The assistant’s voice broke the quiet. “Mr. Simmons will see you now.”
Marshall rose smoothly, buttoned his jacket, and followed her down the corridor. He flagged the likely server room as he passed, unmarked but locked with an electronic keypad and swipe access.
The office was glass on three sides, a view of the river stretching wide beyond Simmons’s desk. Simmons was already standing, smiling that polished, too-white smile Marshall had seen on half a dozen men who thought they could read you by your handshake.
“Mr. Kincaid,” Simmons said warmly, offering his hand.
Marshall clasped it with practiced confidence. “Appreciate you making the time.”
“Always happy to make new connections.” Simmons gestured him into a chair.
The small talk began—fund performance, shifting allocations, where opportunities were ripest. Marshall let the man talk, asked a pointed question here and there, just enough to keep the mask in place. His real attention flicked past Simmons’s shoulder, to the corridor outside. He had to figureout a way to poke around the offices. They needed a list of potential assets before they could figure out who was on their side.
A woman with a dark blazer and her hair pulled back walked by quickly, clutching a file to her chest.
Marshall’s heart stopped and then started again, harder this time.
Norah.
For a moment he thought he’d imagined her. That she was just another shadow in his memory, conjured by this building. But she slowed outside the office door, her eyes flicking toward the elevators, then to Simmons’s office—then landing square on him.
Recognition flared, sharp and undeniable.
Marshall schooled his face into stillness. Simmons was still talking about bond exposure. Norah, however, had gone perfectly still in the doorway, like she’d stumbled into a nightmare she couldn’t step back out of.
“Ms. Winslow?” Simmons said, glancing up. “Did you need something?”
Her gaze snapped to Simmons, and she forced a thin smile. “I—sorry. I didn’t realize you were in a meeting.”
“This is Mr. Kincaid,” Simmons said, as if her presence was of no consequence. “We’re just discussing some possibilities.”
Marshall inclined his head politely, like she was no one to him. “Ms. Winslow,” he said evenly, the formality sounding strange. Norah. Babe. No-No. Love. He’d called her all of those a hundred times. Never Ms. Winslow.
If she flinched, she covered it well. “Mr. Kincaid.” Her tone was crisp, professional, but her eyes betrayed her. She knew very well that wasn’t his name. Would she blow his cover?
Simmons glanced between them. “Do you two know each other?”
“We’ve met briefly,” Marshall said smoothly, before she could speak. He didn’t give her room to contradict it. “Mutual friends.”
Norah hesitated a half-second too long before nodding. Her smile was tight, her knuckles white around the file. “Nice to see you. I’ll come back later, Jeff.”
Simmons waved her off, already turning back to Marshall. “She’s one of our sharper analysts. Very thorough.”
Marshall’s jaw ticked once. Thorough. Of course she was.
The conversation with Simmons limped on for another few minutes, but Marshall’s mind wasn’t on allocations anymore.
When Simmons rose to shake his hand again, Marshall obliged. He snaked his left hand to Simmon’s belt and deftly unhooked the Summit Capital ID badge that was clipped there. Simmons, oblivious, led him out into the corridor.
He didn’t look for her—he didn’t need to. She was there, waiting, file clutched tight, a storm in her eyes.
“Mr.Kincaid, could I have a moment?” she said pointedly. He finished tucking the badge into his pocket.
He paused. “Of course. Whatever you need.”
He met her eyes and for an instant the years between them vanished.
Up close, time showed itself in places you had to look to see them. The corners of her eyes held tiny creases. She had a few gray hairs where her hair parted and the color had grown out. She kept her shoulders squared like she’d learned the world pressed if you gave it an inch. The rest hadn’t changed.
