“Why?Are you married?”
She lifts her head, startled.“No.If I were, we wouldn’t have happened.I’m not what you want, Adrien.And you’re not what I want.”
It’s astonishing, the precision with which she can unmake me—one sentence, scalpel-sharp.
“We’re not good for each other.”
Then she’s gone, the door closing with a soft, final click.
I stand on the sidewalk longer than is reasonable, scanning windows.Third floor, maybe fourth—I don’t even know which apartment is hers.But I watch anyway, like some Victorian suitor waiting for a candle in the window.
The building keeps its secrets.So does she.
But she told me the truth about Monaco.And she let me walk her home.And those two things—small as they are—feel like hope.
When I finally hail a cab, the city glows around me—gold reflected off wet pavement, the last sunlight mirrored in glass.I carry the image of her face in that afternoon light, the one true thing in a world built on shine.
It’s not much.
But it’s a beginning.
ChapterTwelve
Brie
Quinn
You there?
Quinn’s message pulls me away from the romance novel I’ve been pretending to read for the past hour—some billionaire-meets-spy nonsense that hits uncomfortably close to home.Outside the window, the maple wedged between my building and the street tosses yellowed leaves into the wind.
Me
Yes.Should I log into the portal?
My socked feet pad across the aged wooden floor to my desk, where I bring my laptop to life.The phone rings, showing Quinn’s name, and I answer, setting the phone to speaker.
“You’re going to want to see this,” Quinn says.“You were right.Didn’t take long to solve this mystery.”
I’m in the portal, but the video feed hasn’t loaded.My fingers hover over the keyboard, waiting.
“Where am I looking?”
A message pops up with a link, and I click it.The window that opens is of a direct feed to the corridor with the server room.The timestamp is from six minutes earlier.
I watch as Edward Thorne—Eddie—taps the glass.His head turns, as if looking down the hall.He’s in a dark suit coat and trousers, and a three-button golf shirt.The door slides open, and he steps in.The door seals behind him.
“So he’s inside,” I say.“What’s he doing now?”I check the time: 1:36 p.m., Tuesday.The Sanctuary is closed to members; the kitchen crew should be prepping for dinner service.“Is security on site?”
“No.Security isn’t scheduled to arrive until four.”
That tracks.The manual says that security arrives an hour before guests to run through standard checks.The first member can arrive as early as five, when the club reopens for the week.On Tuesday evening, the club is partially open, with only one restaurant, one bar, and the spa by appointment only.
A message pops up on screen, and I click the link.The pop-up window shows him at the desk.
“Can you see what files he’s accessing?”
“So far he hasn’t logged into anything.It’s like he’s using this room as his office.”
