SLOANE'S POV

The Hamilton-Vance Tower didn't just scrape the sky. It owned it.

I stood in the lobby, craning my neck at a chandelier that probably cost more than the GDP of a small island nation, and felt my one good pair of heels—scuffed at the left toe, resoled twice—sink into carpet so plush it might as well have been made of angel wings.

"Name?" The receptionist didn't look up. Her cheekbones could have cut glass. Her voice could have frozen vodka.

"Sloane Beckett. I'm here for the—"

"Fourth floor. Ballroom C. Next."

She thrust a numbered placard at me—47, lucky me—and turned her attention to the woman behind me.

That woman was draped in Valentino, trailing a personal stylist and what appeared to be a small emotional- support poodle wearing a diamond collar.

I gripped my placard.

The elevator ride was a masterclass in comparative self-loathing. Six other women crowded in with me. One was adjusting her Cartier bracelet. Another was practicing her "genuine, approachable smile" into a compact mirror. A third was on the phone with someone named "Father," confirming that the jet would be waiting at

Teterboro "should this little pageant prove beneath us."

I looked at my reflection in the polished brass doors.

Discount suit. Navy blue. Bought at a Macy's clearance rack three years ago for a job interview I didn't get.

My hair was behaving mostly, which was a minor miracle. No diamonds. No poodle. No jet.

"First time?" The Cartier woman glanced at me, eyes sweeping my outfit like it was a biohazard.

"First and last," I said. "I'm just here for the participation check."

Her laugh was a tiny, dismissive puff of air. "How adorable. You actually think you'll make the first round."

The elevator doors slid open before I could respond.

Ballroom C was a slaughterhouse disguised as a debutante ball.

Rows of velvet chairs. Crystal chandeliers dripping light onto a sea of designer gowns. A stage at the far end.

And everywhere—everywhere—women who looked like they'd been genetically engineered for this exact moment. Cheekbones. Collarbones. Hair that cascaded in waves requiring professional lighting.

I found my seat and tried not to breathe too loud.

A woman two chairs over was reviewing a leather-bound dossier on Declan Vance's "known philanthropic interests." Another was doing vocal warm-ups, trilling soft scales under her breath.

My preparation, by contrast, had consisted of a Google search that yielded precisely three photographs—all silhouettes or partial profiles—and a Wikipedia page with exactly one sentence: "Declan Vance is the CEO of

Vance Industries, a privately held conglomerate."

His net worth was listed as "undisclosed."

Which is billionaire-speak for more than you can possibly imagine, peasant.

"Ladies."

A woman in a severe charcoal suit strode onto the stage. No smile. No warmth. A tablet clutched in one hand like a weapon. "I am Ms. Kruger, Senior Vice President of Candidate Acquisition. You will each receive a questionnaire. You have ninety minutes. Answer honestly. Attempts to anticipate preferred responses will be flagged by our AI and result in immediate disqualification."

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

"Questionnaire?" The Valentino woman from the elevator raised a manicured hand. "When does the runway portion begin? I was told there would be a swimsuit category."

Ms. Kruger's expression didn't flicker. "This is not a beauty pageant. Mr. Vance is seeking a life partner, not a centerfold. The questionnaire is the entirety of today's assessment."

I almost laughed.

Fifty pages.

It was fifty fucking pages.

The booklet landed on my lap with the weight of a university textbook. Questions upon questions upon questions. Multiple choice. Fill-in-the-blank. Short answer. Scenarios so bizarre I had to read them twice.

Question 14: Your partner arrives home at 2 a.m. after a catastrophic business meeting. He has not eaten in fourteen hours. What do you prepare?

The Cartier woman's pen flew across the page. I caught a glimpse of her answer: "My private chef, Jean-

Claude, would prepare a five-course tasting menu with wine pairings from the cellar. Truffle risotto to start

—"

I wrote: Grilled cheese. Extra butter. Burnt on one side because that's how the pan always tilts on my stove.

Question 27: Your partner's favorite shirt has acquired a hole in the left sleeve. It cost approximately

$11,000. Describe your approach.

My pen hovered.

Dane's face flickered through my mind. Not the Dane who kissed the Chanel woman. The Dane from before.

The one who'd come home from the garage, grease-stained and exhausted, his favorite band tee torn at the elbow. I'd spent an hour stitching a tiny dinosaur over the hole. A cartoon T-Rex with orange thread and googly proportions. He'd laughed for five minutes straight, then worn it three times that week.

