Jordan knew. She tried to warn me and like an idiot, I shut her out.
The truth spears me. Jordan’s not the problem. She’s the answer.
The woman I’ve treated like a liability is the only real asset I have in this job.
Kirill
The hotel room door swings open beneath my palm, and a hollow silence hits. Despite the early hour, the sheets on the bed remain undisturbed. The bathroom is unlit and dry, with no trace of steam lingering in the air.
For the space of a breath, my mind blanks.
She’s gone.
She probably fled the moment my shadow disappeared from the room. All the talk, all the reassurances…
I should have known better.
My fists clench, my knuckles popping with the urge to destroy. I force them open.
Focus. She’s on foot. She can’t have vanished.
I pivot and stride toward the elevator. The corridor feels too long, the pattern on the carpet writhing beneath each stride. Once I jam the button, the seconds crawl by, each tick heavier than the last.
Not this again. Not after everything. If Roman hears I lost her?—
The elevator opens. I enter and breathe, regulating my heartbeat and slowing everything down. Rushing creates more issues than it solves.
Mentally, I note all the hotel exits, the street perimeter, and the transport hubs. I took her credit card. Though she might have managed to collect some cash from a sympathetic conference attendee.
Jordan is sharp, but people always leave trails.
I’ll hunt her down.
The doors ding open on the lobby.
After checking left and right, I prowl into the open space and freeze.
There she is.
Sitting alone on an oversize couch with a mug of complimentary hot tea cupped in her hands and her legs folded. She watches the tide of people serenely, untouched by the current, her expression calm and meditative.
Discovering her like this throws me for a loop. I was ready for the struggle of dragging her back. Instead…
She’s waiting. For me.
How did I miss her on the way in?
I change direction, detouring to the coffee bar so I can blend in with the other customers. I order a black coffee from a barista who refuses eye contact and makes the drink with quick, nervous hands.
With the cup burning my palm, I approach the couch. Jordan doesn’t glance up, her eyes fixed on the motion of the lobby.
I sit at the far end of the sofa, leaving a space between us. “You were right.”
Only then does she peer over. She pauses, giving me nothing.
The coffee scalds my hands as I force myself to continue. “You told me that the estate can’t just be broken into.”
Her lips quirk in a barely there reaction. “No, you can’t break in. If you’d listened, you could’ve skipped an entire night staking the place out.” She sips more of her drink. “But you can get an invitation.”
