Chapter 4

AVERY –

I wake with a mouth so dry it feels like sandpaper and a headache that’s already pounding behind my eyes.

Sunlight slips through the gap in my curtains in a thin, sharp line, cutting across the bed like it’s here to accuse me. Too bright. Too loud. Too much.

I roll onto my stomach with a low groan, pressing my face into the pillow as if I can hide from the day, from myself, from whatever I did or didn’t do last night.

That’s when my cat decides to perform a perfectly timed spine-crushing leap onto my back.

“Jesus, Juno…” I manage, voice muffled by cotton.

She meows like I’ve personally offended her by existing. Which, knowing her, I probably have.

Pieces of the night start coming back to me in disconnected fragments: the loud music, the press of bodies, the smell of expensive alcohol. And her. Victoria. Her voice is still stuck in my head, a low vibration I can’t get rid of.

Everything after our conversation gets hazy.

I know I stayed at the club longer than I should have. After she walked away, drinks started appearing in front of me. I didn’t order them. They just showed up – heavy glasses filled with amber liquid, each one stronger than the last. The kind of drinks that warm your throat on the way down but leave a slow burn in your stomach.

I drank them because leaving felt like giving up. Some stubborn part of me was waiting.

Waiting for her to come back, maybe. But she never did.

I push myself up to sit, the pounding in my skull making the room tilt.

Ok, get it together Avery.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I fumble for it, squinting through the blur.

Eli: Happy survival, birthday girl. You owe me a new liver. Also: you’re welcome for dragging your drunk ass home.

Relief washes through me. Right. Eli. He must have gotten me home. I can vaguely remember his arm around my shoulders, his voice telling me to drink water. Which I clearly didn’t do because I’m an idiot.

I type back:

Avery: Are you sure it was just alcohol? Feels like I got hit by a truck.

The typing bubbles appear immediately.

Eli: That wasn’t a truck, honey. That was probably that tall woman who got you all flustered and blushing.

I stop breathing for a second.

Henoticed. And he’s not wrong.

She didn’t touch me. She didn’t even flirt in any obvious way. But she unlocked something in me effortlessly. Like she’d found a door I didn’t even know was there.

Juno climbs into my lap, purring, tail curling up against my chest. I rest my hand on her back, grounding myself.

Last night wasn’t just about the club. It wasn’t just about drinking too much.

It was the moment something inside me shifted.

And now I’m afraid to admit how much I want to see what happens next.

×××

By the time I get to work, I’ve had two Tylenol, one burnt coffee from the gas station, and exactly zero moments of peace. My head is still throbbing, and my mouth tastes like something died in it.

The office lights are aggressively bright and sterile. The air smells like old coffee, printer toner, and quiet desperation. I slump into my cubicle chair and stare at the monitor. It’s still logged into yesterday’s spreadsheets, rows and columns of meaningless data waiting for me as if the entire night never happened.

“Avery,” barks a voice directly behind me, making me jump. “Did I get those files I asked for, or do you need help reading a calendar?”

I close my eyes, count to two in my head, and then turn slowly. “Good morning, Mr. Landers.”

Thomas Landers – the self-appointed Regional Director of Soul Extraction and Passive Aggression. He’s forty-eight, been divorced twice, and operates under the firm belief that I exist solely to manage his inbox and absorb his daily insecurities.

He offers a thin smile, the kind that isn’t about warmth but about establishing dominance. “Well?”

“They’re on your desk,” I say, keeping my voice flat and even. “Top left folder. It’s labeled. Color-coded. And alphabetized.”

“Ah.” He lifts his “World’s Best Boss” mug. “See? When you focus, you’re actually useful.”

A hot, sharp anger flares in my chest. I want to throw my coffee at him. I want to grab his mug and dump it over his meticulously gelled hair. Hell, I want to pick up the entire coffee machine and hurl it at his smug face.

Instead, I stretch my lips into that thin, practiced, non-smile I’ve perfected for these moments. “Always happy to serve.”

