My decisions.My choice.
Still wrapped in a towel, I drag the brush through my hair, each stroke clearing more than tangles.
Then the familiar ritual: a sweep of mascara, a hint of gloss.
For a moment, I think I hear the door.
“Beckett?” I call out.
No answer. And when I step back into the room, it’s still empty.
But then, I see it.
Neatly laid out on the bed:
A flowing white dress, gauzy and romantic, the kind I’ve seen vendors selling along the resort path.
A note, propped up beside it.
“Reservation’s at 6:30. Meet me in the lobby.
Love, Bex.”
ACCESS DENIED
BECKETT
She disappears behind the elevator doors before I can say anything.
She saw it. The headline.
I saw the way her eyes narrowed, tracking the ticker like she was reading between the lines.
I don’t blame her. She’s not wrong.
And I’m done pretending I have time to be careful.
The hotel’s business center is nearly empty—just rows of vacant desks and humming machines behind a glass wall near the lobby bar. I slide into a corner workstation, roll my shoulders once, and take a breath.
This is it.
No more soft entry. No more waiting for a safer window.
I wake up the screen, pull up the browser, and navigate to the Midtown internal portal. My credentials slide through. Easy. Routine. I’ve done this a thousand times.
But the next step?
Different username. Different password.
Access I was never supposed to have.
I don’t pause to justify it. I don’t have to.
This is the only play left.
The dashboard loads—slow, lagging under the weight of its own secrets.
I set the date range. Targeted. Specific. The ones I found last night, and more.
