I rehearse what I’ll say: The package is secure. No trouble. I’m useful. I’m loyal. I can do what you need.
Finally, he glances up. His gaze is sharp, appraising. “Is it done?” he asks.
“Yes.” My voice is steady. “Clean. No complications.”
He nods once, slow. The approval lands cold—like a medal pinned to someone else’s coat. “Good. I’ll let the buyersknow we’re ready to negotiate.” He gestures to the empty chair across from him, but doesn’t offer a smile.
I want praise. I want the smallest sign that what I’ve done means something beyond another task checked off. I want, desperately, for him to look at me the way he looks at the men he calls his own.
Instead, he’s already reaching for the next folder on his desk, shuffling papers, mind sliding away from me and onto the next transaction. The moment stretches, brittle. The lesson is clear: nothing is ever finished here. Usefulness is the only currency, and the price is always rising.
I turn to go, my shoes silent on the polished floor. I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that I’m not here to be loved. I’m here to deliver. And next time, I’ll be sharper, faster—whatever he wants.
Behind me, the lamp throws my shadow across the marble. My father doesn’t look up. Approval is a mirage, always just out of reach.
I walk back into the cold hush of the hall, already rehearsing what I’ll do next to stay indispensable.
Chapter Two - Leon
The shrill, slicing ring of my private line fractures the night in two.
I’m at home, glass of bourbon sweating on my desk, contracts splayed in a neat fan beneath the lamplight. Numbers and signatures blur at the edges—I’ve read the same clause three times—when the phone’s buzz cuts through everything civilized and small.
No one calls this line except trouble, and at this hour, trouble always knows my name.
Caller ID:Head of security. I don’t bother with pleasantries, just thumb the button and wait, tension already spooling tight. I expect a report on the clubs, maybe a minor fire in the warehouse district. Instead, the voice on the other end is clipped, all business.
“Nikola hasn’t come home, sir. Car untouched. His driver says he dismissed him before dinner. Last ping on his phone was downtown. No alarms, no sign of him at the apartment.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Nikola’s made a hobby of pushing limits, but he always makes it home—drunk, belligerent, occasionally bruised, but breathing and accounted for. The silence this time is worse than any angry call or desperate voicemail. My brother’s recklessness is predictable. His quiet is not.
“Keep this contained,” I say. “No calls to his friends. I want to see the footage first.”
The city outside is sleepless, but my house feels suddenly airless, rooms too large and cold. I close the contracts, leave the bourbon sweating in the dark, and by the time my car hits thedrive at headquarters, dread has gnawed through irritation and made itself at home.
My office is all glass and shadow, the hour pressing against the windows. The security station waits, glowing monitors set in a half circle, the staff at attention. I slide behind the desk, wave them silent, and cue up the relevant feed.
Nikola, in the soft light of the restaurant. That place—velvet banquettes, lights dim enough to flatter, crowd rich enough to keep secrets.
I watch him slide into the frame: jacket off, shirt collar undone, easy grin. He’s always been good at looking harmless. He’s even better at believing in it.
A woman stands beside him, petite and delicately built, her eyes round, posture all sweet uncertainty. She hesitates at the entrance—just long enough for the camera to catch it—then lets Nikola lead her inside. Her hand curls in the crook of his arm. She glances up at him with something that could be awe, or nerves, or the practiced choreography of a girl who knows how to play the part. My jaw ticks. Nikola’s taste in women is dangerously consistent.
“Zoom,” I order, voice low.
They bring up the external shot. Nikola and the girl—Suzy, the host’s reservation confirms—emerge together, laughter caught in a ghost of motion. Suzy’s hand on his sleeve, eyes shining.
She looks young, green, the kind of innocence that men like Nikola think is real. I can see the little tells he’s always fallen for—shy smile, shoulders drawn, a subtle lean toward the warmth of his body.
I scrub back, slow the feed to quarter-speed. I’ve seen this movie before. Something snags at the edges. I watch her walk—never faltering, never searching the corners. When Nikola steps away to tip the maître d’, Suzy’s gaze flicks across the lobby in a quick, surgical sweep. She doesn’t check for cameras. She knows exactly where they are.
I pause the frame. She looks beautiful in that slimline dress, curves and broad hips on display. Her mouth is soft, a hint of teeth in her smile, but her eyes—her eyes don’t match. There’s calculation there, a careful blankness. It prickles the skin at the back of my neck.
She leans in to whisper something, lips barely moving. Nikola laughs, body loosening; he thinks she’s nervous. He wants to protect her. I see the way her hand never leaves his arm, a subtle steering that keeps him turned away from the front windows.
Irritation curdles. “He always falls for the shy ones,” I mutter, watching my brother tip himself willingly toward the noose. The longer I replay the footage, the less convinced I am that I’m seeing what he saw.
There’s a moment—a minor thing, a tick of her chin as she leads him to the car. She’s deferential, fingers soft on his wrist, but her body’s angled, back straight, no fluttering nerves.
