Page 17 of Curvy Sold Mate

“The scheduling overlap you flagged at the briefing,” he said. “I ran the numbers this afternoon. You were right. The southern approach was exposed for twenty minutes every third rotation.”

She looked up. The pencil came out of her mouth. “I know I was right.”

“I’m telling you I confirmed it.”

“You’re telling me you double-checked my work.”

“I double-check everyone’s work.”

“And?”

“And you were right.”

The faintest shift at the corner of her mouth, suppressed before it reached anything that could be called a smile. “Noted.”

He left, and this time he kept walking.

That evening, he spread the cross-referenced files across the desk in their shared quarters and worked them by lamplight. Five names from the great hall. Seven from Olivia’s list. Three overlapped.

He was deep in Nadia Soren’s hiring file—hired during the post-battle reconstruction, vetted by a junior officer during a period when shortcuts were being made in the name of speed—when the main door opened, and Olivia came in.

She set a glass of water on the edge of his desk without comment and sat on the sofa with a book she’d taken from the shelf that morning. He could smell chamomile on her, faint, and the sharper scent of the archive—old paper, dust, the mineral tang of the stone basement.

They occupied the room in silence for twenty minutes. It was the first silence between them that hadn’t felt like a negotiation.

“You’re staring at the same page,” she said, without looking up from her own.

“I’m thinking.”

“You’ve been thinking at that page for ten minutes. Either it owes you money, or you’ve hit a wall.”

He set the file down. Rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Nadia Soren. Do you know her?”

Olivia closed her book on one finger. “Administrative support. Hired eight months ago. Quiet. Does her job. Doesn’t talk much at meals.” She paused. “Why?”

“Her background check has a gap. Six months unaccounted for between her last pack and Beaumont.”

“That’s not unusual. A lot of people displaced by the attack bounced between temporary placements before landing here.”

“It’s not unusual,” he agreed. “But it’s convenient. And I’m running out of patience with convenient.”

She studied him, and he let her. Turning away was the only other option, though he couldn’t manage that; for some reason, he was not eager to explore.

“Bring me in tomorrow,” she said. “On the investigation. Properly. People talk to me differently than they talk to you. I can get into rooms you can’t.”

“I was going to suggest the same thing.”

“No, you weren’t. You were going to keep working alone and share the results after you were certain. I’ve watched you operate for years, Viktor. I know how you run.”

She was right, and the accuracy of it landed somewhere between admiration and discomfort.

“Tomorrow,” he said.

“Tomorrow.” She opened her book again. Read for a few minutes more, then stood and moved toward the bedroom. At the threshold, she paused.

“Viktor.”

He looked up.