“You don’t usually care.”
I don’t answer. Felix is my cousin, my strategist, and far too observant for comfort. If anyone is going to notice a crack in my armor, it’s Felix.
“She’s young,” Felix says quietly. “Reckless too, from the way she looked at you. You know better.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I turn to face him fully. “Drop it.”
Felix holds my gaze for a long moment, then nods once. “Dropped.”
It isn’t. We both know it. Felix will file this away, catalog it alongside every other detail he collects about the people in my orbit.
I don’t fault him for it. In our world, information is the only currency that matters.
Still, when I return to my office that night, I find myself pulling up Carmichael’s consulting firm on my computer. Scrolling through staff profiles. Looking for her name.
She isn’t listed. Of course she isn’t; she’s an intern. Temporary and irrelevant.
I close the browser and pour myself a drink I don’t finish.
***
Three days pass before I see her again.
I tell myself it’s coincidence. I have a site walkthrough scheduled at the Williamsburg property, a new acquisition that’s already drawing protest from community groups who don’t understand that progress requires sacrifice. The building is half gutted.
My project manager, Mitchell, is competent but unimaginative. I don’t need imagination. I need someone who follows orders and doesn’t ask questions about where the money comes from.
“We’re on schedule,” Mitchell says, leading me through the first floor. “Demo finished last week, permits cleared for the next phase. I’ve got the subcontractors lined up, and—”
“Who else is here?”
Mitchell blinks. “Sir?”
“The walkthrough. You scheduled it for this morning. Who else did you invite?”
“Just the usual: city inspector, the consulting firm handling community outreach, environmental assessment team.” Mitchell checks his tablet. “Carmichael’s group sent someone. Intern, I think. They wanted to observe the process, document compliance.”
Of course they did.
I keep my expression neutral, scanning the gutted space with practiced disinterest. Exposed beams overhead, concrete floors stripped bare, the smell of dust and old wood and something chemical I can’t name.
Light filters through windows still waiting for replacement, casting shadows across debris piles stacked along the walls.
I arranged this. Called Mitchell yesterday, suggested he invite Carmichael’s firm for transparency’s sake. Made it sound like good PR, community relations, the kind of performative openness that looks good in reports.
Mitchell bought it. He always does.
I hear her before I see her. “So you’re demolishing the original structure entirely?”
The voice is familiar: curious, pointed, laced with skepticism that isn’t quite hidden. I turn, and there she is.
Janice stands near the far corner, speaking with the environmental assessor. She’s dressed differently today—jeans that hug the generous swell of her hips and thighs, a button-down shirt that gapes slightly between buttons over the curve of her breasts, work boots that look borrowed. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she’s taking notes on the same tablet she’d clutched at the event.
She looks up, catches my gaze, and freezes.
