Chapter 2 No.2

The silence Silas left behind was louder than his shouting.

Ines stayed on the floor for a long time, her knees pulled to her chest. The threat hung in the air like the smoke from his cigarette. Five thousand dollars. She had forty-two dollars in her bank account.

Her hand trembled as she lifted the black phone. Maybe she could sell it. It was sleek, heavy, clearly custom hardware. It might fetch a few hundred at the pawn shop down the street. Enough to buy a day or two for her grandfather.

She pressed the side button.

The screen lit up, displaying a complex geometric pattern lock. Ines tilted the device, catching the light just right. Faint smudges from his fingertips revealed the swipe pattern. A ghost of his touch. Her own fingers traced the path, and the phone unlocked with a soft click.

And then it vibrated.

A name flashed on the screen: Preston.

Ines froze. Preston was Dorian Mcclain's personal fixer. She knew the name from the society pages, from the whispers in the circles she used to inhabit before the fall.

This wasn't her phone.

She had taken Dorian Mcclain's phone.

Panic flared again, hotter this time. She almost threw the device across the room. This wasn't just a phone; it was a tracking beacon. It was a direct line to a man who destroyed companies for sport.

The call ended. A second later, a message appeared. It wasn't a normal text bubble. It was a secure, encrypted overlay.

> GPS Lock Confirmed. Security Team dispatched. ETA 10 minutes.

Ines stared at the screen. Her old life, the one where she analyzed data for the CIA, kicked her brain into gear. She wasn't just a thief in their eyes. She was a security breach. If they found her here, with this phone, they wouldn't just arrest her. They would bury her.

She had to return it. On her terms.

She scrambled to her feet, her fingers flying across the screen. She bypassed the proprietary app store, diving into the phone's core settings. She located the accessibility suite, a set of tools for users with disabilities, and activated the built-in text-to-speech function. It was native to the OS, untraceable.

She dialed the last number called.

Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

"Speak," a voice said.

It was Dorian. His voice was low, cold, and stripped of any sleepiness.

Ines typed quickly. The mechanical female voice of the app spoke for her. "I took it by mistake. I'm sorry."

There was a pause on the other end. A heavy, loaded silence.

"Who is this?" Dorian asked. He didn't sound convinced. He sounded like a predator who had just caught a scent.

Ines typed again. "A nobody. I'll leave it at the Bryant Park library entrance. One hour."

"Wait-"

She hung up.

She didn't have ten minutes. She had five. She grabbed a hoodie from the pile on the floor-an oversized gray thing that swallowed her frame-and jammed a baseball cap onto her head. She shoved the phone into her pocket and ran.

Fifty minutes later, Ines stood on the edge of Bryant Park.

She was early. She had taken a circuitous route, switching subway cars twice, checking for tails. It was paranoia, maybe, but paranoia had kept her alive this long.

The park was crowded. Tourists, office workers on lunch breaks, students. It was the perfect cover.

She walked to a bench near the fountain, keeping her head down. She placed the phone on the wood and covered it with a discarded newspaper. It was sloppy, but it was the best she could do.

She retreated, walking backward toward the coffee kiosk, her eyes fixed on the bench. She needed to see someone retrieve it. She needed to know she was clear.

A black Cadillac Escalade pulled up to the curb on 42nd Street.

Ines tensed. She gripped her paper coffee cup until the cardboard buckled.

The rear door opened.

Dorian Mcclain stepped out.

He wasn't wearing the rumpled clothes from the morning. He was in a charcoal suit that fit him like armor. He adjusted his cuffs, his expression bored.

He didn't walk toward the bench.

He turned. Slowly, deliberately. His eyes scanned the crowd, bypassing the tourists, the students, the noise.

His gaze locked onto her.

Ines stopped breathing.

He knew. How did he know?

The phone. The GPS wasn't just showing the location; it was precise within inches. He wasn't looking for the device. He was looking for the person holding the signal.

But she had left the phone on the bench.

She patted her pocket.

Hard plastic met her fingers.

In her haste, in her terror, she had pulled out the wrong phone. She had left her own cracked, worthless phone on the bench. She still had his.

"Idiot," she mouthed.

Dorian started walking toward her. He didn't run. He didn't need to. The crowd parted for him like the Red Sea. His stride was long, eating up the distance between them.

Ines turned to run.

Her legs felt like lead. She took two steps before a hand clamped around her wrist.

It wasn't a violent grab, but it was absolute. His fingers were warm, his grip iron-hard.

She was spun around.

Dorian looked down at her. Up close, his eyes were a startling shade of gray, flecked with something that looked like amusement. Or rage. It was hard to tell.

"Playing hide and seek, Miss Mccall?" he murmured. His voice was a low rumble that vibrated in her chest.

Ines tried to yank her arm back. His fingers tightened, pressing against the thin, white scar that ran across the inside of her wrist.

"Let go," she tried to say, but her throat locked. Her mouth opened, but only a sharp exhale escaped.

Dorian's eyes narrowed. He pulled her closer, ignoring the people staring.

"We have things to discuss," he said.

He didn't wait for an answer. He turned and dragged her toward the waiting SUV.