I have to admire her timing. Athena steps into my foyer like she owns it, her presence immediately filling the space.
“I brought reinforcements,” she says, holding up two bottles, not one. A white leather carryall is slung over her arm. “Sometimes conversations require options.”
I lead her to my living room, acutely aware that Ihaven’t entertained anyone here since…well… The space feels foreign, as I never come here, struggling to face the furniture and the abstract paintings Claire and I chose together, the photographs of us, and the grand piano I haven’t touched in two years.
“Lovely home,” Athena says, but she’s not looking at the room. She’s watching me, those dark eyes missing nothing.
“Thank you. Shall we sit?” I gesture to the sofa, and she settles onto it, crossing her legs at the ankles. She sets both bottles on the coffee table—the promised Assyrtiko and an expensive Scotch.
“Options,” she says again. “Wine for pleasantries, Scotch for truth.”