I blinked the memory away.

On the questionnaire, I wrote: I'd sew a dinosaur over the hole. A really ugly one. With orange thread.

Question 31: Describe your ideal Sunday morning.

Instant coffee. Lukewarm by 9 a.m. because I forgot I made it. Left side of the bed. No alarm.

Question 42: You are playing Mario Kart. Your opponent, a child of approximately eight years, is winning.

Do you let them win?

Absolutely not. But I'm still losing because I'm terrible. Yoshi can only do so much.

Question 55: List all known food allergies.

Strawberries. Anaphylactic. EpiPen lives in my purse.

Question 61: You discover a new cafe. What is the first thing you order, and how do you modify it?

Large black coffee, two and a half pumps of vanilla syrup. The cheap kind. If they only have name-brand syrups, I leave.

Around me, women were sweating. Literally sweating. One was hyperventilating into a silk handkerchief.

Another had requested a second booklet after claiming she'd "made a strategic error" on Question 9— something about preferred opera composers.

I finished in forty-seven minutes.

I didn't check my answers. I didn't strategize. I just wrote what was true, handed the booklet to Ms. Kruger, and sat back in my chair.

The five thousand was all I needed. One more round—the guaranteed in-person interview bonus—would be fifty thousand. That was the number I kept in my head. Fifty thousand dollars. Six months of rent. Breathing room. A chance to find another job without panhandling outside a bodega.

"Time," Ms. Kruger announced.

The booklets were collected. The women around me started whispering, comparing notes, fretting about their answers. I heard someone moan, "I said I'd call the dry cleaner for the wine stain, do you think I should have said the tailor?"

I closed my eyes and imagined my bank account with a comma in it.

---

DECLAN'S POV

“Notify her immediately. She gets the black card.”

Hayes blinked. "The VIP pass is reserved for the final round. If we accelerate the timeline—"

"She gets the black card." Declan's voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. "And the fifty-thousand-dollar deposit.

Transfer now. Before she leaves the building."

"And the others?"

"Clear them out." Declan moved closer to the glass. His reflection ghosted over her image—Sloane, sitting in that cheap navy suit, completely oblivious to the fact that she'd just won a game she didn't know she was playing. "I've found what I wanted."

Hayes hesitated. "Sir, her profile indicates she's recently unemployed. Recently single. Her bank account currently holds twenty-three dollars. She may interpret this as—"

"Good." Declan's mouth curved. Not a smile. Something sharper. "Desperate women don't run."

---

SLOANE'S POV

Ms. Kruger returned to the stage with an expression I couldn't read.

"Ladies." Her voice cut through the chatter. "The results are in. Mr. Vance has made his decision."

The room went silent. Women straightened. Smiles locked into place. The Cartier lady fluffed her hair.

"The winner of today's selection event—" Kruger paused, glanced at her tablet, and for the briefest moment, her professional mask cracked. Something like disbelief crossed her features before she controlled it. "Is candidate forty-seven. Sloane Beckett."

The silence that followed was the loudest thing I'd ever heard.

"OMG, Excuse me?" someone hissed.

"This hick?! Must be a mistake," the Valentino woman said.

My phone buzzed.

I looked down. A notification from my banking app. A deposit. Fifty thousand dollars.

Not five thousand.

I stared at the screen so long the numbers blurred.

"I'm sorry," I said, standing on legs that didn't feel entirely attached to my body. "The participation bonus is —I thought the deposit was five thousand?"

Ms. Kruger's smile was a thin line of something I couldn't name. "The participation bonus was for candidates who are not selected. You, Ms. Beckett, have been selected. Fifty thousand is the first-round advancement bonus. Additional compensation will be discussed at your final-round interview."

The Cartier woman stood up so fast her chair toppled backward. "This is absurd. She's wearing off-the-rack.

She doesn't even have a stylist. Her shoes are scuffed."

"My shoes are fine," I said, but my voice came out distant.

Because I'd just looked up.

Past the stage. Past Ms. Kruger. At the far wall of the ballroom, where a massive panel of black glass reflected the chandeliers and the chaos and my own wide-eyed expression. Something about that glass.

It was too dark.

Too reflective.

I squinted. And for a fraction of a second, I could have sworn I saw movement behind it. The faintest shift of a silhouette. Broad shoulders. Dark hair.

