Chapter 7 7

The server returned with Evangelina's card and receipt. She signed with a flourish, her signature mechanical, automatic, and tucked the slip into her wallet without looking at the final amount.

"I should go," she said. "Early morning."

Barrett rose with her, collecting his jacket from the back of his chair. They walked to the elevator in silence, the restaurant's hush following them into the small metal box. Barrett stood slightly behind her, his shoulder angled to block the air conditioning vent.

At the lobby, the October night had turned sharp. Evangelina shivered in her thin dress, and Barrett moved without comment, positioning himself between her and the wind.

"I'll take the subway," she said. "Brooklyn. The security in my building is... adequate."

Barrett's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "The subway. At this hour."

"I've managed before."

"I'm certain you have." He paused. "I'll walk you to the entrance."

They crossed Columbus Circle, past the statue, past the late-night vendors selling pretzels and coffee in paper cups. The subway entrance yawned before them, concrete stairs descending into fluorescent-lit tunnels.

Evangelina turned. Barrett stood at the top of the stairs, his hands in his pockets, his face shadowed by the streetlight behind him.

"Thank you," she said. "For... everything."

"Thank me in a year," he replied. "When we've successfully dissolved this without incident."

She almost smiled. "Practical."

"Always."

She descended the stairs. At the bottom, she turned to look back, but he was already gone, the space where he'd stood empty except for passing pedestrians.

Barrett Watson walked to the corner where his Mercedes waited, engine running, K.C. Stone behind the wheel.

"Sir." K.C. opened the rear door.

Barrett slid into the leather seat. The partition rose, sealing them in privacy. He removed his jacket, rolled his sleeves, and became someone else entirely.

"Financials," he said. "Evangelina Vazquez. All accounts. Personal, professional, family-linked."

K.C.'s fingers moved. "Petrovic family American Express. Centurion Card. Authorized user status-" He paused. "Terminated forty minutes ago. The account holder was... Fannie Hobbs."

Barrett laughed. The sound was soft, dangerous, utterly without humor.

"Gus Petrovic," he said, "is a fool. He thinks he's punishing her. He thinks he's teaching obedience." He leaned forward. "K.C., I want you to contact our friends at the Times. Business section. There's a story developing about Petrovic Industries' supply chain vulnerabilities. Something about... environmental compliance? Labor practices?"

"Fabricated, sir?"

"Enhanced." Barrett's smile was thin. "The truth, but louder. And K.C.?"

"Sir?"

"Per Se. Marcus Bell. Tell him I want a black card prepared. Unlimited access. My personal account. No statements sent to the holder, no balances displayed, no acknowledgment of source."

K.C.'s eyebrows rose. "The name, sir?"

"Evangelina Vazquez." Barrett stared out the window at the passing city, his reflection ghosted against the dark glass. "And find me an invitation to the Met Gala. The proper kind. Not the after-party, not the secondary tables. The main event."

"For Mrs. Watson?"

"For my wife."

The Mercedes glided through the streets of Manhattan, carrying its passenger toward a penthouse he rarely visited, in a building he owned but didn't acknowledge. Barrett Watson closed his eyes and thought of a woman in a black dress, signing a check with steady hands while her world collapsed around her.

She would not collapse again. Not while he watched.

In the subway car, Evangelina gripped the metal pole, her body swaying with the train's motion. The car was nearly empty, a few late-shift workers dozing against windows, a street musician counting his tips in the corner.

She took out her phone. Scrolled to the new contact. Mr. Watson.

She thought of his hand on hers at the counter. His shoulder blocking the wind. The way he'd said "my wife" with such strange weight, as if the words meant something she couldn't decipher.

Her thumb hovered over the message icon. She typed: Thank you for dinner. The food was excellent.

Deleted it.

Typed: We should discuss the terms of our public appearances in more detail.

Deleted it.

Finally, she simply locked the screen and leaned her head against the cool glass of the window. The train rattled through the tunnels, carrying her toward Brooklyn, toward her small apartment with its three locks and its view of a brick wall.

She did not know that somewhere above her, in a car worth more than her entire education, a man was planning her protection with the same precision he applied to hostile takeovers.

She did not know that she had already become the center of someone's universe.

She only knew that for the first time in years, she had not felt alone.