Twenty Seven Days

New York City. October. 3:19 AM.

The message came at 3:19

Four words.

We know about Danny.

Scarlett Voss read it once. Then again. Then she put the phone face down on the bar and picked up her glass of sparkling water and took a slow, deliberate sip like her hands weren’t doing something she refused to call trembling.

She had been in the middle of the most important job briefing of her career.

Now the briefing felt like the least urgent thing in the room.

Forty minutes earlier everything had been simple.

The bar had no name on the door. If you had to ask where it was, you weren’t supposed to be there. It existed in that particular stratum of Manhattan nightlife where the lighting was always low, the bourbon was always aged, and the conversations in the leather booths along the back wall were never the kind you repeated.

Scarlett had been coming here for three years and she still didn’t know what it was called.

She’d arrived at 11:47 PM dressed simply. Black trousers, a silk blouse the color of dark wine, hair down. She looked like she belonged. She always looked like she belonged everywhere she went.

It was the loneliest skill she had.

The man in booth four had been waiting.

Silver-haired. Sixty or so. Impeccably dressed, with the kind of face that had been handsome once and aged into something more interesting. He stood when she approached. Old school manners. She noted that.

“Ms. Voss.” His voice was measured. “Thank you for coming.”

“I almost didn’t,” she said pleasantly.

A lie. She’d never considered not coming. But people negotiated better when they believed you had other options.

He smiled, recognizing the move. She felt the first flicker of real interest. He wasn’t a fool. That made things either easier or more complicated and she wouldn’t know which for a few more minutes.

“Xavier Blackwell,” he said.

She kept her face neutral.

Xavier Blackwell. Thirty-three years old. Worth somewhere north of four billion depending on the quarter. The kind of man whose name appeared in financial news the way other people’s names appeared in weather reports. Regularly, with significant implications for how the day would go.

“What about him?” she said.

“We need someone close to him.” The man took a measured sip of his scotch. “Close enough to access his private server. There is a specific file — encrypted, we’ll provide the retrieval protocol — that needs to be obtained and delivered within a thirty-day window.”

“Close how close?”

“He’s between personal attachments. His social calendar includes the Blackwell Foundation Gala in eleven days.” His tone was entirely clinical. “It would be a natural entry point.”

Scarlett ran the calculations.

Not mathematics. The other kind. Entry point. Exit strategy. The shape of a man who’d built his entire existence around not being accessed by anyone.

She thought about Danny.

Sixteen years old. Hidden somewhere she wasn’t allowed to know. Dependent on a corrupt marshal whose patience with her payment schedule was growing visibly thin.

She thought about the number she needed. The one that would make the marshal irrelevant. That would buy Danny a new name in a country with a long coastline and a short memory.

“What’s the offer?” she said.

He told her.

She didn’t react. It required more effort than the Xavier Blackwell reveal had.

“Half upfront,” she said. “Half on delivery. Non-negotiable.”

“Agreed.”

She paused. “That was too easy.”

He smiled and this time it didn’t reach anywhere near his eyes. “We want the job done correctly. We’re not interested in haggling. We’re interested in results.”

We. She filed the pronoun. Didn’t ask about it.

She stood to leave.

“Ms. Voss.” His voice stopped her. “The timeline is firm. Thirty days from first contact. If the file isn’t delivered within that window the offer is withdrawn.”

She looked at him steadily. “I’ve never missed a deadline.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s why you’re here.”

She’d walked out into the October cold feeling almost clean about it.

Almost.

The money was real. The job was manageable. Danny would be safe by the end of the month and she would be done. Actually done. The last con, the way she’d been promising herself a last con for two years.

She’d taken out her phone to message Margot.

And found instead a notification on a channel that was supposed to be private. A sender ID she didn’t recognize. A string of numbers that meant nothing.

Four words.

We know about Danny.

Now she sat in the booth with the silver-haired man gone and the bar thinning around her and those four words doing something to the architecture of the evening that she couldn’t immediately repair.

She ran the options.

The client demonstrating leverage. A third party announcing themselves. The marshal escalating beyond their arrangement.

She dismissed the marshal almost immediately. This channel required technical access Thomas Greer couldn’t have afforded on his government salary even accounting for her payments.

Which meant someone else.

Someone with infrastructure.

Someone who had been watching long enough to know about Danny.

She put cash on the bar. Stood. Walked out without looking back because looking back was amateur and she was not amateur regardless of what her hands were doing.

Outside the city breathed cold air through its teeth. Indifferent. Glittering. Eight million people with no idea.

She started walking.

Her phone buzzed.

Margot. One word.

Well?

Scarlett looked up at the skyline for a moment. All that cold glass light going nowhere in particular.

She typed back.

We’re on.

Then she put the phone away and kept walking. Her face gave nothing to the empty street. Her mind was already running at full speed toward a problem she didn’t yet have the shape of.

Xavier Blackwell, she thought. Let’s see who you really are.

Thirty blocks away, in a penthouse above Central Park, a man who had been warned she was coming poured himself a second glass of whiskey. He opened a file on his private tablet. He studied the photograph of a woman he’d never met.

He took a slow sip.

Let’s see who you really are, he thought.

The city hummed between them. Indifferent as cities always are to the fires they’re about to witness.

Neither of them slept that night.

But then. They never did.

————-

Author’s Note

Hey loves! 🖤 Welcome to Twenty Seven Days— I’m so excited you’re here for this one because this story has been living in my head for a long time and I think you’re going to feel every single word.

A few things before we dive in: This book is a slow burn. Like, a real one. I know, I know — but I promise every chapter is building something and when it pays off, it’s going to HIT. Scarlett and Xavier are both incredibly guarded people and watching them crack each other open is the whole story.

Also — both of our leads are morally grey. Scarlett does questionable things. Xavier isn’t always the good guy either. I love them anyway and I think you will too.

Drop a comment — who are you already more curious about? Xavier or Scarlett? 👀

See you in Chapter Two. 🖤