Then Kruger was pressing a black card into my palm—matte finish, gold lettering, VIP stamped in a font that screamed old money—and the moment dissolved.

"Your final interview is scheduled for Friday. Details will be emailed." She turned to the rest of the room.

"Everyone else, please exit to the elevators. Security will escort you."

The protests erupted behind me as I walked toward the door. Outrage. Confusion. Someone was crying. The poodle was barking. I didn't look back.

The black card was cool against my fingers.

Fifty thousand dollars was warm in my bank account.

This billionaire doesn't just have bad taste, I thought. He's a full-on creep.

Then my phone buzzed again—rent payment reminder: PAID—and the thought evaporated like cheap vanilla syrup in hot coffee.

I clutched the black card and walked out.

SLOANE'S POV

The training room smelled like desperation and expensive potpourri.

Mrs. Whitmore circled us like a vulture in Chanel, her thin frame cutting through the sunlight that streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows. A leather-bound book balanced on each of our heads. Not a paperback. Not a hardcover. A tome. The kind of leather-bound monstrosity that old men in smoking jackets read while ignoring their wives.

"Ladies." Her voice was cut glass. "A Vance wife does not slouch. A Vance wife does not fidget. A Vance wife moves through a room like water—silent, invisible, essential."

I wobbled.

The book tilted left. My neck screamed. My spine was staging a revolt.

"Ms. Beckett." Mrs. Whitmore materialized behind me, her breath cold against my ear. "Your posture suggests you're preparing to throw a punch, not greet a duke."

"The duke might deserve it."

Someone gasped. The Cartier woman from the elevator—Tinsley, I'd learned, because of course that was her name—shot me a look of pure venom.

Mrs. Whitmore didn't flinch. She just pointed to the door. "Corridor. Now. Reflection time."

Reflection time. As if standing in a hallway with my nose against wallpaper would somehow make my spine less working-class.

I didn't run. But I didn't walk slow either.

The corridor outside was empty. Marble floors. Gold leaf trim. Oil portraits of dead Vance ancestors glaring down at me like I'd personally insulted their bloodline. I lasted approximately forty-five seconds before my feet started moving on their own.

I'd memorized the employee passages by day two. The service elevator with its scratched buttons. The back stairwell that smelled like industrial cleaner. The hallway behind the kitchen where the air conditioning actually worked. And somewhere, if I turned left at the broken water fountain and right at the dead potted plant—there.

The vending machine glowed like a beacon in the dim light.

I pressed my forehead against the glass. Black coffee. Bottom row. Three dollars and fifty cents. I fished a crumpled five from my blazer pocket—this ridiculous silk thing they'd made me wear, cream-colored, already stained at the cuff—and fed it into the slot.

The machine whirred. Gurgled. And stopped.

My coffee sat there. Hanging. Inches from the drop tray.

"No," I whispered. "No, you piece of—"

I kicked it. Hard. The impact vibrated through my heel and the machine didn't even rattle. Just hummed at me, smug and indifferent.

Twenty-three dollars in my bank account. Old Sloane would have wept. New Sloane, the one with fifty thousand dollars she couldn't technically access until "contractual obligations were fulfilled," still had exactly twenty-three dollars and now a vending machine was robbing her blind.

A hand reached past my head.

I froze.

Barely an inch from my ear. Long fingers, a dusting of dark hair, a sleeve rolled to the elbow revealing a forearm that belonged on a statue. And the can dropped with a hollow clunk.

"Stuck?"

The voice hit me before I turned around.

Low. Familiar in a way that made my stomach clench before my brain understood why.

I spun.

And there he was.

Dane.

Dane.

Standing in a dim employee corridor in the Hamilton-Vance Tower, sleeves rolled up, shirt untucked at the waist, top two buttons undone. His tie hung loose around his neck, yanked to one side like he'd been trying to strangle himself and gave up halfway through. His dark hair was disheveled. His jaw was sharp enough to cut.

For three full seconds I couldn't speak.

"You," I finally managed.

"Hello, Sloane."

He said my name the way he used to. Slow. Deliberate. Like it was something he was holding in his mouth to see how it tasted.

My brain was doing gymnastics. Reconciling the man I'd last seen kissing a Chanel heiress against a town car with this man—this man, in a corporate tower, looking like he'd just stepped out of a boardroom meltdown.

