Chapter 4 Breakfast, Alibis, and a Tour at Ten

He left the gala before the speeches began, slipping out a service corridor that smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and old dust. Outside, the night was cooler than it looked through chandeliers. His breath fogged once and vanished.

Adrian loosened his tie in the backseat, letting the driver take the long way home. He needed the extra minutes to come down. He looked at his hands-the same hands that had once trembled when Lucian touched his wrist-and flexed them slowly until they were just hands again.

His phone buzzed.

Unknown: Thank you for your generosity, Mr. Vale. See you at 10:00. – Evelyn

A second later, another message arrived, without the polite punctuation.

Unknown: You have a way of making people look twice. Is that on purpose, or an accident you've learned to live with?

He stared at the words, at that small crooked smile hiding between the lines. The city liked to flirt in writing, where it felt safer.

He typed back with thumbs steadier than he felt.

Adrian: I like people to see what they'll regret ignoring.

A beat. Then:

Unknown: Careful. Some regrets are addictive.

He put the phone face down and watched his reflection shiver in the tinted window. The suit was good. The voice had held. He hadn't flinched when Lucian gripped his hand.

But when he closed his eyes, the chapel came back anyway, uninvited, as first loves usually do.

"Don't go there," he told himself, quiet enough that the driver wouldn't hear. He cracked the window and let the wind carry the words away.

---

Iman was awake when he got home, a robe knotted over scrubs, hair braided up and out of her way. The clinic's back room had become their version of a kitchen-an electric kettle, a jar of instant coffee, a bowl of mandarins, an insulted-looking toaster.

"I thought gala food would fix your habit of forgetting to eat." She slid a plate toward him: toast with butter and honey, a handful of salt sprinkled on top like a secret.

"I did eat." He took a bite. It tasted like childhood, the cheap kind. "A grape. On a stick."

"Mm." She peeled a mandarin with surgeon's fingers, the rind coming off in one perfect curl. "How was he?"

He swallowed before answering. It felt important. "Thinner. Colder."

"And the wife?"

"Curious." He reached for a second slice of toast and paused. "Lonely," he said, as if the word might be a diagnosis.

Iman's eyes flicked up, not unkind. "Because she saw you?"

"Because she saw something that looked like an exit." He shrugged. "I'm just the nearest door."

"She texted, didn't she."

He didn't answer, which was answer enough.

Iman set the mandarin peel down like a crown. "You be careful with that one. Pretty trouble is still trouble."

"I'm careful." He said it lightly, but they both heard the bone under it.

They ate in companionable quiet. A siren sighed somewhere far away. The toaster clicked as it cooled. When he was done, he washed his plate and left it to dry in the rack with the three other plates they owned.

Iman watched him dry his hands on his trousers. "You're shaking."

He looked down; the tremor was slight, a soft buzz under the skin. "I'll sleep."

"You'll try." She crossed to the cabinet and pulled a pill bottle, shook one out, and then put it back with a thump. "No. Not tonight. You need your instincts awake in the morning."

He almost smiled. "You sound like my trainer."

"I sound like a woman who has stitched you back together before and would prefer not to repeat the experience." Her gaze gentled. "Go. Shower. Lie down. Let the night pass without you."

He did as told. Under hot water, he let the steam loosen the place in his chest that had gone tight as a fist. He braced a palm against the tile and bowed his head. Sometimes grief felt like drowning. Sometimes it felt like learning how to breathe a thinner air.

In the mirror afterward, the beard pencil brought back the shadow along his jaw. The wig lay waiting in its stand like a sleeping animal. He practiced the voice with a toothbrush tamped between his teeth to force the words lower. He adjusted his posture by tiny degrees until the person in the mirror wasn't pretending to be a man; he simply was one.

When he finally lay down, he didn't expect sleep. It surprised him anyway, brief and hard, like a door slamming.

---

Morning arrived with the gray honesty only mornings have. He made coffee too strong and drank it from a chipped mug with a cartoon cat. The mug had been there when he moved in and refused to leave.

Iman tossed him a small velvet box. "Wear those. They say money without shouting new money."

