Chapter 4 4

The restaurant was called Le Coucou. French, expensive, and romantic.

Darian sat at a table for two, checking her reflection in her spoon. She looked composed. The matchmaker, a woman named Madame LeClair, had promised a "high-value candidate" for tonight.

"He is in finance," LeClair had said. "Very eager to meet you."

Darian took a sip of water. She needed this to work. The Trust clock was ticking.

"Darian?"

She looked up.

Standing before her was not a finance mogul. It was Bob.

Bob from the Charles Enterprises mailroom.

He was wearing a suit that was two sizes too big, the sleeves covering his knuckles. He had a greasy smile and a stain on his tie.

"Bob?" Darian blinked. "What are you doing here?"

Bob pulled out the chair and sat down, spreading his legs wide. "Madame LeClair sent me. Said you were looking for a... sturdy man." He winked. It was grotesque.

Darian felt the blood drain from her face. "There must be a mistake."

"No mistake," Bob said, leaning over the table. "I know Grant dumped you. Rough break. But hey, I got a promotion last week. I make forty grand a year now. I can take care of you."

He reached out and covered her hand with his damp, sweaty palm.

"You're used to the high life, I get it," Bob leered. " But you're damaged goods now, babe. Beggars can't be choosers."

Darian pulled her hand away as if she had touched a hot stove.

From the booth behind her, a familiar laugh rang out.

Darian turned. Aimee was there, holding a martini, surrounded by her entourage. She waved.

"So happy for you, Darian!" Aimee called out, loud enough for half the restaurant to hear. "Bob is a catch! You two look adorable together!"

The restaurant went quiet. People were staring. Whispering.

It was a setup. A humiliation ritual designed to put Darian in her place. To show her that without Grant, she belonged with the mailroom clerk.

Bob grinned, emboldened by Aimee's presence. "See? Even the boss's girlfriend thinks we're a match. Come on, give me a smile."

Darian looked at Bob. Then she looked at Aimee.

Rage, hot and white, flared in her chest. But she didn't flip the table. She didn't scream. She did what she did best. She analyzed the data.

She simply stared at Bob, her expression unreadable. Then, she pulled out her phone, her thumb moving with practiced efficiency across the screen. She typed a single, encrypted message and hit send. It was addressed to a contact saved only as 'Cleaner'.

"Bob," Darian said softly, her voice a silken threat. "I would advise you to check your personal email."

Bob blinked. "Uh... why?"

A moment later, his phone buzzed violently on the table. He glanced at the screen, and his face turned the color of old oatmeal. His eyes widened in terror. He had just received a detailed ledger of his gambling debts, owed to a particularly unforgiving bookie in Queens, complete with a notification that his location had just been forwarded.

"What... how did you..." he stammered, scrambling up so fast he knocked his chair over.

"Leave," Darian said, her voice no louder than a whisper, yet it cut through the room. "Now."

Bob didn't need to be told twice. He practically ran out of the restaurant, clutching his phone like a live grenade.

Darian stood up. She turned to Aimee's table.

Aimee's smile was frozen. She held her martini glass like a weapon.

"Nice try, Aimee," Darian said, her voice carrying through the silent room. "But you should really vet your pawns better. Some have more skeletons than others."

She signaled the maître d'. "Check for table four, please. And send a bottle of your cheapest champagne to the lady in silver. It suits her."

Darian walked out of the restaurant. Her legs were shaking, but her stride was long.

Outside, the night air was cool. A black SUV was idling at the curb. The window rolled down.

Grant.

He had been watching. Of course.

"Get in," Grant said. He didn't look angry. He looked... impressed.

"Go to hell, Grant," Darian said, walking past the car.

Grant put the car in gear, rolling alongside her. "Why are you doing this? Dating mailroom clerks? It's pathetic."

"I didn't choose him. Your girlfriend did."

Grant frowned. "Aimee set that up?"

"Ask her." Darian stopped and looked at him through the open window. "I want to get married, Grant. I want a life. A real one. Not just being the shadow in your penthouse."

"I can give you a life," Grant said. "I can buy you an apartment. A car. Anything."

"Anything but a ring," Darian said.

"Marriage is a contract," Grant scoffed. "It ruins everything."

"Exactly," Darian said. "And I'm looking for a partner, not a master."

She hailed a yellow cab. As she climbed in, her phone pinged.

Email from: Vance & Associates.

Subject: Regarding your inquiry.

Ms. Klein. Mr. Vance is available to meet. Tonight. 11 PM. His office.

Darian stared at the screen. A smile, small and dangerous, curled her lips.

"Driver," she said. "Midtown. 5th Avenue."