He leaves, humming to himself – a smug, tuneless sound that should be illegal in workplace environments.

I stare at his retreating back. My hands grip the edge of my desk, knuckles turning white. And then, before I can stop it, a vivid image flashes in my mind: me, picking up my heavy steel letter opener and stabbing him in the side of the neck. Not to kill him. Just enough to puncture his smugness. Just enough to make him shut the fuck up forever.

The thought is sharp, detailed, and unnervingly clear.

My stomach lurches. Where the hell did that come from? I look down at my hands. They’re perfectly steady. Too steady. I’ve never been a violent person. I’ve never even fantasized about hurting someone before, not even in my most frustrated moments. The fact that I just did should horrify me.

And it does.

But there’s also a tiny, dark, deeply buried part of me – a part I’m not ready to acknowledge – that found the idea disturbingly, terrifyingly satisfying.

I shove the thought down, deep. I tell myself it’s the hangover, the lack of sleep, the residual weirdness from last night. But when I close my eyes to try and reset, it isn’t Landers’s stupid face I see.

It’s her.

Victoria. The absolute stillness in her eyes. The way the very air in the club seemed to bend and warp around her, making her the only focal point. The way my entire nervous system had buzzed to life in her presence, more awake and aware than I’ve felt in months, maybe years.

I try to focus on the spreadsheet. I really do. But for the rest of the morning, every time someone says my name, I don’t hear their voice.

I hear hers. Low, warm, and deliberate.

And I know, with a sinking, thrilling certainty, that I am completely and royally fucked.

×××

VICTORIA –

I don’t usually take two side jobs in one week.

My rule is one clean kill. It’s cleaner emotionally, strategically, logistically. It allows for focus, for the necessary detachment. But some rot spreads faster then the other. Some situations demand immediate intervention.

And this one needs to be buried fast.

The only light in my office comes from the monitor, casting a pale blue glow across the polished surface of my desk. On the screen, the file unfolds with quiet efficiency. Richard G. Lorne. Fifty-five. Tech investor. Three formal allegations, two sealed with non-disclosure agreements, one death ruled an “accident.” All the victims were young women. All were silenced.

The payout is high – not unusually so – but the request came with urgency. Red-level clearance. Meaning: a very rich person somewhere wants this handled without so much as a ripple. Probably a father who lost his daughter to this man’s hands. Probably someone who’s already tried every legal channel and learned, the hard way, that money and power outweigh truth.

That’s why I love this side job. I do what the system refuses to. I erase what can’t be rehabilitated. I give closure to the people who’ve been told they’ll never get it. Only, I don’t just give closure. I make sure it can’t happen again.

I scroll through the dossier: surveillance photos, a behavioral profile, vehicle routes, security schematics, daily routines. He is predictable. Lazy. Soft around the edges from a lifetime of unchecked privilege. Men like him always feel safe until someone like me reminds them they are not.

He will be at a private gallery opening tonight. 9:30 p.m. sharp. He’ll use the same valet, order the same drink, have the same assistant who will try not to flinch when he touches her shoulder.

I memorize the sequence of his movements as I sip my espresso. Black. No sugar, and let the bitterness settle on my tongue.

This man could be ended in ten seconds. The plan is clear, the path straightforward. But my focus wavers, slipping from the screen to the memory of last night. To the club. Toher.

Avery.

Even her name feels like something I shouldn’t be handling – something too soft, too unguarded for my world.

I tap my phone against the desk. Once. Twice. A measured, rhythmic sound in the quiet room. I am weighing a risk. I shouldn’t reach out. Not now. Not with a job this sensitive.

But the truth is, I already did.

The moment I let her stay in the club last night, the moment I decided I wanted to see her again, the line was crossed.

I unlock my phone and navigate to a secure, encrypted thread. Her number is already saved. She didn’t give it to me, of course. Access is rarely about permission.

My fingers type slowly, deliberately. No greeting. No context. Just a direct, unambiguous invitation.

Club Lilith | Midnight. No plus ones. Dress accordingly.