Inside, on black silk, lay cufflinks shaped like half-moons. Subtle. Understated. Older than they looked.

"Where did you get these?"

"A patient who couldn't pay. He said they were his grandfather's. I said the hospital would take his grandfather's bones, too, if he didn't stop bleeding on their floor. Put them on."

He did. The metal was cool against his skin. He rolled his sleeves down, buttoned them, let the jacket fall into place. When he glanced up, Iman's face had gone soft around the eyes, the way it did when she believed in him more than she'd admit.

"You look like a problem," she said.

"I am a problem."

"Then go be one." She nodded toward the door. "Text me if you're late. If you're more than an hour late, I call your brother."

He paused at that, the fast little trip of his heart giving him away. "He'll ruin everything."

"He'll ruin nothing and keep you alive, which is the only category I insist on winning." She shooed him. "Ten o'clock. Try not to make the news."

---

The Sloane-Cross Foundation lived in a renovated factory, all tall windows and polished concrete. The front desk seemed designed to decline things gracefully. A receptionist in a neat bun smiled like she'd been trained by a florist.

"Mr. Vale." She pressed a button. "Mrs. Sloane-Cross will be right down."

Evelyn didn't make him wait. She came out of the elevator like good weather, phone in one hand, a stack of files in the other. Today she wore a navy sheath dress that proved she knew how to look important without looking loud. The same restlessness lived at the edges of her smile, though.

"You're punctual," she said, pleased. "That's rare."

"I invest in time as much as money," he said. "It appreciates faster."

She laughed for real this time and gestured him through the security gate. "Come on. I want to show you the robotics lab first. The kids love visitors."

Kids. The word surprised him. He hadn't pictured kids. He'd pictured photo ops and press releases and donors who liked their names on walls that would outlast them.

But there were kids-half a dozen, hunched over workbenches, coaxing small metallic creatures to move. A girl with purple braids adjusted a sensor with a tongue between her teeth; a boy with a chipped tooth cussed under his breath and then apologized to the robot when he thought no one could hear.

Evelyn softened watching them. "They're good," she said low. "Some of them don't have much else. We make sure they have this."

He turned to look at her. It was easy to forget, under all the silk and strategy, that a person might be doing something that mattered.

"Show me what you're building," he said, crouching beside the boy with the chipped tooth.

"A bug," the boy said, then grinned. "Like... a spy. Natalie says I can't call it that on the grant application."

"Call it a reconnaissance unit," Adrian suggested, and the boy's eyes lit like he'd been handed a sword.

They moved through 3D printers and soldering stations, past a wall crammed with Polaroids and first-place ribbons and a sign that said PLEASE DON'T BURN YOURSELF. IF YOU DO, TELL US SO WE CAN HELP. The sign made something ache in him he didn't have a name for.

Evelyn watched him as much as he watched the room. "You're good with them," she said, as they crossed into a bright glass-walled conference space. "Not every donor kneels."

"I like machines that tell the truth," he said. "You build them right, they do what you ask." He glanced at her. "People are messier."

"People are the point," she said, not defensive, just firm.

He didn't argue. He'd learned when to choose silence.

They paused before a framed photo on the wall-Evelyn with a line of graduates in cheap caps and gowns, the kind of smiles that make you wish for better cameras.

"My favorite day," she said softly. "Not the galas. This."

He believed her. That complicated things in ways he didn't plan to unpack.

"Do you-" she began, then stopped. It was rare to see her search for a word. "Were you always this... certain? About yourself?"

He blinked. "Certain?"

"You walk into a room like a promise you intend to keep." A brief, wry curve chased across her mouth. "It makes the men who were born in rooms like that either love you or want to break you."

He looked back at the photo. "I've been broken," he said. "It didn't take."

For a heartbeat, the air between them felt too fragile to touch. Then a low tone sounded, polite but insistent, and a security light above the elevator flickered green.

Evelyn's eyes cut to the glass. "He's early," she said under her breath, and then her face rearranged itself into its public version as the elevator doors opened.