"Wow." The word came out half-laugh, half-snarl. "Dane. Holy shit." I looked him up and down, cataloging every detail. The shirt. The watch. The way he stood, one shoulder propped against the vending machine, crowding my space without even trying. "From the garage to the Hamilton-Vance security team? That's a career trajectory."

His mouth twitched.

"Or wait." I tapped my chin. "Valet? You're parking cars now? Those suits are rented, right? Because the last time I saw you, your rent was three months late and your only suit jacket had a mustard stain."

Something moved behind his eyes. A flicker. I couldn't read it.

"Something like that," he said.

"You don't deny it?"

"Would it matter if I did?"

His voice was different. I couldn't place how. Lower, maybe. Or just more controlled. The old Dane would've fired back already, wounded ego flaring, face twisting into that defensive pout I knew too well. This Dane just watched me. His stillness was unnerving.

"Does your sugar mommy know you're here?" I crossed my arms. "The Chanel woman. Rich, blonde, diamonds at the throat. Or have you already moved on to a new mark?"

His jaw tightened.

"She know you're working two jobs to keep up appearances? Or is the valet gig just for fun money?"

"Sloane."

"Because I've gotta say, Dane, I didn't think you had it in you. Holding down a job. Any job. The man I lived with couldn't load a dishwasher without a pep talk."

"Are you done?"

"No." My chest was tight. Heat crawling up my neck. "I'm not done. You show up here, in my hallway, looking like—" I gestured at him, this whole infuriating package, the rolled sleeves and the sharp jaw and the way he smelled, which I was noticing now despite myself. Something dark and expensive. Sandalwood?

Vetiver? Why did a valet smell like a niche fragrance counter? "—like that. And you just say my name and expect—what? What exactly do you expect, Dane?"

He pushed off the machine.

The motion brought him closer. Too close. He was taller than I remembered—easily six-three—and I had to tilt my head back to keep eye contact. His chest was right there. Solid. Visible through the thin white cotton.

I put a hand up without thinking. My palm met muscle and stopped. Flat against his sternum. The heat of him bled through the fabric. I could feel his heartbeat. Steady. Too steady.

"Moved in for the view?" His voice dropped. "I know the security team doesn't pay much. Had to get creative."

The bastard was using my words against me.

"Creative," I repeated, aiming for disdain and landing somewhere breathless. "Right. Because sneaking into a billionaire's wife-search as a parking attendant is definitely a solid life plan."

He stepped forward.

I stepped back.

The vending machine was suddenly against my spine, cold and humming and unyielding. His arms came up on either side of my head. Not touching. Just there. Palms flat against the glass. Caging me in.

"The wife-search," he said, looking down at me, "is a circus. You know that, right? Rich asshole can't find a date, so he makes a game show out of it."

"Says the valet."

"Says the man who's watched you for—" He stopped. His eyes moved over my face. "You really believe in this.

The black card. The training. The curtsy lessons."

"It's not about belief. It's about fifty thousand dollars."

"So you are desperate."

The words landed like a slap.

I shoved at his chest. He didn't move. Not an inch. His hand caught my wrist, fingers wrapping around the delicate skin where my pulse hammered, and he just held it. Not hard. Not rough. His thumb moved—once, twice—against the inside of my wrist.

"Don't," I said.

"Don't what?"

"Touch me like you know me."

"I know you better than anyone."

"Bullshit. You knew the version of me that paid your rent and believed your lies. You don't know this version.

The one who's about to get rich off some mysterious billionaire's very specific checklist."

His eyes narrowed. "Checklist?"

"You haven't seen the news? Declan Vance wants a woman who drinks instant coffee with two and a half pumps of vanilla. Who plays Yoshi. Who's exactly five-four. And I'm perfect for him. I'm literally his dream girl on paper." I laughed, sharp and jagged. "So while you're downstairs parking his cars, I'll be upstairs marrying him."

The silence that followed was strange.

Too long.

Too loaded.

"Dane?" My wrist was still in his grip. His thumb had stopped moving. "What?"

"Sloane." His voice had changed again. Something urgent underneath it. Something almost—desperate? "The woman. That day. The one you saw me with. She wasn't—"

"Don't." The word ripped out of me. "Do not dare stand here and explain her to me. I saw you. I saw your face. You looked right at me and you didn't stop. You didn't chase me. You didn't call. For a month, Dane. A month."

"She's my—"

"Mr. Vance!"

The voice echoed down the corridor.

