30

Monday morning dawned with the humid, relentless heat of a New York summer, but Celeste felt only a cold, professional calm. The emotional storm of the weekend—her sister's early labor, the impossible choice she had been to make—was tucked away in its mental box, the lid sealed tight. She was Sloane now, the sharp, ambitious tech professional with a hint of dangerous allure. Her mission was all that existed.

She was dressed in a tailored cream pantsuit, the fabric a stark contrast to the sleek, black silk of Friday night. It was an outfit designed to project power and competence, with a subtle neckline that hinted at her other side. The tiny microphone was pinned inconspicuously to her lapel, a delicate silver brooch concealing its true purpose. The miniature camera, no bigger than a fingernail, was nestled in a pen she carried in her hand. Her mind, free from any personal clutter, was a steel trap, running through the floor plans and security schematics Dom had sent her.

The taxi rid