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47

Lena

T he car arrives on time. Sleek, black, company-branded in that blank, threatening way that says: This isn’t luxury. It’s access.

I hesitate at the curb longer than I should.

Last time I got into a Shergar car without knowing the destination, I woke up with stitches in my mouth and a man dying behind a curtain.

But this is different.

At least that’s what I tell myself.

Ellis invited me. He used the word dinner . And it’s not like I’m showing up just because he asked. I have questions. I need leverage. A new badge and just enough plausible deniability to pretend I’m not walking straight into something I’ll regret.

So I get in.

The driver doesn’t speak. Just nods and pulls away from the curb like the route’s already written.

I don’t ask where we’re going.

I already know.

The city slips past in softened glass and curated blur. I sit back and let it. Let the night roll over me like it’s part of the ritual.

New badge. New office.

Dinner with the boss.

Maybe I’m not supposed to enjoy the idea of that part.

But I do. I am.

The house appears like it’s been waiting. Sleek. Sharp. Sprawling.

The kind of place with no number on the front, no neighbors in sight, too many shadows with manners, and gates that open before we reach them.

By the time the car stops, the front door is already cracked open.

Ellis is standing there waiting.

Not smiling.

Not impatient.

Just waiting, like this was always going to happen.

I step out, smooth my skirt.

Black, low back, sleeves.

Something that says I thought about this, but not for too long.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say anything. Just watches.

The door stays open just long enough for me to hesitate—half a breath, maybe less. Then I follow him in.

Inside the lights are low.

There’s music—something instrumental, something designed to make you think this is tasteful while your brain softens.

The staff is invisible but felt. A motion in the periphery.

Ellis shows me the dining room. Two place settings. Two glasses.

The table’s already set with the kind of confidence that assumes I’ll eat.

“Sit,” he says. So I do.

He pours the wine himself. “I assume you know why you’re here.”

“I was told dinner.”

Ellis smiles faintly. “You’ve been distracted.”

“I’ve been shuffled around every five seconds. I had oral surgery. And someone died.”

“Yes.” He lifts his glass. “That was unfortunate.”

I say nothing. Glance at the wine I won’t touch. Try to think of something to say.

“You’ve had a hard year,” he continues. “The divorce. The business. You’ve had to pivot.”

Is this supposed to be sympathy? A résumé recap?

“I’m fine,” I say.

But I’m not. My jaw aches. I haven’t had a full meal in three days. Whatever gloss I walked in here with is just that—gloss.

He watches me over the rim of his glass. “You don’t strike me as someone who wants to be fine.”

He lets it sit there, then adds, “I think you want to matter. And I think you’ve been waiting for someone to show you how.”

That gets my attention. It also pisses me off a little.

But I don’t let it show. I smile instead. “Is that what this is? Is that why I’m here?”

“If that makes it easier for you,” he says.

I pick up my fork, toy with it. “Easier for me? Or easier for you?”

He leans in, and for a moment it’s just the two of us, suspended in that glossy space where everything feels intentional and nothing feels safe.

“I don’t lose, Lena,” he says. “You should know that.”