I hit send. No name. No question mark. Just a statement. It will either be ignored or it will be answered.

I lean back in my chair, my gaze returning to the monitor. Richard Lorne’s profile photo shows him grinning, a man who believes the universe owes him everything.

He will be dead before sunrise.

But my mind is no longer fully here, in the cool precision of the plan. It is already halfway elsewhere.

Halfway to her.

And I don’t know yet if that distraction is a simple complication — or a dire warning.

×××

AVERY –

My phone buzzes against the conference room table, the vibration a dull hum beneath my palm. I’m in the middle of a budget review I gave up on twenty minutes ago. I glance down, ready to dismiss the notification, but my breath catches.

Club Lilith | Midnight. No plus ones. Dress accordingly.

No name. No greeting. No polite question mark. Just a command.

A sensation, cold and sharp, drips down my spine. A second later, it’s replaced by a flush of heat that spreads under my skin, as if a switch has been flipped deep inside me.

I read the words again, my heart hammering against my ribs. It feels like I’ve been handed a sealed envelope with my name on it, the kind that contains something that will irrevocably alter the course of my life.

How did she get this number?

I never gave it to her. We barely spoke. We exchanged nothing tangible — just a look, a few charged sentences, and a name.

I force my eyes up, scanning the room. No one is paying me any attention. They’re all focused on the PowerPoint and the man in the corner who thinks reading from a slide is a skill.

I lower my phone and my fingers feel clumsy as I type a reply, my brain struggling to keep up with the impulse.

Avery: I don’t have anything to dress accordingly.

I stare at the text. It’s too revealing. Too vulnerable. It lays my ordinary life bare. The truth is, I don’t own anything that belongs in a place like that. Not unless “dress accordingly” means jeans, boots, and a rotation of shirts in varying shades of neutral that has the most cat hair.

I hit send anyway. A wave of instant regret follows, so potent I want to snatch my phone back and hurl it out the window.

I shove the device into my pocket and try to force my attention back to the meeting. But it’s useless. My mind has already left the building. One part is stuck on a loop, replaying the low, deliberate way she said my name.

The other part is a whirlwind of questions. Why does she want to see me again? And how, exactly, did she find me so easily?

She isn’t just a beautiful woman in a suit. She’s something else entirely. People like her don’t ask for things. They already have them.

The meeting adjourns, and I have no recollection of what was discussed.

The rest of my day is spent in a distracted haze, my eyes constantly flicking to the clock, my hand itching to check my phone every other minute. I’m fighting the urge to act like an obsessed teenager, all while trying to ignore the chilling, thrilling thought gnawing at the edges of my mind:

I don’t know if this is an invitation, or an order.

×××

By the time I get home, my phone is still maddeningly blank. No reply to my message, no response, not even the courtesy of a “read” receipt – which, of course, means she absolutely saw it. The silence is deliberate, and it’s under my skin, a low, persistent buzz of static I can’t switch off.

I keep trying to rationalize it. Maybe she changed her mind. Maybe my honest reply was a test, and my admission of a mundane life was the wrong answer. Maybe she expected a character, and all I gave her was me. But the quiet feels heavier than any rejection, a void that pulls at my attention as I climb the stairs to my apartment, keys in hand, already planning to bury myself in pyjamas and pretend I’m not waiting.

Halfway to my door, I stop dead.

There’s a box sitting on my doorstep.

It’s plain, matte black, no logos, no tape. Just my name, written in a sharp, silver script that seems to catch the dim hallway light and hold it. It looks less like a delivery and more like a statement.

I look down the hall in both directions. Empty. The silence feels thick, watchful. I unlock the door, pick up the box – which is heavier than it looks – and carry it inside.

Juno immediately winds herself around my ankles, meowing her displeasure at my late arrival, but I barely notice. The box on my kitchen counter commands all my focus. It sits there, silent and ominous, like an object that could redefine the room depending on what’s inside.

I just stand there for a long moment, staring.

Finally, I let out a slow, steadying breath and lift the lid.

