A receipt on the nightstand catches bathroom light. Elite Companions SF. The man has an escort service on speed dial while he threatens to take custody of a child he has never raised. Everything about this room confirms what I already knew: Adrian Montrose treats women as property to be used and discarded.
The bathroom vent hums faintly, filling the silence I have made myself part of. I have not shifted position since I settled into this chair twenty minutes ago, when the leather groaned once beneath my weight and then accepted me.
Chesca's crooked butterfly. Angelina in my shirt, eating around the spinach I put in her eggs. The way she smiled—the real smile, the one she saves for mornings when the world has not found her yet.
My earpiece clicks.
"Target entering lobby." Vanessa's voice comes low, professional. "Private elevator. Two minutes."
"Copy. Going dark."
A pause. Her fingers hover over a keyboard, the faint tap audible through the connection.
"Team's on standby."
"Understood."
Click.The line goes dead.
I remove the earpiece. Set it on the side table next to my grandfather's tanto. The blade has traveled with me for twelve years—given the day I shipped out for basic, my father's reluctant acknowledgment of the path I had chosen.If you insiston being a soldier instead of honoring our traditions, at least carry this.I have maintained it. Never used it in the field. That would dishonor what it represents.
Tonight is different. Tonight is not the field. Tonight is family.
Somewhere below, the private elevator begins its ascent.
—Chesca's face when I handed her Aaron Bear this morning. The fear draining from her shoulders. "You got Aaron Bear!"
—Angelina's hand finding mine on the gearshift. Squeezing once.
—The deadly nightshade on the welcome mat. They were here. While we slept.
The elevator dings. Muffled through the penthouse door, but distinct.
Footsteps in the hallway. The confident stride of a man who owns every room he enters.
Keycard beep. Electronic chirp, green flash visible through the gap beneath the door.
The handle turns.
Come home, Adrian. I have been waiting for you.
Light spills in from the hallway. Adrian's silhouette fills the doorframe—tall, well-dressed, reaching for the light switch with casual certainty.
I do not move.
The door swings wider. Adrian's hand finds the switch.
Light floods the suite—warm amber from the designer fixtures.
I do not move. Let him see me.
Adrian freezes. Hand still on the switch. One heartbeat. Two.
Then his breeding kicks in, smoothing the shock from his expression the way someone smooths wrinkles from expensive fabric. His fingers drop from the switch with practiced calm.
"This is..." He pauses, adjusts his cufflinks. "Unexpected. I don't recall extending an invitation."
His voice holds that diplomatic smoothness—the tone of a man accustomed to controlling rooms through words alone. Amusement colors the edges, as if my presence is merely an inconvenience he will have addressed by morning.