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Today. The word echoes in my head, panic rising in my chest. It’s too soon. I’m not prepared—not for the trip, not for Chicago, and not for the possibility of . . .
“Doug,” I try one last time, “the procedural issues alone—”
“Have been taken care of,” Doug interrupts smoothly. “As you overheard, this comes from the top. It’s already been arranged.”
And just like that, I’m trapped. The weight of inevitability settles on my shoulders, heavy and suffocating. I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
“Excellent,” Harrison says, leaning back in his chair. “I’ll have Sarah book your flights. You’ll be back tonight.”
I stand on shaky legs, my hip protesting the sudden movement. As I turn to leave, Harrison calls out, “Oh, and Addy? Discretion is key here. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of the sensitive nature of this assignment.”
I meet his gaze, the thinly veiled threat in his words not lost on me. “Of course not,” I reply, my voice steadier than I feel.
As I walk back to my desk, the lab blurs around me. The hum of equipment, the chatter of my colleagues—it all fades into background noise. All I can hear is the pounding of my own heart, a desperate rhythm that seems to echo one word over and over:
Dante.
Dante.
Dante.
Chapter Three
Adele
I secure my bike in my designated parking spot and glance at the skyscraper before me. Two weeks of living here, and I still can’t believe this is home now. My best friend Kira’s penthouse suite towers above, a world apart from the sprawling mansion I grew up in.
My phone buzzes as I push through the revolving door into the cool, polished lobby. I check and see that it’s a message from my boss:
O’Shea. I heard you rescheduled your flight from 10 to 1 and went home instead of heading straight to the airport. Do I really need to remind you how crucial this assignment is?
I roll my eyes. Big deal. Doug Harrison can suck it up. I need time to change into something more presentable before heading to Chicago. Surely, it’d be in everyone’s interest if I didn’t turn up in my baggy jeans and rock band T-shirt?
Doug’s hissy fit forgotten, I step into the private elevator. As it ascends, a familiar wave of guilt washes over me. The same guilt that’s been gnawing at me since I moved out of the house and stopped taking my dad’s calls. The mansion I grew up in suddenly feels hundreds of miles away, despite being only a fifteen-minute drive from here.
I firmly push the guilt aside as I’ve done countless times over the past two weeks since I moved out.
No, I made the right choice.
At twenty-three, moving out was long overdue, but considering Dad and I are all the family we each have left in the world, we’d stuck together for much longer than necessary. But his betrayal had tipped the scales and made me question if I wasn’t better off alone than living with a man I no longer knew.
Kira’s offer to move in with her couldn’t have come at a better time. She’d recently moved back to Boston and into this penthouse and kept complaining that the walls didn’t ‘echo right’ and she needed to hear another human being to ‘keep things balanced.’ I finally caved and moved in with her after Dad and I had that massive row.
The elevator comes to a smooth stop, and I step out onto our floor. I shake off my conflicted thoughts and open the penthouse door. The aroma of fresh basil and sizzling bacon wafts through the air, making my stomach rumble. I’d been in too much of a rush this morning to have breakfast, and right now is one of the reasons I’m so glad I moved in with Kira.
“Thank God,” I mutter as I cross the cool marble floors of the large, brightly lit living room toward the open-plan kitchen, the sounds of my uneven footsteps muted in my work sneakers.
I spot Kira standing by the induction stove, her sleek black ponytail swishing as she works. Although she doesn’t turn to acknowledge my nearly soundless approach, I know she heard me from the moment I came in.
Heck, she probably even heard the elevator doors swish open from outside the penthouse—her sense of hearing is that keen. Not that she needs it—Kira has every inch of this place mapped out.
She moves with the kind of ease and confidence that comes from familiarity, thanks to the subtle vibrations from her wristband—a device that helps her navigate the space around her.
“Everything okay, Addy? You left less than a couple of hours ago, and you’re already back,” Kira notes in her distinctive dulcet voice as she flips a pancake with a precision and grace that belies someone who has been without sight since the age of four.
Ever since I stumbled into my dorm room in my second year of college and found Kira, a performing arts major and a part-time DJ, with her headphones on, hands flying over a tactile mixing board, I’ve been in awe of her. And she only got better over the years.
By the time we graduated, Kira had become a sought-after DJ. She may not see her audience, but she sure knows how to make them move.
