“That explains the adaptability.”
“And the language skills.”She meets my eyes.“What about you?Besides the obvious luxury empire inheritance.”
I lean back slightly.“You mean the notoriety I spent most of my twenties trying to escape.”
“Is that why you bought the club?”
“Partly.I wanted to prove I could build something independently.”I take a sip of wine, studying her face in the candlelight.“What I didn’t expect was to care so much about protecting it.”
“Or the people who trust you with their privacy.”
“Exactly.”The relief she still understands me hits deep.“Most people see The Sanctuary and assume it’s all about wealth and excess.But privacy—real privacy—is something money usually can’t buy.”
“And someone violated that.”
“Someone I trusted.”The betrayal still stings.“Eddie’s been with the club since before I owned it.I thought loyalty came with tenure.Obviously, I was wrong.”
“Loyalty has to be earned, not assumed.”She sets down her fork.“In the CIA, we learned that people’s motivations change.What drives someone one year might be completely different the next.”
“What drove you to leave?”
The question hangs between us.She’s quiet for a long moment, fingers tracing the stem of her wine glass.
“I got tired of becoming other people,” she says finally.“Every assignment required a new identity, a new personality.After a while, I wasn’t sure which parts of me were real anymore.”
“And now?”
“Now I get to be myself while still doing work that matters.”She glances around the kitchen, taking in the details—the appliances, the artwork, the view.“This is very you.”
“How can you tell?You barely know me.”I’m tossing her words back at her, if anything as a tease, because I don’t buy it.The intensity we shared over our weekend together doesn’t happen without getting to know the important parts.
“I know more than you think.”Her eyes return to mine.“Your art—you prefer modern pieces that make you think.They feed the image you cultivate; traditional works risk conveying age.The kitchen setup—you entertain, but intimately, not for show.The books I glimpsed in your living room—history, philosophy, some fiction.You’re more substantive than your reputation suggests.”
“What else do you see?”
“You’re lonely.”The words are soft but direct.“All this success, this enterprise you’re building, your bed is likely often filled, but I’m guessing you eat breakfast alone most mornings.”
The accuracy of her observation stuns.“And you?”The idea of her bed being filled regularly delivers a surge of undeserved jealousy.
“Lonely?Usually.But it’s my choice.”
“Is it?”
She considers this, taking another sip of wine.“Absolutely.The CIA practically demands it.I knew what I was getting into.I welcomed the independence.Honing my compartmentalization skills.”
“What changed?”
“I met someone who made me remember what connection felt like.”Her gaze doesn’t waver.“Don’t read into that.You’ve been honest with me, so I’m being honest with you.I spent two years convincing myself the career was worth it.”
“But it wasn’t.”
“A friend suggested there might be a better situation.I became disenchanted with the leadership within the CIA.I still value my independence—highly.I don’t need to be with anyone.Lonely implies something’s wrong with me, and that’s not the case.I’m happy.But I might have taken the compartmentalization to an unhealthy level.”
I reach across the table, covering her hand with mine.
“Brie.”Her name feels different now, more real than the alias Sophie, a lovely name, but I prefer the honest version.“What happens when this investigation is over?”
“I don’t know.”Her fingers turn under mine, palm to palm.“I’ve never mixed personal and professional before.”
