CHAPTER 3: The Tower.

"Yes"

I accepted the contract.

---

The car stopped. I didn't move.

Blackwood Tower rose through the windshield, seventy floors of glass and steel that bent the light wrong. The driver opened my door. Humidity hit like a wet hand, August in New York, pressing my blouse to my spine.

Alexander hadn't spoken since the airport. He sat on his side of the seat, blue eyes on his phone, thumb moving in patterns that suggested he was deleting more than he was writing.

"Sixty-fifth floor," he said, not looking up. "Marcus has the key. I have meetings."

"That's it?"

Now he looked. The blue eyes were winter again, the color of depths that didn't forgive. "You signed. I delivered. What more do you want?"

I got out. The car pulled away before I'd found my balance on the sidewalk, leaving me with one bag, yesterday's clothes, and a contract that turned me into someone I didn't recognize.

The lobby swallowed me. Marble, security, a desk where three men watched without appearing to. I walked to the elevator bank, found the one with a keycard slot, stood there like an idiot until Marcus appeared.

"Alexander's handler of things he forgets to explain." He smiled, but his eyes assessed—calculating my wrinkled blouse, my lack of luggage, the shake in my hands I couldn't hide. "Keycard. Apartment. Fully stocked." He handed me a small envelope. "Don't go above sixty-five. Don't use the residential gym before 6 AM. Don't—" he paused, "—don't expect him to explain anything he hasn't already."

"Is that a warning?"

"Observation." He pressed the elevator button. The doors opened immediately, as if the building had been waiting. "He's never brought anyone here–" He stopped. Shook his head. "Sixty-five. Left out of the elevator. You can't miss it."

He didn't follow. The doors closed on my reflection—pale, wide-eyed, younger than I felt.

The elevator rose. I watched numbers climb—40, 50, 60—and felt my stomach drop with each floor, the physical sensation of leaving ground I understood for air I couldn't breathe. The elevator smells like him.

Sixty-five. The doors opened onto silence. Carpet that absorbed sound. Walls lined with photographs I didn't stop to study. I found the door left, used the keycard, stepped inside.

The apartment was wrong.

Not small but vast, corner unit, windows on two sides showing a city I didn't recognize sprawling below. Not empty, furniture in cream and pale blue, kitchen visible and stocked, flowers on the table white lilies that caught the light like accusations.

I didn't touch them. I walked to the window, pressed my forehead against glass that felt like ice, and waited for the shaking to start.

It didn't. I was too empty for shaking. Too hollow.

I turned on my phone. David's name appeared, along with fourteen missed calls, eight texts, two voicemails. I deleted them without listening. Found my bank app. Two hundred forty-seven dollars. The number that had made my decision for me.

I turned the phone off again. The silence that followed felt like the first honest thing I'd experienced in hours.

The keycard beeped.

I spun. The door I'd locked stood open, and a girl stood in the entrance, small, dark-haired, gray eyes that matched her father's exactly. Pajamas with dinosaurs. Bare feet silent on carpet. A stuffed rabbit with one ear missing clutched against her ribs.

"You're the wife," she said. Not a question.

"I'm Dianne. I'm staying here."

She walked in. Circled the room without touching anything, efficient assessment, too practiced for a seven year old. When she reached the bedroom, she stopped.

"There's only one bed."

"It's a guest room."

"Where does Daddy sleep?"

"Another floor."

She turned. The gray eyes caught mine, inherited intensity, the same assessment I'd seen in Alexander—measuring, testing, deciding. "Mommy said he doesn't know how to sleep with people. She said he pays them to stay, and they still leave."

I didn't answer. Couldn't.

"Are you being paid?"

"Ava." The name came from the doorway. Alexander's voice, cold and sharp.

She didn't flinch. Didn't turn. Just held my gaze with her father's eyes while he crossed the room, took her shoulder, moved her toward the door with controlled precision.

"Mrs. Chen is looking for you," he said.

"She's not looking. She's drinking her wine and watching her shows." Ava's voice was flat, factual, no complaint. "I wanted to see."

"And now you've seen." He guided her through the door, his hand on her back firm but not rough. "Go."

She went. But at the threshold, she looked back. At me. At the rabbit in her arms, the damaged ear hanging by threads.

"Fix something broken," she said. "Then I'll know."

The door closed. Alexander didn't turn. He stood with his back to me, shoulders set in lines that suggested he'd rather be anywhere else, dealing with anyone else.

"She's not supposed to wander," he said to the window.

"She's testing me."

"She's testing everyone. Constantly." He turned. The blue eyes were different now—not colder, but further away. The color of someone who'd learned distance was safer than proximity. "Don't encourage her."

"I didn't—"

"She gives that rabbit to no one." He crossed to the kitchen, opened a cabinet, closed it without taking anything. Restless, contained, caged in his own space. "Her mother gave it to her. Before she left. It's—the only thing she trusts."

"Then why did she offer it to me?"

He stopped. His hand gripped the counter edge, white-knuckled, the only crack in his composure. "Because she's seven, and she still hasn't learned that everyone leaves, no matter what they promise." He turned. The mask was back, seamless and cold. "Don't make her learn it from you."

"I signed your contract."

"Contracts end." He walked to the door, each step deliberate, controlled. "Ava doesn't understand conteacts. She understands absence. If you're going to leave, do it now. Before she decides you're worth keeping."

He left. The door clicked with finality.

I stood in the apartment I hadn't earned, holding air, listening to the city breathe below me. The rabbit wasn't here. Ava had taken it. But her words stayed -'fix something broken'- lodged under my ribs.

I found a sewing kit in the kitchen drawer. Small, professional, clearly purchased for guests who might need to mend what they hadn't broken. I sat on the couch, thread in hand, and realized I had nothing to repair.

The knock came at 9:47 PM.

I checked the peephole without thinking. A woman stood in the hallway—gray coat, green-gray eyes, sunglasses pushed into blonde hair.

The woman from the bakery.

The woman who'd cut the line, who'd looked at me like furniture she was deciding whether to keep.

She smiled. Sharp. Beautiful. Terrible.

"Darling," she said, her voice carrying intensity, like she already owned the space I'm in. "I heard Alexander got married. Again." A pause. The smile widened, showing teeth. "I simply had to meet the replacement."

I didn't open the door. I stepped back, thread still wrapped around my finger, and understood with sudden, sick clarity what I'd actually signed.

Not a contract. Not a performance.

A target.