I twisted in his arms. Hayes—the nervy little guy from the IT department, always hunched over a tablet—was standing at the far end of the hallway, pale as a sheet, eyes wide as saucers.

"I've been looking everywhere for you, sir, the board meeting has reconvened and Ms. Kruger is—"

He stopped. Registered the scene. My back against the vending machine. Dane's arms caging me in. Our faces inches apart.

"Am I interrupting?" Hayes squeaked.

"Yes," Declan said.

"No," I said at the same time.

I ducked under his arm. My wrist slipped from his grip. The air where his body had been was suddenly cold.

"Go to your meeting," I said, not looking at him. Straightening my blazer. Smoothing my hair. "Go park a car.

Go do whatever it is you do now. I have curtsy lessons to fail."

"Sloane."

I walked.

My heels clicked against the marble, past Hayes, past the dead potted plant, past the oil portraits and their disapproving glares. I didn't run. Running would mean he mattered.

But my wrist was still warm where his thumb had been.

And I could feel his eyes on my back until I turned the corner.

SLOANE'S POV

The contract was eighty-seven pages of pure evil.

I sat cross-legged on the cold bathroom floor, my back against the marble stall divider, the document spread across my lap like a dead animal. The other candidates were in the lounge, sipping cucumber water and practicing their "genuine listening faces." I'd been in here for forty minutes.

Page thirty-four. Clause 12b. Voluntary withdrawal or disqualification due to gross misconduct shall require full reimbursement of the fifty-thousand-dollar advancement bonus within fourteen calendar days.

Full reimbursement.

I read it again. Then a third time.

"Nope," I whispered. "Still says I'm fucked."

The stall door rattled. Someone jiggled the handle. "Occupied?" a voice trilled.

"Explosive diarrhea," I called back. "Super contagious. Probably airborne."

The footsteps retreated. I returned to my doom-scrolling.

Even if I accessed the fifty thousand—which I couldn't until "contractual obligations were fulfilled"—I'd already spent four hundred of my own nonexistent money on the credit card payment that kept my phone alive. My bank account currently contained nineteen dollars and a dream. If I tanked this on purpose and got flagged for "gross misconduct," I'd owe a billionaire fifty grand I didn't have.

I'd be sued. Garnished. Probably thrown into some kind of fancy debtor's prison with chandeliers and artisanal bread.

The only escape hatch was peaceful elimination. Make Declan Vance reject me organically. Convince him I was a disaster. A turn-off. A woman so fundamentally wrong for his weird, specific, vanilla-syrup-obsessed soul that he'd boot me out with a handshake and no penalty clause.

Problem: I was apparently his dream girl on paper.

Solution: I needed to become his nightmare in person.

And for that, I needed intel.

---

The employee corridor was empty. My ballet flats—already violating Mrs. Whitmore's "heels at all times"

decree—made no sound on the linoleum. I'd memorized the guard rotation by now. Ramirez patrolled the east wing from two to two-thirty. The security office was empty during shift change.

I rounded the corner near the vending machine and stopped.

There he was.

Dane.

He was leaning against the wall, phone in hand, still in that stupid security uniform—navy polo, badge clipped to his belt, boots polished to a shine. His sleeves were pushed up again. Forearms on display. Jaw sharp enough to cut glass.

My stomach did something annoying. A flutter. A squeeze. I told it to shut up.

"Hey." I grabbed his arm and yanked.

"What the—" He stumbled, phone clattering to the floor, as I dragged him sideways into the supply closet.

The door swung shut. Darkness swallowed us both.

The closet was approximately the size of a coffin. Shelves pressed into my spine. Something sharp—a mop handle? a broom?—dug into my hip. And Dane was everywhere. Chest against my shoulder. Breath stirring the hair at my temple. His body heat bleeding through my blazer like a fever.

"Sloane." His voice was a low rumble in the dark. "What are you doing?"

"Shut up." I fumbled for the light cord, yanked it. A bare bulb flickered on above us, casting everything in jaundice yellow. "I need information."

He looked down at me. The angle was absurd—him towering, me wedged between his chest and a shelf of industrial cleaning products. His face was half-shadow, half-light, all cheekbones and dark eyes and that mouth that used to trace constellations down my spine.

I ignored all of that.

"The CEO," I said. "You work here. You've seen him. You know what he hates."

One eyebrow lifted. "Do I."

