“I’ll survive.”
The taxi pulls to the curb. Kai opens the door and keeps a hand near my back as I climb in.
“Goodnight, Emma.”
“Goodnight, Kai.”
He closes the door and leans toward the driver. I can't hear what he says, but I see the cash pass between them. I lower the window to protest, but we start moving.
I watch him through the rear window. He stands there in the rain, white shirt plastered to his shoulders, watching the car until we turn the corner.
I pull his jacket tighter around me. My phone buzzes.
Unknown Number: Let me know you get home safe.
I save the contact asKai, Handkerchief Guy.
I’m almost home when I realize I’m still wearing his jacket.
Me: Oh no. I still have your jacket.
The three dots appear and disappear.
Kai: We’ll figure something out.
I am still smiling when I fall asleep that night, his jacket draped over the chair by my bed.
CHAPTER 6
THE BLUE STREAK
KAIDEN
The painting arrives atseven in the morning.
I have been awake for hours, reviewing the quarterly projections for our renewable energy division. The numbers are better than good. The kind of figures that will make my father choke on his morning scotch. Hammond Industries has spent the last decade swallowing every independent energy firm in nearby states, and six months ago, it completed the motherlode of mergers, controlling 90% of the basic services providers on the continent. Still, it’s not enough for Victor. ELK is one of the few pieces on the board he doesn't own, and these projections prove we are winning the war for the city’s future.
I direct the delivery team to the wall opposite my desk. I have kept it bare since I moved into this apartment three years ago. They work with a quiet efficiency, and within minutes, the crate is open, and the men are gone.
Gray. Charcoal. That single, defiant streak of blue cutting through the gloom.
I had called the gallery before leaving the museum that night. The curator tried to explain that it was part of a private collection on loan and not for sale. I gave him a number topass along to the owner, a figure high enough to end the conversation. He called back within the hour.
The painting hangs on the wall now, and I stand there longer than I should. My coffee grows cold in my hand.
I don't buy art. I don't wander the city on foot because my head is usually too loud to sit still. I am always strategic, always three steps ahead of the predator who shares my DNA.
Last night, I was none of those things.
Last night, I let a stranger give me a ticket for no reason. I ate a pastry because a woman with chocolate on her thumb told me to live dangerously. I caught her on a staircase and forgot to let go. The painting is the only proof that for one evening, I was someone who could exist in a moment without an agenda.
My phone buzzes on the desk. Then again. The third vibration follows quickly, the specific pattern Ethan uses when he is panicking.
Ethan: Board meeting moved to Friday
Ethan: Your father's doing
Ethan: He is bringing the heavy hitters. Lawyers. Forensic accountants.
