I grip the door handle until my knuckles whiten, counting the vertical bars of the security gate behind the shop’s frontentrance. One, two, three. By seven, my jaw unclenches. Logically, I get it. He’s the client. I’m playing… what, exactly? Silent accessory?Witness?
Either way, I don’t particularly enjoy it. But I can be a team player for the day.
I click my seatbelt release with more force than necessary. “Yeah, I remember the plan.”
“Wait. We’re not parking here.” He waits for me to buckle before pulling back onto the street. Two blocks later, he throws his car in park and kills the engine.
I step out and morning air hits like cold water—exhaust fumes mingling with salt that coats the back of my throat. Cruz moves around the hood in measured steps, fingers splayed slightly at his sides, like he’s ready for anything on our short walk to meet the fence.
Pacific Trade swallows us into a glass box—three transparent walls, one exit, nowhere to hide. A camera’s red light blinks in the corner. My fingertips brush against cool metal when I pass the security panel. The outer door seals with a mechanical hiss, and suddenly the world outside becomes muffled.
My eyes track the camera’s slow pan without turning my head. The security panel gleams under fluorescents, brushed metal with no visible screws. Twenty feet of empty space stretches between us and the inner door—no furniture or decor anywhere. Just polished concrete.
Time stretches, and I sneak a glance at Cruz. His left hand disappears into his pocket while his right hand hands at his side, fingers half-curled. A muscle in his jaw flutters even as he never loses his unaffected posture, like he’s not mentally tallying up the amount of time they’re making us wait in this vestibule.
Finally, a soft buzz cuts through the quiet, the lock clicks, and the inner door opens.
We step into a short foyer with a staircase rising along the far wall, and there, halfway up the stairs, a woman appears and stops. She doesn’t rush. She simply plants herself in the middle of the steps and looks at Cruz as if she’s deciding whether he is worth the interruption.
“Cruz Calloway,” she says. Her voice is smooth and professional, and without an ounce of charm. “You don’t have an appointment.”
I glance at Cruz. His shoulders drop a quarter inch, and the corners of his eyes soften just enough that you’d miss it if you weren’t looking. The line of his mouth curves—not a smile, exactly, but a promise of one. His voice, when it comes, slides lower, smoother, like expensive whiskey poured over ice.
“Was hoping Madeline might make an exception,” he says, hands slipping casually into his pockets. “It’s worth her time.”
The woman’s gaze lingers on him for three full seconds before sliding to me. Her eyes roam over my face before sliding down to my toes, and then back up. My skin prickles beneath my shirt, and I meet her stare and keep my expression blank.
She pivots on red-bottomed heels that click precisely against each step as she ascends. “I’ll see if she’s available.”
We follow her to the second floor and into a waiting area where cream chairs sit so pristine I hesitate before lowering myself onto one. Abstract paintings hang in heavy frames that probably cost more than my rent—all soft blues and greens that remind me of expensive spa brochures. On the table, five leather-bound books form a perfect pentagon, their spines uncracked, pages crisp.
The air feels different here—my footsteps make no sound against the carpet. Even my breathing seems to disappear into the walls.
I sit beside Cruz, cataloging exits. One door behind us. Another visible only in the reflection of a glass frame hangingopposite. My gaze catches on a small camera nestled in the crown molding, lens barely visible behind decorative scrollwork. The hallway ahead narrows to shoulder-width, barely enough room to pass someone without touching.
Cruz’s knee brushes mine as he shifts, his fingertips tapping once against his thigh. We wait in silence, surrounded by beautiful things that are really just expensive warnings.
Finally, a woman emerges from the door, blonde waves catching the light as she crosses the threshold. Her heels sink into the carpet without sound, but her gaze lands heavy. She moves like someone who’s never questioned whether a room belongs to her.
“Cruz Calloway, I thought that was you,” she says, her voice dipping low on his last name, stretching out the vowels. Her lips curve upward at the corners.
Cruz’s shoulders straighten almost imperceptibly. “Portia.”
“I’m afraid Madeline’s unavailable.” Her fingertips trail along the doorframe. “But you know I’ll clear my schedule for you.” She winks, pivots on one heel, and walks back through the doorway, leaving it open behind her.
I can’t tell if she’s flirting with him or this is some kind of flex happening, but whatever it is, it’s setting my nerves on edge.
My jaw tightens. My fingernails press half-moons into my palm.
“Thank you, Portia.”
She pauses, looking back over one shoulder. “Always so…well-mannered.” Her tongue touches her upper lip briefly before she disappears into the office.
We follow her into the office. Sunlight slices through the windows behind the desk, catching dust motes that dance and disappear before reaching the carpet. Her silhouette sits backlit, face in shadow while mine squints against the glare. The desk between us gleams obsidian-dark, its surface reflecting my facein warped miniature. Not a paper clip out of place. Not a pen without its cap. The wood feels cold when my fingertips accidentally brush it.
Cruz settles into the chair beside me, the leather exhaling softly beneath his weight.
Portia places her palms flat on the desk surface, manicured nails tapping once before going still.
