She gestures down her body with a sweep that catches on a dangling thread. “Then, because I’m broke, I went to the thrift store. Yes, I’m aware this isn’t your aesthetic. Tragic. Deal with it.”
“Broke?” I snort. “You’re not broke.”
“Iambroke.” She lifts the case like it’s evidence. “I didn’t spend a penny of this. Won’t spend a penny of this. You know why?”
“Let me guess—you’re about to tell me.”
She walks in—uninvited, of course—and slams the case onto my desk. The metallic echo fractures the stillness. My papers shift. My order fractures.
“Because,” she says, leaning forward, palms flat, nails bitten to the quick, “I’m not for sale.”
Her eyes are sharper than they should be for someone who almost died—green glass catching fire.
“Double or nothing,” she says. “I’d like to play again.”
The absolute fucking audacity.
“Are you insane?” My voice is ice. Even. Controlled. The kind of calm that precedes a kill shot. “You’re going to ruin everything.”
“Am I?” A challenge disguised as a question.
“You’re going to get yourself killed.”
She doesn’t blink.
“You’re going to getmekilled.”
Still nothing.
“You’re going to start a war that will?—”
“You stole from me.”
The interruption hits harder than a slap. I stop mid-sentence, air slicing through my teeth. Not fear—recognition.
“Excuse me?”
“You disappeared into the night while I was still unconscious.” Her voice climbs, but not in volume—in conviction. “Left me with notebooks full of—what even?Sentiments? Feelings?Little scraps of your goddamn soul scrawled between demerits and points?” She taps the desk—once, twice, again—each word a precise strike. “And then you vanish. Like I was some… limited-edition experiment that expired.”
She straightens, shoulders back, chin lifted. The same stance she used the first day—back when she thought she could bluff me. The stance of someone who refuses to fold.
“Well, let me tell you something, Mr. Mob Boss,” she says, voice steady now, dangerous in its restraint. “I’ve lost everything in the past five years?—”
“No.” My voice comes out harder than intended. Louder. The kind of loud that earns witnesses. I lower it fast. “You didn’t.”
“Oh really?”
“I just gave you?—”
“You justpaid me off!”
“That was thedeal!”
“No!” she insists. “That was the deal before you left me this case filled with money and feelings. Before you cataloged my heath on a minute-by-minute basis. Before you wrote sarcastic notes in shaky but still perfect handwriting, about how scared you were when I was dying!”
“Oh,” I huff out a breath. “You wish.”
“I wish?You are deliberately trying to terrify me, Emmaleen. Selective hearing is not an attractive quality, Emmaleen. Breathing is not optional, Emmaleen!You like me. No. You more than like me. You…”