Inside, nestled in tissue paper as black as the box itself, is a garment. It’s silk, but it has structure. For a disorienting second, I can’t tell if it’s a dress or a suit, but as I lift it, the design reveals itself. It’s a one-piece jumpsuit, tailored and severe, cut from a deep, fathomless black fabric that feels cool and heavy in my hands. It’s elegant, powerful, and cut in a way that promises to hug every curve I’ve ever been self-conscious about. This garment wasn’t made to hide a body; it was made to weaponize one. It carries a quiet, unshakable confidence in its very seams.

Underneath, lying at the bottom of the box, is a single slip of black cardstock. On it, one word is printed in a deep, blood-red foil:

Midnight.

I press my palms flat against the cool countertop as the reality sinks in. She knows where I live. She knows my size. She knew I wouldn’t be ready, and she made sure I would be.

A cold dread should be washing over me. I should be shoving the box back into the hall, deadbolting the door, and calling someone. But it doesn’t come. Instead, a slow, warm flush spreads across my skin. My face feels hot. Some deep, neglected part of me that expected to be forgotten is jolted awake by the terrifying, thrilling realization that I have beenanticipated.

A glance at the clock tells me I don’t have much time.

I drape the jumpsuit carefully over the back of a chair and head to the fridge. I haven’t eaten all day and judging by what’s inside, I’m not about to make up for it. A sad-looking yogurt and a slice of toast from a lifetime ago are staring back at me.

“Fine. Yogurt it is,” I mutter, because apparently I’m negotiating with dairy now. I grab it, peel the lid, and before I can even take a bite, my phone buzzes on the counter. The spoon almost hits the floor.

The screen glows with a message from the number that texted me earlier that day.

Is this what you had in mind?

The words land not like text, but like a breath against my neck, intimate and knowing. I stare at them, my mind scrambling for a response that’s clever, that’s cool, that doesn’t scream how completely she has me off-balance.

My fingers find the keyboard.

Avery: Not my usual style, to be honest.

I pause, then type the truth before I can stop myself.

Avery: But yes. It is.

I hit send before I can overthink it. When I look down, Juno is staring up at me, her golden eyes wide, as if she can see the shift happening inside me. I run a hand down her back, feeling the rumble of her purr, a tiny anchor to my old, safe life.

Then I grab a towel and head for the shower. In less than three hours, I’m going back to her world. And this time, dressed in her armour, I won’t be walking in like I don’t belong.

×××

VICTORIA –

The reply lights up my screen just as I finish tightening the final strap of the shoulder holster.

Not my usual style. But yes. It is.

A small, precise smile touches my lips. It isn’t pride or amusement. It’s the quiet satisfaction of a deduction proven right. She replied. Quickly. And with honesty. That makes two truthful responses in a row – a rare currency.

I place the phone face down on the table beside the gun. The metal of the weapon is cool to the touch. There is no need to reply. Let the silence between now and midnight work for me. Anticipation is a tool.

I adjust the holster one last time, ensuring it sits perfectly under my jacket – a matte black, impeccably tailored piece designed for invisibility, not impression. The fabric absorbs light, becoming a shadow within shadows. I prefer no distractions during a kill.

The Beretta slides into the holster with a smooth, familiar click. The suppressor is already attached, its weight a comfortable, balanced extension of my arm. Tonight’s work is straightforward. Lorne is a man of habit. One entrance. One inattentive guard. A private gallery with strategic blind spots and no functional cameras in the critical areas. I have mapped every exit. Six minutes from the moment I step inside to the moment he ceases to exist.

I pull my sleeves taut, check the weapon once more, fasten the top button of my jacket. Everything about the kill is routine, almost mechanical. I’ve done harder jobs in worse suits.

But my mind doesn’t stay on the task. Not completely. It keeps sliding sideways – back to her.

To the woman who entered my world and held my gaze without flinching. Who didn’t try to perform or retreat. Who accepted an invitation she doesn’t yet understand.

