Chapter 3 She won't go back

The bass of the music at Soho House was vibrating through the floorboards, but on the private rooftop terrace, the air was heavy with cigar smoke and arrogance.

Keyon sat in a leather armchair, a glass of whiskey in his hand. It was barely noon, but he hadn't slept.

Dylan Branch slid into the chair opposite him. He looked fresh, sharp, wearing a linen suit that cost more than most people's cars. He swirled his drink, eyeing Keyon's disheveled appearance.

"Word on the street is the bird has flown the coop," Dylan said. His tone was light, teasing. "Elodie actually walked out?"

Keyon scowled. "She's throwing a tantrum. She's trying to embarrass me in front of Katina."

"She packed a bag?"

"A gym bag," Keyon scoffed. "She took some t-shirts. She didn't even take her jewelry. That's how I know she's bluffing. She's probably at some motel in Queens right now, crying and waiting for me to call."

Keyon slammed his car keys onto the table.

"I bet you ten grand," Keyon said, his voice loud enough for the table next to them to hear. "Three days. She'll be back in three days, begging me to pay her credit card bill."

Dylan raised an eyebrow. He looked at Keyon, really looked at him. "And if she doesn't?"

"She will," Keyon said. "She can't survive without me. The woman doesn't know how to pump her own gas."

The group of young heirs at the next table laughed. "Elodie?" one of them said. "The flower arranger? Yeah, she's toast."

Dylan didn't laugh. He took a sip of his drink. "I don't know, Keyon. She looked... different lately."

Keyon waved a hand dismissively.

---

Five miles away, the elevator doors opened directly into the penthouse of The Sterling.

The apartment was a fortress of glass and concrete. It was minimalist, cold, and breathtakingly expensive. It had belonged to Elodie's uncle-or rather, the man who had posed as her uncle to hide her identity from the world during her years at MIT. He had left it to her in a trust that the Schneider lawyers couldn't touch.

Elodie walked in.

"Welcome home, Solaris," a synthesized female voice said from the walls. The lights adjusted automatically to a soft, warm amber.

Elodie dropped the canvas bag onto a white Italian leather sofa that cost forty thousand dollars. She didn't treat it like a museum piece. She collapsed onto it, burying her face in the cushions.

Her phone buzzed.

She pulled it out. An unknown number.

A video file.

She pressed play.

The screen showed Keyon at Soho House, captured from a discreet angle. The audio was clear.

"She's just a parasite. She'll be back when she gets hungry."

Elodie watched Keyon's face. The sneer. The absolute certainty that she was nothing.

She didn't know who sent it. It was Dylan, sitting across from Keyon, phone hidden under the table, stirring the pot.

Elodie didn't cry. She didn't throw the phone.

She pressed Delete.

She sat up and opened the old, thick laptop.

The screen flickered to life. Lines of green code cascaded down the black terminal. Her fingers flew across the keyboard. It wasn't the tentative typing of an administrative assistant. It was the blur of a virtuoso.

She typed a command: CONNECT REMOTE PORT: STOKES_GLOBAL_EXT.

A prompt appeared: ACCESS GRANTED.

She opened a secure messaging app.

To: CYost

Message: I'm out. Need lab access.

The reply came three seconds later.

From: CYost

Message: Finally. The lab is yours. Door code is still the first 6 digits of Pi.

Elodie closed the laptop. She stood up and walked into the master bathroom.

The mirror stretched from floor to ceiling. She looked at her hair. It was long, curled into the soft waves Keyon liked. He said it made her look "feminine."

She opened the drawer and found a pair of hairdressing scissors.

She grabbed a handful of hair.

Snip.

The thick lock fell into the sink.

She didn't stop. She cut with jagged, angry motions. Chunks of brown hair fell like dead leaves. When she was done, her hair stopped just above her shoulders. It was uneven, choppy, and sharp.

She looked fierce.

Back at Soho House, Keyon was laughing, his arm draped around Katina's waist. Katina was looking at him with wide, adoring eyes.

"Is she okay?" Katina asked, her voice dripping with fake concern. "Should I call her? I feel terrible."

"Don't you dare," Keyon said. "Let her suffer. It's the only way she learns."

In the corner, Dylan checked his phone. The message was marked Read. No reply.

Usually, Elodie would be blowing up Keyon's phone by now. Or calling Dylan to ask if Keyon was okay.

Silence.

Dylan frowned. He took a sip of his drink. "Interesting," he muttered.

In the penthouse, Elodie lay down on the bed. She didn't take a sleeping pill. For the first time in three years, the silence wasn't lonely. It was peaceful.