SophiaPlatinum’s office is too polished. Originally I found it elegant. Appreciating that it’s designed to look timeless. But lately it always feels a little like it’s hiding something.Elena greets me in the lobby like we’re girlfriends out for brunch. “Sophia! I’m so glad you could pop in. Come, let’s sit.” Weird, but okay, sure.Her dress is cream silk, draping perfectly, her heels clicking against marble as we cross into a private lounge. She pours sparkling water for both of us without asking whether I want any, sliding the crystal glass over to me like it’s all part of her choreography.“So,” she says brightly, folding her legs with impossible elegance. “How are things with Preston? He’s been practically glowing whenever your name comes up.”I school my face into something neutral. “He’s… good. Really nice. Always a gentleman.”Her eyes gleam with subtle satisfaction, as if she’s scored a point on a board I can’t see. “Of course he is. He’s exactly the sort of man I knew you’d
MarcusAt Platinum, the air always smells faintly of orchids and money. It’s calculated, of course. Elena spares no expense on subtlety, but today it feels like something sour underneath the polish. Maybe that’s just me.I’ve been on autopilot all afternoon. Guiding a client tour, answering Elena’s clipped questions, pretending I don’t notice the faint ache that’s been riding shotgun in my chest ever since the bookstore café. Coffee with Sophia felt dangerously close to something I can’t afford, and I’m still walking around like my pulse hasn’t settled.Which is when Elena strikes.She leans against the glass table in her office, one ankle crossed over the other, a picture of ease. Except her eyes are sharp. “So,” she says, smooth as melted chocolate, “How’s Sophia finding dating Preston?”Just like that.A casual question, tossed like a coin into a fountain. The kind that ripples.I keep my posture steady. Neutrality is a discipline I’ve mastered. Don’t twitch, don’t tighten, don’t
SophiaThe bookstore café smells like cinnamon buns and strong espresso, the kind of mix that makes you want to linger even if the chairs are uncomfortable. The space hums with a quiet buzz, pages being turned, low conversations, the hiss of milk steaming behind the counter.I arrive first and order a large cappuccino to keep my hands busy, pretending to read the opening chapter of a novel I pulled from the nearest display. My eyes don’t move across the page so much as hover. Every time the door opens, I glance up. Ridiculous. Like a teenager on her first coffee date.Except this isn’t a date. It’s… reconnaissance. Conversation. A break from spiraling. At least, that’s the script I keep feeding myself.When Marcus finally appears, he doesn’t just arrive. He walks in like gravity follows him around. Tall, sharp lines softened by the faint stubble along his jaw. He’s in a dark coat he hasn’t bothered to button, and when his eyes land on me, the rest of the room seems to recede.“Didn’t
MarcusThe thing about scrubbing a file clean is that it’s never actually clean. You can bleach the pages, rewrite the headers, run the code through filters until it hums like new, but the ghosts still hang around the edges. Shadows where names should be. Gaps where numbers should line up.That’s how I know Marrin’s trail has been erased.I’ve been combing through Bainbridge’s surveillance records for hours, pulling up every client interaction, every shell company report, every name that brushed too close to the circle. And Marrin, who I know, with bone-deep certainty, was in the middle of this, looks like he’s never existed. No casual mentions. No receipts. Not even a breadcrumb in the places where a ghost-print usually hides.It’s surgical. Which makes me even more suspicious.I lean back in my chair, pinch the bridge of my nose, and stare at the ceiling of the Bureau’s archive room. It smells faintly of toner and burnt coffee, and it feels like I’ve been here forever.The door cre
SophiaPreston is the kind of man my therapist would tell me to say yes to.He’s not just safe, he’s amazing. Handsome, filthy rich, confident without all the Alpha male bullshit, capable of laughing at himself. He picks amazing restaurants without fail and always make me feel cherished. If only there was a spark, I think to myself as I look over at him.The table is set with linen napkins and enough cutlery to require a cheat sheet. There’s a bottle of wine breathing beside the bread basket, and the music is soft enough to blur into the background without demanding attention.It should be perfect. It is perfect, objectively speaking. Preston is steady, polished and gentle. He tells me about his business dealings like he knows I’ll understand the intricacies and jokes about having to wear penguin suits more often than a Bond villain.I smile. I laugh at the right moments. And somewhere deep inside, I wonder why it feels like I’m performing.He’s good company, Preston. Better than goo
MarcusThe problem with warnings is that to me they sound more like challenges.Gillespie’s voice is still echoing in my head from this morning. Drop Marrin. He’s radioactive. Touch anything linked to him and you’ll light yourself up too.She doesn’t raise her voice, she doesn’t have to. She’s like one of those teachers who can kill an entire room’s chatter with a single arched eyebrow. But the thing is, I can’t just let it go. Every time I try to reroute my focus, Marrin’s name creeps back in. On paper. On the edges of old reports. In the damn silence when I close my eyes.Gillespie insists it’s too hot, too messy, that if the Bureau really wanted Marrin nailed they’d assign a whole team. She tells me my job is Platinum, nothing more. Stick to my cover, keep my distance, and don’t get distracted.But the distraction has a name, and a sharp smile, and a way of getting under my skin even when she’s nowhere near me.By the time I walk into Platinum’s glossy lobby tonight, I’ve already