I have not yet decided if I want to see her adapt to my world, or if I would rather watch her shatter against it.

I slide a final, thin blade into the inner pocket of my coat. It is unnecessary. I seldom require it. But preparation is a ritual, and rituals maintain order.

As I move toward the door, my reflection catches in the full-length mirror. Impeccable. Controlled. Impenetrable. The image is correct.

The hit is in two hours.

The girl is in three.

×××

The gallery is too quiet – the kind of expensive silence that costs more than most people make in a year. Thick carpets swallow sound, and the air smells like money and pretension. Glass sculptures stand on pedestals around the room, fragile and pointless. Large abstract paintings with aggressive red streaks dominate the walls. It’s the kind of place where people pay to feel cultured.

I spot Lorne immediately. His face softening with indulgence, wearing a suit that probably costs more than my car. His personal assistant stands rigidly near the bar. I watch his hand land on her arm, see her subtle flinch. Another woman who’s learned to tolerate his touch because she needs the paycheck.

I move through the space with an authority that discourages questions. A slight nod to a passing curator, a faint, polite smile to a woman examining a painting. I am a ghost here – another name on a donor list, another face in a crowd of privileged strangers. No one looks too closely.

I follow Lorne at a distance as he excuses himself from a group and moves toward a roped-off corridor labelled “Private Collection.” He pushes through the velvet rope, expecting solitude. I am three steps behind him when the heavy door at the end of the hall clicks shut, sealing us in the soundproofed silence of the secondary gallery.

He turns, hearing my footsteps, and his expression shifts from surprise to dismissive irritation. He doesn’t see the weapon yet, only an unexpected woman. He offers that slick, oiled smile men like him keep ready for women they think they can buy.

“I’m afraid this section is closed, honey–” he begins, the words a polite dismissal.

“Yes,” I tell him, my voice flat and final. “It is.”

His smile wavers. He’s confused now, trying to place me. “Do I know you?” he asks, his tone shifting from condescending to wary.

I don’t answer. I simply raise the gun from where it was concealed at my side.

The transformation is immediate. His eyes widen, his face pales. He stumbles backward, his expensive shoes catching on the edge of a display platform. He knocks over a pedestal holding a glass sculpture. It shatters loudly, scattering sharp fragments across the floor. In a panic, he grabs a large, jagged piece of the broken glass and hurls it at me.

I shift to avoid it, but not quickly enough. The sharp edge catches my cheek, slicing through skin. I feel the sting immediately.

I touch the spot with my free hand. My fingers come away bloody. It’s superficial – won’t need stitches – but it’s messy. “That’s going to leave a bruise,” I note calmly. More concerning than the cut itself is the visible mark it will leave.

I steady the gun with both hands. “This is for every woman you thought you could use and discard.” Two controlled shots to the chest. No drama, no monologue. Just efficiency.

He collapses, his body sprawling across an ornate rug that probably costs more than his victims ever saw in their lifetimes.

I step carefully through the broken glass. From my inner coat pocket, I retrieve a sterile wipe and press it to the cut. The bleeding is already slowing, but the skin around it is reddening. A bruise will definitely form right on my cheekbone. Not ideal when I need to be presentable later.

I look down at his body one last time. “I have plans tonight,” I tell the empty room. “Now I have to explain this.” I point at the tender spot on my cheek. “Really appreciate the complication.”

Then I’m moving. Out through the service entrance I’d identified during my reconnaissance. The operation took six minutes total, exactly as planned. The only variable I hadn’t accounted for was him being desperate enough to use broken art as a weapon.

The service door clicks shut behind me. Rain falls steadily. I turn up my collar, tie my hair back into a tight knot. My footsteps are silent on the wet pavement. The cut stings, and the emerging bruise throbs with my heartbeat.

In less than an hour, I’ll be standing across from someone far more unpredictable than a cornered predator. Someone who doesn’t know what I am, what I do. Someone who looked at me like I was interesting rather than dangerous.

And for the first time in a long time, I’m not sure what to expect.