“Could be longer if the swarm doesn’t disperse.” He’s already texting Jag. I watch his thumbs move across the screen. Competent hands. Very distracting hands.
Focus, Jess.
My face heats. Thank God the lighting is dim enough to hide it.
“What are you thinking?” Marco asks without looking up.
That you have really attractive forearms and I’ma disaster. “Just wondering if this is what witness protection feels like. Except with better furniture and a five-year-old chaperone.”
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile.
The phone in his hand buzzes. He reads, then shows me the screen.
Jag: Street’s thinning slightly. Will run dawn curb sweep at 0600, advise status.
Marco: Copy. Holding go-to-ground until your all-clear. No exterior movement.
He pockets the phone. Moves to the window seat, the floor-to-ceiling blackout curtain beside him. Settles in like he’s planning to stay there all night.
Which he probably is.
Because that’s Marco. Control and vigilance wrapped in a Henley.
I take the reading chair. It’s one of those deep leather numbers that’s designed for someone approximately eight inches taller than me. My feet don’t quite touch the ground.
Marco’s phone buzzes. He reads, frowns, then looks up. “I got an update on what triggered the swarm. Finally.”
My stomach drops. “And?”
“Apparently, Kells’s decline piece got picked up by three aggregator sites.”
I cross my arms. “Wait, so it took your people this long to figure out it was just the same piece?”
He grimaces. “Apparently. They were looking for new information. Speaking of which, we did find another thing.”
Something in his tone makes me hesitant to ask. “What?”
“Another video,” he replies. “This oneabout you. That parasitic influencer again. Doubling down on the escort narrative.”
My face goes hot. Marlowe. Has to be.
“So basically a perfect storm,” I manage. “Aggregation plus algorithmic amplification.”
“Exactly.” His jaw tightens. “And now we wait for it to burn out.” He pauses. “You should try to sleep.”
I stare at him defiantly. “You should, too.”
“I will,” he counters. “Later.”
We sit in silence for maybe three minutes. Which feels like three thousand years when you’re hyper-aware of every sound, every breath, every shift of fabric.
Ben snores softly. The white noise machine doesn’t quite mask it.
“Can I ask you something?” My voice sounds too loud in the silence.
“Always.”
I tuck my legs under me. Try to sound casual even though my stomach’s doing that anxious flutter thing. “Why restaurants? Like, you could’ve done anything. Built any kind of empire. Why food?”