"Don't be coy. You're security. Security hears things. Gossip. Complaints. The kind of stuff the assistants whisper about when they think no one's listening." I poked his chest. Hard. "I need the landmines. The dealbreakers. What makes a billionaire look at a woman and think absolutely not."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Why?"

"None of your business."

"You dragged me into a broom closet."

"A supply closet. Much more dignified."

"Sloane." He said my name the way you'd talk to a child who'd just explained their plan to build a rocketship out of cardboard. "What are you trying to do?"

I weighed my options. Lie? Half-truth? Full honesty with a man who'd already proven himself a first-class deceiver?

"Fine." I crossed my arms—well, tried to, but my elbow hit his ribs and his hand came up instinctively to steady my waist. His palm settled just above my hip. Warm. Broad. I ignored it with heroic effort. "I want him to eliminate me. Peacefully. No penalty clause."

His thumb moved. A single stroke against the fabric of my blazer. "You want to fail."

"I want to fail strategically. If I withdraw, I owe the money back. If I misbehave badly enough to get booted for misconduct, I owe the money back. But if he just... doesn't like me?" I shrugged. "That's chemistry. No penalty. I walk away with fifty grand and no lawsuit."

The silence stretched.

Then Dane laughed. Low and rough and completely unexpected, the sound vibrating through his chest and into my hand—which was still pressed against his sternum, I realized, because I hadn't moved it after poking him. My palm was flat against his heartbeat.

"You're serious," he said.

"Deadly."

"You want me to give you insider information. On my boss. So you can sabotage your candidacy."

"Five hundred dollars," I said.

His laughter stopped. "What?"

"Five hundred. Cash. PayPal. Venmo. Whatever you want." I tilted my chin up, meeting his eyes. "You're a security guard, Dane. You're not exactly rolling in it. The watch is fake, right? The shirt's a rental. You probably eat ramen six nights a week."

His jaw tightened. Something flickered behind his eyes—amusement? irritation? I couldn't tell.

"Five hundred dollars," he repeated, "to betray my employer."

"It's not betrayal. It's... consulting. I'm paying for your expertise." I patted his chest. "Come on, big guy. You owe me. Consider it partial restitution for two years of emotional damages."

"Oh, I owe you." His voice had dropped. The hand on my waist tightened, just barely. "Is that what we're calling it."

"The information, Dane. What does he hate?"

He studied my face for a long moment. The bulb hummed above us. Somewhere in the distance, a door opened and closed. His eyes traced the line of my jaw, the curve of my throat, the pulse point that was absolutely, definitely, one-hundred-percent not racing.

"Flat shoes," he said finally.

I blinked. "What?"

"Declan Vance. He hates women in flat shoes. Thinks they look lazy. Unfeminine. A woman who shows up in ballet flats might as well spit in his face." He leaned closer, his breath ghosting over my ear. "And he hates a mouthy woman. If you talk back—if you sass him, challenge him, push back even a little—he'll drop you faster than a bad stock. Silence is everything."

My heart was pounding. This was gold. Pure, actionable, five-hundred-dollar gold.

"What else?"

"One more thing." His lips were at my ear now, voice a low rumble that I felt in my molars. "Coffee. He's a purist. Black only. No sugar. No cream. No flavored syrups. And if you ever—ever—put cinnamon near his coffee, he'll have you escorted from the building."

Cinnamon.

Cinnamon.

The word detonated in my brain like a firework. Cinnamon in black coffee. The exact concoction I used to make Dane when his stomach was acting up—bitter coffee, enough cinnamon to choke a horse, the special brew that made him gag and curse and chase me around the kitchen threatening revenge. I'd called it my

"go-away juice." He'd called it "culinary terrorism."

And Declan Vance hated it.

"Got it," I breathed. "Flat shoes. Sass. Cinnamon coffee."

"Guaranteed elimination."

I grinned up at him, all teeth and triumph. "You're a lifesaver, Dane. A lying, cheating, secretly-employed lifesaver." I slapped his chest—friendly this time, no poke. "Five hundred. I'll transfer it as soon as I'm booted."

"Can't wait."

I reached for the door handle, then paused. Glanced back over my shoulder. "Hey. Why are you helping me?

Really?"

His expression was unreadable. "Maybe I want to see you fail."

"Ouch."

"Maybe I want to see you try." His mouth curved. "You've always been entertaining when you're scheming."

I didn't know what to do with that. So I did what I always did—I turned it into a joke. "Enjoy the show, then.

