“Like I’m innocent.”
She laughs, short and sharp. “You’re part of it.”
“Does it matter?”
She studies me for a long moment. Silence stretches, thick as dust. Somewhere distant, a door slams. The sound echoes through the aisles, but neither of us moves.
“No,” she says finally. “It doesn’t.”
Her fingers reach for my wrist, brushing once. Not a caress.
A test.
Her grip is firm, her fingers cool against my fever-hot skin.
“If I do this,” she says, “I want access. Real access. Skip the tour. Skip the meeting. A door.”
“Name it.”
“Elena Moretti.”
The name lands like a blade.
She watches my face for hesitation. For the flinch that tells her she asked for something outside my reach.
I don’t give it to her.
I meet her eyes. “You know who that is.”
Her mouth tightens. “She’s the one everyone wants. She doesn’t take interns without a reference. Not even interviews. She doesn’t answer emails. She doesn’t answer anyone.”
“I know,” I say. “And I can be the reference.”
Her brows lift a fraction—surprise, sharp and fast—and she kills it almost immediately.
“You can’t just—”
“I can,” I cut in. “I will.”
“Because you know her,” she says, like she doesn’t quite believe it.
“Because I have access,” I correct. “And I’m spending it.”
She stares at me, searching for the catch. Finding none.
“You’re serious,” she says.
“Deadly serious.”
She lets go of my wrist, leaning back against the shelves again. The movement shifts her weight, bringing her hips closer to my hovering hand. I don’t pull away. I don’t touch her, either.
“Okay,” she says. “We have a deal.”
“We have a framework.”
“Same thing.”
“No.”
