Brie moves through her apartment with clinical precision, latex gloves ghosting over every surface.Powder blooms, a fine constellation under angled light.I pray she’ll find something, though I already know we won’t.Watching her work reminds me how easily she could disappear again.Three years I spent chasing the negative space of a woman.Now she’s real, in danger, and I’m not letting her out of my sight.
On a high shelf sit two suitcases—one carry-on, one large.I pull down the larger and unzip it on the floor.When I kneel, a row of duffels comes into view—black, brown leather, floral.
Go bags?I’ve read plenty of thriller spy books, watched plenty of action films.Even if they’re packed to go, they’re packed with a purpose.Right now, I’m packing her for something else entirely.So I set to work, going through her clothes.Folds clean as scalpel lines.Fabric that doesn’t wrinkle, shoes that don’t slow you down.
Her closet is immaculate—clothes arranged by color; drawers divided like surgical trays.Even her perfumes are slim travel vials, not the ornamental bottles my mother collects.Everything here speaks of mobility, of a life designed to disappear.The thought unsettles me more than I care to admit.
If this is the life she’s chosen, I’m the fool trying to anchor a current.But I’ll be that fool.I’ve already lost her once.Now that I’ve found her, I’m not going to sit by while she takes unnecessary risks.
What if she’d walked in?Did the intruders have guns?Would they have shot her?Kidnapped her?She’s talking about a person or group with enough influence and power to threaten sitting U.S.senators.It’s quite possible these people are my customers—either in upscale fashion or at The Sanctuary.As a matter of business, I’ve studied these people to better understand their proclivities and desires, to better understand how to sell to them.These are people who want to be perceived as attractive—that’s the piece I market to, that everything from our advertisements to the experience we provide caters to.And for many, that’s as much as there is.But what happens when someone builds themselves up and reaches the top echelon, where every luxury and desire is catered to, if not by me, by others like me?It’s a lovely life.I know, I was born into it.
It’s so wonderful, in fact, it’s not hard to imagine that someone would go to great lengths to never lose this life.Some of the self-made men that I study, who we actually categorize into a different subset when defining our target audiences, what would they do to maintain wealth?And that’s what frightens me—because I know how simple corruption begins.A whisper.A favor.A wire.Because in my heart, I know what I’d do.It’s far too easy to make a phone call and wire funds.
The wheels roll over the uneven, weathered wood floor.She lingers by the piano, latex fingers brushing the keys without pressing them.One key sighs under the glove and then thinks better of it.The silence hums, filled with everything we haven’t said, tuned like a string about to sing.Brie looks up and peels off one of her latex gloves.
“How much did you pack?”
“Enough.There’s a car outside.Are you ready?”
She inhales, scanning the room.
“Did you get anything?”
“No.”She sounds defeated, but that’s the answer I expected.
“Did you expect to?”
“No.”
At least she recognizes what we’re up against.
She locks her apartment door and we descend.Outside her building, she scans the street thoroughly, as if expecting to spot a camera lens.A delivery truck idles too long.A man pretends to read a menu he never turns.I don’t slow, wheeling her bags to the trunk of the waiting sedan.I don’t doubt someone is out there.I don’t doubt they’ll follow.Hell, my driver might already be on someone’s payroll.
Let them learn she’s with me.My place is a fortress.No one crosses the threshold without my permission.Let them try the handle and taste their own audacity.
I hold the door for her and walk around to the back.
“Do you ever drive?”
“Occasionally.Parking’s a nightmare unless there’s valet.I keep a car here, two in France.Why—planning an escape?”
She smirks.“No.Just curious.”
I glance to the front of the car.There’s no divider.The rearview mirror is tilted just enough to be a question.The driver can hear everything we say.She must realize this, as we ride in silence, our hands close to each other on the center seat, but not touching.Static lifts the hairs on my wrist where her skin almost warms mine.
When we exit in front of my building, I thank the driver and lead her into the lobby.
I’m not familiar with the doorman, a thirty-something woman with a stocky build and dark hair pulled back into a tight bun, but I head directly to the counter.
“Hello, I’m Adrien d’Avricourt.”
“Oh, yes, Mr.d’Avricourt.I know who you are,” she smiles and her spine visibly straightens.“How can I help you?”
She knows who I am.That’s the extent of it.I haven’t dealt with the front desk in ages—my staff handles everything.
I gesture to Brie and say, “Ms.Anderson will be staying with me indefinitely.Please add her to my authorized access list.Restrict the elevator to my floor until further notice.No visitors without confirmation.”
The woman nods, already typing, her eyes darting up once to confirm she heard right.