Try not to cry when I'm free of this circus and fifty grand richer."

The door opened. I slipped out.

His voice followed me into the corridor: "Good luck, Sloane."

I didn't look back. But I could feel him smiling.

---

The assessment room was a stage, literally. Black curtains. A single spotlight. A long mahogany table where three judges sat like a panel of disapproving owls—Ms. Kruger in the center, Hayes fidgeting at her left, and some stone-faced woman I didn't recognize at her right.

"Final practical examination," Kruger announced. "You will each prepare and present afternoon coffee for

Mr. Vance. This assesses your attention to detail, your composure under pressure, and your understanding of his personal preferences."

A cart of supplies waited at the edge of the room. Coffee beans. Grinders. French presses. Pour-over setups. A galaxy of syrups and creamers arranged in crystal decanters.

Tinsley went first. She floated to the cart in her Valentino heels, selected a single-origin Ethiopian roast, and spent fifteen minutes crafting the perfect pour-over. Golden ratio. Precise temperature. A porcelain cup pre- warmed with steam. She presented it with a whisper-soft voice and a curtsy so deep her forehead nearly touched her knees.

"Lovely," Kruger murmured.

The second candidate—Miranda, a willowy blonde with a trust fund and zero personality—offered an espresso with a heart-shaped dollop of foam. "Caffeine is the heart's language," she simpered. Hayes wrote something on his tablet.

Then it was my turn.

I stood.

I walked to the cart.

And I committed culinary terrorism.

Instant coffee. The cheapest shit on the table—I ignored the French press entirely and reached for the pre- ground foil packet someone had left half-hidden behind the artisanal beans. Two scoops into a chipped mug.

Boiling water splashed in with all the grace of a gas station dispenser. No sugar. No cream. And then—with the flourish of a conductor leading an orchestra—I grabbed the cinnamon shaker and dumped.

And dumped.

And dumped.

The powder billowed up in a brown cloud. It crusted the rim of the mug. It freckled the saucer. The coffee beneath it was a swampy, gritty, apocalyptic mess.

I walked to the judges' table. My ballet flats made no sound on the stage—flat shoes, just like he said, the cheapest, ugliest, most aggressively unsexy flats I owned, scuffed at the toe and frayed at the heel.

I slammed the mug down. Coffee sloshed onto the tablecloth—a brown, gritty stain spreading across white linen.

"Coffee," I announced. "Drink it."

Hayes flinched.

Kruger's face turned to stone.

The third judge looked like she'd swallowed a wasp.

"Ms. Beckett," Kruger began, her voice arctic. "This is highly—"

She stopped. Her hand flew to her ear—a subtle gesture, but I caught it. The earpiece. The tiny flesh-colored bud all three judges were wearing. Someone was speaking to them. Someone watching from behind the one- way glass.

Hayes's eyes went wide. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. His hand trembled as it reached for the scoring paddle.

"Ten," he croaked.

The room went silent.

"Excuse me?" I said.

"Ten out of ten." Hayes's voice cracked on every word. He looked like a man who'd just been ordered to defuse a bomb with a butter knife. "Mr. Vance says... Mr. Vance says this coffee has unparalleled soul. He says it reminds him of... of home." He swallowed. "Ms. Beckett passes with full marks."

My stomach hit the floor.

"No," I whispered. "No, that's not—the cinnamon—the flats—"

"Perfect score," Kruger said, her voice tight with something between confusion and fury. "Congratulations,

Ms. Beckett. You advance to the final round."

I spun around.

The room was a blur of black curtains and shocked faces and Tinsley's mouth hanging open like a carp. Past the stage. Past the judging table. At the back of the room, near the service entrance, where the shadows gathered thickest.

He was there.

Leaning against the doorframe. Arms crossed. Black uniform blending into the dark. The same fake security badge. The same infuriating jaw.

Dane was looking directly at me.

And he was smiling. Not a nice smile. Not a friendly smile. The smile of a man watching an elaborate prank pay out in dividends. The smile of a man who'd just watched a mouse sprint gleefully into a trap and pause to thank the cheese.

His lips moved. Two words. Silent.

You're welcome.

My vision went red.

My fists clenched.

And somewhere in my chest, underneath the fury and the humiliation and the sudden, dawning horror of what I'd just done, a tiny, traitorous voice whispered: You just walked right into his hands. Again.