“Why?Because I’m wealthy?”
“Because you’re a man.”
Fair.“Tell me about your real life.”
“There’s not much to tell.I work.I train.I read.Sometimes I play piano.”
“Lonely?”
“Productive.”
“You ever miss it?”I ask.“The life you had as Sophie Dubois?”
“Sometimes.”She’s quiet for half a block.“Not the lying.But the...fluidity.Being able to slip into a room and become whoever was needed.In truth, I still have that from time to time, depending on the assignment.”
“That’s not so different from what I do,” I say.“Every investor meeting, every club opening—I’m performing too.”
She glances at me, something like recognition in her eyes.“The difference is you believe your performance.I never do.”
“Maybe that’s why you’re better at it.”
We reach her building—prewar brick, elegant in its restraint.No doorman here.Just quiet authenticity.
“This is me,” she says simply.
She’s one step above me—just enough height that I have to tilt my head to meet her eyes.Just enough distance to keep me civilized.“Thank you.For trusting me with that.”
“Don’t read too much into it.”
But I do.
Every choice she’s made today means something.
“Brie,” I say, her name tasting different in the city bustle.“Whatever happens with the investigation—finding you again feels like the first good thing in years.”
Her expression softens; conflict etched in the glow of the afternoon sun.
“I have to go,” she says, not moving.
“Breakfast?”
“Office,” she counters.“You’re buying time.”
“I’m the client.”
She exhales, gaze dropping.“This can’t happen again.”
“Why?”
“Because it can’t.Tomorrow, we’re back to being professional.”
“I can be professional when required.”
“You’re at my residence—that’s not professional.”
I nod, though I’m not convinced.
She starts up the steps, then pauses.“For what it’s worth,” she says softly, “that weekend was real.But that’s all it was, and all it can be.”
