The car stopped outside my apartment as the rain came down harder.
He got out, circled to my side, umbrella already open. "Come on," he said.
I followed, grateful for the excuse to let someone else lead, just for a minute. He took my bags and walked me to my door, rain pattering on the umbrella, the silence loud in the small space between us.
At the entrance, I fumbled my keys. He took them, unlocked the door, and handed them back with a hint of a smile.
"You should sleep," he said. "You’re a menace when you’re sleep-deprived."
"I am always a menace." I stepped inside, braced against the ache in my sternum. "You’re not coming in?"
He looked at me like I’d offered him the world and he was too principled to take it. "You need rest."
I wanted to punch him. Or maybe cry. I settled for straightening my spine. "You’re impossible."
He smiled, just for a second, and then reached out. His hand touched my cheek, his palm warm, and he pressed his lips to my forehead, slow, deliberate, devastating.
I froze, every nerve ending in my body on fire. He let go, stepped back into the rain, and didn’t look back.
Inside, I collapsed against the door and tried to breathe.
I should have slept. Instead, I went back to going through company logs, tracing breadcrumbs like a woman possessed. Two hours later, my screen flashed: unauthorized entry, admin override. Username: Whitfield.
Harrison fucking Whitfield. The grandfather I never had, the "mentor" who sent me my first real pen. The one who told me I was "a breath of fresh air" at my first board meeting.
I stared at the evidence until the lines blurred, tears hot and vicious. Then I copied every file, every timestamp, every last ugly packet of proof, and slid them into a folder labeled "WAR."
In the end, there was only me, and a night full of the memory of Gabriel’s mouth on my skin, and a heart that didn’t know who to trust less: the people who’d raised me, or the one man who’d never once lied to me about what he wanted.
I shut the laptop, lay back on the bed, and didn’t dream at all.
*
My phone alarm shredded me out of oblivion at 5 a.m., less than two hours after I’d stopped staring at the ceiling. I dressed sharp: black sheath, white blazer, Louboutin stilettos with red soles that promised violence.
My eyes were swollen, my hair a fistful of static. I pulled it into a severe twist, fixed my eyeliner with military precision, and left my apartment, only stopping to get a to-go coffee large enough to euthanize a small horse.
By the time I hit the lobby, I’d read the same email from Harrison three times and still hadn’t decided if I wanted to murder him or myself. The elevators reflected my image back at me; expression impassive, shoulders back, don’t fuck with me stamped into every line of my face.
The doors opened, and there was Calvin. He’d worn a teal shirt with a pattern that had the power to induce migraines. His smile was a little too bright for the hour.
"Jesus, Eliza. Did you mug a cosmetics counter on the way here?"
I arched a brow. "Did you lose a bet?"
He followed me to my office, hands in his pockets, steps elastic as always. "You missed dinner last night. Mom was two drinks away from calling the police."
"Sorry," I said. "I was occupied."
His look sharpened. "Rough flight?"
"No."
He collapsed into the chair opposite my desk, still grinning. "Your poker face is slipping. Something is bothering you."
I didn’t answer. I set my bag down and started my computer. "What do you need, Calvin?"
He stretched, making a weird noise, and watched me like a hawk. "I need you to listen to your big brother for once. Something’s not right."