“Of course.” Julia’s smile is serene, her tone breezy, as if we’ve been discussing nothing more significant than the weather. “Kevin will escort you out. And Miss Baxter?”
I pause at the door, wondering what other shit she’s going to sling my way.
“Remember what I showed you today. The chair. The monitors. The systems that keep him stable. I’ve spent years building Vanguard into what he is. I will not let anyone—anyone—undo that work. Professional courtesy.”
I hold her gaze for a long moment and then nod once and walk out.
Kevin materializes to guide me back to the lobby, making pleasant small talk that I respond to on autopilot. My mind is on the chair with its restraints and electrodes, on the tanks ofgrowing tissue, on the screens tracking every beat of Vanguard’s heart and every fluctuation of his brain.
On the data that was too detailed to come from just a watch.
What did they put inside him?
Does he know?
And if I tell him—if I voice my suspicions—what happens then?
CHAPTER 19
MIA
I emergeout of Global Dynamix and into the bright afternoon, blinking against the sunlight, feeling like I’ve just escaped from an underground bunker turned torture chamber.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I bring it out.
How was your tour? Did she show you the chair?
Nate. I stare at the message, my heart pounding. He knows about the chair. Of course he does—he sits in it every month. But does he know about everything else? The monitoring that goes beyond his watch?
I’m still deciding how to respond when his sleek hover car glides to a stop at the curb in front of me. The window slides down smoothly, revealing a familiar face.
“Miss Baxter.” Danny grins at me from the driver’s seat. “Need a lift?”
I glance back at the Global Dynamix tower, then at the car. “Did Vanguard send you?”
“He might have mentioned you’d be finishing up around now.” Danny’s grin widens. “Said you might need rescuing from corporate purgatory.”
Don’t get in the car. Go back to the hotel. Have your interview in public.
Be professional.
Professional. Cold. Operative.
But my feet are already moving toward the vehicle, my hand already reaching for the door handle.
“Where are we going?” I ask as I slide into the back seat.
“Where do you think?”
The car lifts smoothly into the sky, and for once, it doesn’t make me anxious. Not when I have so much more to be anxious about.
Kat is going to kill me.
So, I reach up and twist my earrings all the way off. No more sending, no more receiving.
Sorry, guys, I think. At least I’m sparing Bayo years of therapy.
The flight to Vanguard’s penthouse takes less than ten minutes. Danny sets us down on a private landing pad, all gleaming metal and potted plants that sway in the high wind, and gestures toward a glass door.
