He leads me to a large mahogany desk positioned near another window this one farther down the hall. Files are already stacked there, waiting. He gestures for me to take one of the seats at the desk, but before I’m able to, there's a soft knock at the door.
A woman enters carrying a tray with tea and coffee. She sets it down without a word and leaves.
Ilay pours tea into one cup, coffee into another. He hands me the tea.
I take it, annoyed that he guessed correctly.
"So," I say, forcing myself back into work mode. "This property. You said it belonged to Professor Lev."
"It did," Ilay says, sinking into the chair across from me. He stretches, legs out, effortless. "He ran the biggest cybersecuritycompany in Europe. Built it from scratch. Genius, completely paranoid... but a genius all the same."
"And he's dead."
"Yes, he died Two months ago."
"Does he have children, family, a wife?"
"None." I frown. "What about the lover you mentioned?"
Ilay picks up his coffee and takes a slow sip. "Professor Lev was gay. Had a partner for nearly twenty years. But he didn't leave him anything in the will."
"Why not, that's diabolical?"
"Pride. Spite. Fear of judgment. Take your pick." Ilay sets his cup down. "The partner could contest it, but he hasn't. He's grieving and doesn't want the headache."
"So the property just sits there."
"Exactly." I lean back in my chair, studying him. "And you want it because...?"
"Because it's valuable," he says simply. "The company. The assets. The intellectual property. All of it unclaimed. Sitting there waiting for someone smart enough to take it."
"Or ruthless enough."
He smiles. "Semantics." I open the first file and start reading. Contracts. Deeds. Shell companies layered on top of offshore accounts layered on top of more shell companies. Legal jargon designed to confuse anyone who isn't a lawyer or a forensic accountant.
• • •
I don't notice time passing. I don't notice the small luxuries that quietly appear beside me on the desk, chocolate trufflesarranged on a delicate plate, tiny pastries stacked like little towers, a fresh cup of tea placed within reach every hour, steam curling lazily from its surface. By the time I look up, it's dark outside. My back aches and my eyes burn. Ilay walks in and stops beside my chair.
"You should stop," he says.
I shake my head. "I need to finish this."
"Your eyes are red."
"I'm fine." Before I can argue further, he bends down and scoops me out of the chair.
"Put me down," I say, smacking his chest with the file still in my hand.
He laughs. "I like when you touch me."
I stop hitting him immediately. He carries me out of the library and into a private elevator. We go up four floors. The doors open to a hallway lined with expensive art and doors that look like hotel suites.
"Where are you taking me?" I demand.
"To bed."
"Excuse me?"
