Page 19

Morning came with the smell of coffee.

I stretched on the sofa, opening my eyes to find Kara leaning against the island in her cream kimono, sipping from her cup. Watching me.

Awkward, in just a pair of boxers with no blanket.

I rose, saying nothing, took some fresh clothes, and went for a shower.

She hadn’t revisited the invitation to share her bed the night before, which was a relief, but the lack of privacy in the mornings was uncomfortable. Maybe I’d insist on getting a hotel room. She’d have to get used to us being apart sooner or later.

“Are you hungry?” she asked as soon as I walked back in. “There’s a café nearby that does good breakfasts.”

“We should order in some groceries. We can’t live on takeout all the time.”

“I usually eat out. I don’t really cook.”

“Don’t, or can’t?” I asked, with insight. It explained the untouched look of the kitchen.

She looked uncomfortable. “Never really learned.”

Not unexpected with live-in servants for the first three decades of her life. “No problem, I’ll cook.”

Her discomfort turned to interest. “Really?”

“Sure. I enjoy it.”

“What will you cook for me?”

I smiled at her enthusiasm. “What would you like?”

“Well, um … actually, I’d like you to cook whatever you want. A little of you on a plate. Sounds delightful.”

I raised an eyebrow, but wasn’t averse to the idea. “Fine. We’ll go out for breakfast, order some groceries, and I’ll cook tonight.”

Within the space of a few minutes, I’d gone from thinking about hotel rooms to agreeing to play house. I wasn’t quite sure how that had happened.

She gave me a smile and left to shower and get dressed, and I found myself watching her walk away. That kimono was really very short.

It was too early for a response from the news outlet, but I checked my mail anyway, finding nothing. Poured a cup of coffee and drank it while I ordered groceries on my phone and waited for Kara to return.

“I don’t know what the deal is with deliveries here,” I said when she walked back in wearing jeans and a simple top, hair tied loosely. “Do we let the concierge know?”

“No, it’s fine, they know who I am.”

“I ordered in my name.”

“Ah. I’ll add you to the guest list. That’ll sort it.”

And fix getting back in when she wasn’t around. “We should swap phone numbers too.”

“Yes please,” she said, as she pulled hers out, “but I hope you’re not planning to leave me alone again.”

“About that,” I said, as I copied her number into my phone and gave hers a call. “We can’t spend the rest of our lives within thirty feet of each other. You’re going to have to get used to it.”

Her face fell. “Yes, I suppose so, but … You don’t know how it feels, do you?”

“Tell me.”

“Like a piece of you has been cut out, and it’s calling constantly, and all you want to do is find it and put it back where it belongs.”

I didn’t doubt her sincerity—just the source of it.

I took a sip of coffee. “That sounds unpleasant.”

“Well, yes. But then when you’re here, everything feels so much better.”

“Even when I’m being a jerk?”

Her lips twitched. “I’d rather have you here being a jerk than not be here at all. It’s a sorry state of affairs, isn’t it?”

“Remind me never to get bonded to a warlock.”

We went for breakfast, and by the time we returned, I had an e-mail waiting.

“Tomorrow morning, ten o’clock,” I told Kara.

“Better sooner than later.”

True, and at least I had the rest of the day to finalize my preparations.

*

That evening, Kara sat on the stool next to the island, watching me cook with the groceries I’d ordered.

“What are you making?”

“Steak au Poivre, charred broccolini, and mashed potatoes with cream and butter.”

“Wow. That does sound like you on a plate. Bold but controlled, bitter with an edge, precision hiding under comfort.”

I paused in mid-motion. I hadn’t given it that much thought. “Er … then I better get the seasoning right.”

We ate on the dining table, once Kara had tidied the laptop away and taken pleasure in setting places for both of us.

“That was delicious,” she said, leaning back in her chair with her glass of red wine.

“High praise from someone who grew up with a professional chef on staff.”

“The food at my parent’s house comes with the issue of my parent’s being there too. This is much more relaxing.”

“I can see that.”

“And at least you got more than a bite this time,” she said, smiling at me over her glass.

I laughed. “You noticed, huh?”

“When you’re around, I notice everything.”

There it was again. The casual but loaded reference to our bond. I rose and carried the dirty plates into the kitchen.

Kara followed me, leaning against the island while she watched me clean up. “I’m sorry. Sometimes my mouth says things despite my better judgment.”

“It’s fine,” I said, loading the dishwasher. It looked new and unused.

She looked like she was going to say something else but thought better of it, setting her wine glass on the island and offering me a small smile. “It’s late. Busy day tomorrow. I’ll leave you to your sleep.”

