The room is quietly beautiful in that minimalist sort of way. A luxury hotel room made personal with light touches here and there. I’m scared to touch anything in case it shatters and I shatter with it.
There’s a closet full of clothes; crisp shirts, pressed trousers, and an intimidating lineup of suits that smell faintly of him, something deeply male and strangely clean. But tucked on a shelf beside them is a stack folded black T-shirts and soft grey sweatpants that look so ordinarily human that I have to touch them to make sure they’re real.
I strip off my uniform dress with shaking hands, letting the beads and sequins slide off my skin and puddle onto a chair like a shed snakeskin. The T-shirt is too big, the fabric brushing thetops of my thighs. The joggers are soft, loose around my hips and waist, and far too long.
I wrap my arms around myself and try to breathe. Think. Survive.
I have to get word to Gran. She will wake up, ask where I am, and no one will have an answer. The idea of her confused and alone rips something inside me wide open.
She hasn’t got long left.
Telling him that felt like signing my own death warrant, but maybe it’s the only reason I’m not a crumpled body beside a dead stranger in a cold room right now.
I head back out to the living space and pace the length of the glass wall, feet silent against the lush floor. The city outside looks unreal, like neon galaxies spinning in the desert. I wonder if my boss will even notice I never returned from filling the drinks order. Or if she’ll assume I just left. My tips were what kept Gran in a room with a window. In a bed that wasn’t the worst one available. Losing my job means losing that.
Means losing her.
A trembling breath escapes me. I press both hands to the glass, forehead resting there, eyes burning. I don’t cry, I can’t, but panic circles closer, sharp-toothed and relentless.
There has to be a way out.
Phone? That’s in my locker along with my life outside of this job. Colleagues? None who would risk their own skin. Security? They answer to him.
He said I was alive because I am his to deal with.
What happens when he decides dealing with me is too much effort?
The elevator dings.
I whirl around.
He steps in like a storm that’s spent itself on the world outside but refuses to weaken here. His shoulders are tense beneath the suit jacket; his jaw shadowed from hours that must have passed while I paced and waited for my heart to fail.
He looks exhausted.
It doesn’t fit him.
The man downstairs, the one who executed someone without so much as a raised heartbeat, is not supposed to look tired. Or human. Or touched by anything as ordinary as fatigue.
He drags a hand across his jaw, eyes flicking to me as though checking I’m still where he left me. Still breathing. Still under his control. But there’s something else, too. Something unsettled in the way he observes me, like he’s revisiting a decision he thought was final.
For a second, neither of us speaks.
Then he exhales, low and rough, and the sound skates down my spine.
“You are hungry,” he says, voice stripped down, quieter than before, like words cost him something he isn’t used to giving.
Of all the things he could say, questions, threats, commands, that one simple statement knocks me slightly off balance.
I swallow hard and take a moment to recall when I last ate anything substantial. I can’t remember. Maybe dinnertime with Gran? That’s right, I bought an extra plate so we could eat mashed up meat and overcooked vegetables together.
“Yes,” I admit.
His brows lift a fraction, like he didn’t expect honesty. Like he’s been bracing for more lies from me. He steps into the kitchen area, opening his shirt cuffs as he moves. I shouldn’tstare at the motion, shouldn’t notice how elegant and dangerous he looks when he rolls up his sleeves.
But I do.
He opens the fridge and pulls out a plate already wrapped, like someone anticipated he’d need food at an hour normal people are asleep. It smells good. Rich pasta and creamy sauce, my stomach twists painfully at the scent as it warms up in the microwave. When he sets it on the table with a glass of chilled white wine, I hesitate.