“Sure. Good night.”

I busied myself with cleaning until I was certain she was gone, then sighed.

We were well past awkward now, and into the heavy realms of complicated.

*

Juliana ‘call me Jules’ Hammond wore a pair of wire-rim glasses that kept slipping down her nose. She pushed them back into place as she leaned forward—enough to signal interest, but not trust.

“How do I know you’re really Dacien’s daughter?”

Kara opened her mouth to answer, but I jumped in first. “Given your reputation, you wouldn’t be here if you had doubts. I don’t take kindly to wasting time.”

She narrowed her eyes but said nothing, then lifted her voice recorder where we could all see it, and clicked it on. “Am I meeting you, Mr. Sullivan, or am I meeting Miss Halden?”

I smiled. “Both of us. But you’re absolutely correct—I do have an interest in this too.”

She tapped her thumb against the edge of her coffee cup, weighing the moment.

“I’ll admit your email was intriguing. Mysterious, playful, dangling a carrot you knew I wouldn’t be able to resist.” She leaned back in her chair, adjusted her glasses again, and looked us over.

“An interesting couple. A billionaire’s daughter and a philosophy lecturer.

Did you bond purely over a love of your subject, or is there a romantic involvement? ”

We both tensed at her unfortunate use of the word bond, and then again at the romantic reference. She caught it. Smirked.

“We’re not here to talk about us,” I said. “We’re here to talk about you.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “That’s not the way it usually works.”

“You’re writing a piece on two financial institutions that sit under Dacien Halden’s group.”

She froze for a beat, clearly caught by surprise. “I could ask how you know that, but with Miss Halden sitting there … continue.”

“You’re making a mistake.”

She gave a thin smile. “How’s that?”

“I read your piece on the deregulation of supernatural housing permits. It was sharp. You made people uncomfortable for the right reasons.”

“I’m not here for a review.”

“No,” I said. “You’re here because someone gave you a thread. And you pulled. And now you’re starting to see what’s tied to the other end.”

She narrowed her eyes at me, but there was no denial.

“You’re not wrong—about the companies or the money.” Kara stiffened next to me, but I ignored her. “The problem is, you’re missing the frame.”

“Let me guess. The frame’s Dacien.” She adjusted her glasses. “I don’t think I’m missing much. Ultimately, the funding comes back to him, doesn’t it? I’ve got interviews on record and paper trails. Enough for a story.”

“If you had enough, you’d have written it already,” I said, bluffing. And hoping we weren’t too late.

Her eyes narrowed. “Well … there’s always room for more.”

I muffled my relief. “You know what will happen if you publish. You’ll start a fire.”

“That’s often the way.”

“Then let’s talk about the match,” I said. “And whether you want your name on it.”

She frowned. Not defensive—curious.

“Let’s say you publish with a punchy headline. Dacien’s Web: The Secret Firms and Shell Networks Funding Supernatural Control. Something like that?”

Kara threw me a look, unease in her eyes. Miss Hammon twitched in interest. “Something like that, yes.”

“It spreads, it fractures. The wrong people get a hold of it. What happens next?”

She didn’t answer. I filled the silence.

“Right now, there’s a dangerous undercurrent of fear between norms and supes—and after Bay Uni, your timing couldn’t be worse.

Your story fuels it. Public distrust, protests, curfews.

Some trigger-happy policymaker tags and tracks every supe in three counties.

Including kids. Including peaceful families. ”

Jules shifted in her seat. “That’s a big jump.”

“Is it?”

“I’m not writing fiction, Mr. Sullivan. Just the truth.”

“Do you think truth lands clean?” I asked with skepticism.

“Hannah Arendt was a twentieth-century philosopher who cautioned about that.” I paused for a self-deprecating smile.

“Forgive me leaning into my own subject, but the essence is this: strip a fact of its context, and you’ve already weaponized it. ”

She tilted her head. “Miss Halden is a supe, I presume. Are you, Mr. Sullivan?”

“Thank you for making my point,” I said. “That’s how the world sees us—supe or norm. But it’s not that simple. I know you don’t have kids, Juliana. But your sister does.”

Her eyes sharpened, voice cooler. “Are you threatening me?”

“Not at all,” I said, deliberately leaning back to appear less intimidating.

“As you pointed out yourself, I’m just a student of philosophy, so I’ll continue to speak in my terms. Rawls asked what kind of world you’d build if you didn’t know your place in it.

Would you still publish if you thought you—or your sister’s children—might wake up with powers tomorrow? ”

“With no supe genetics? Unlikely.”

“Ah, I see,” I said. “Seeking the truth is a convenient excuse to push your own agenda.”