Lucian stepped out in a suit the color of judgment. He took in the lab, the kids, the glass-walled conference room, and then found them with unerring accuracy. His gaze touched Evelyn, warmed by a fraction, then landed on Adrian and did not move.

"I thought I'd join," he said. He didn't offer reasons. Men like him rarely do. "Mr. Vale."

"Mr. Cross." Adrian's voice held.

Lucian's attention slid over the space the way a hand checks the edges of a blade. He greeted the program director by name, asked the purple-braided girl what she was building, nodded at the boy with the chipped tooth and told him reconnaissance was the right word. He was good at this-making people feel seen, the way people in power learn to do.

They gathered in the conference room; glass on three sides, a view of the city like a truth nobody wanted to say out loud. Evelyn poured coffee, fingers precise. Lucian declined with a shake of his head and stood instead of sitting. Adrian understood the tactic: higher standing, higher ground.

"So," Lucian said, finally looking at him full-on, "what brings you back to our coast, Mr. Vale? I can't find any record of you being here before." Casual tone. Knife question.

"Records are for people who need other people to know them." Adrian smiled, almost kind. "I'm camera-shy."

"Hmm." Lucian considered that, eyes giving away nothing. "And what, exactly, do you want from us?"

"Return on investment," Adrian said. "I don't give without expecting a dividend."

Evelyn shot him a quick look, half-annoyed, half-impressed. "The dividend is kids who get a chance."

"I'll take that," he said, and meant it in a way that startled him.

Lucian watched him like a man trying to remember a song he used to know. He tilted his head. "You have an accent I can't place."

"Boarding schools ruin the local in a voice," Adrian said easily. "You end up sounding like hallways."

That tug at Lucian's mouth-close to a smile, close to something else. "And yet there's something... familiar."

Evelyn set a cup down with a click too loud to be an accident. "Familiar how?"

Lucian didn't look at her. "Like a line I've read before."

Adrian tipped his head, the movement small, practiced. "Maybe you recycle."

Silence, but not empty. Evelyn exhaled and leaned back in her chair, pretending to be amused and failing by a hair.

A thin folder lay on the table, half-tucked beneath a donor packet. When Adrian's hand moved to straighten the stack, the top page slid, exposing a corner of a photo beneath. A grainy still, courthouse steps, a flash of white. He knew that dress even in bad resolution. He knew the angle of her shoulder as she turned away from a camera, shy then. He knew the shadowed figure two steps behind her.

His fingers hesitated for less than a breath before he aligned the page again, covering the image. When he lifted his eyes, Lucian was watching the place his hand had been, as if those three inches of wood could confess.

"Where did you learn to stand like that?" Lucian asked, almost idly. "In the door. Like the room will move if you don't."

The question slipped a blade under his ribs.

He heard, as if the past had pressed its ear to the glass, a younger voice in a darker hallway: Plant your feet, sweetheart. Rooms obey doors. Be the door. A laugh. His, back then. Soft, disbelieving.

Adrian didn't let the memory touch his mouth. "Men who've been pushed learn to lean," he said. "Eventually you prefer not to be pushed."

Lucian stepped closer, palms flat on the table, and the scar under Adrian's cuff sang a single, bright note. "What would you drink to," Lucian asked suddenly, eyes pinned to his, "if you had one toast to make tonight?"

There it was. The old ritual. Two glasses. Two idiots. To bad decisions, they used to say, and then make them on purpose.

He could feel the answer rise like muscle memory. He could feel it settle on his tongue.

"To futures," he said instead, steady. "They're expensive, but the returns are interesting."

For the first time, Lucian's gaze stuttered. It was so small no one else would've seen it, but Adrian knew every version of that face; he'd memorized the map and the weather. He'd surprised him.

Evelyn's phone buzzed. She checked the screen, frowned. "I have to take this," she said, already standing. "An issue with the scholarship portal." She left them with a murmured apology and a glance back that said: behave.

They didn't.

Lucian moved to the window. The city made themselves into toy buildings beyond the glass. "Do you believe in ghosts, Mr. Vale?"

Adrian let himself laugh, a small sound that didn't bother the room. "Only the ones we make for ourselves."

"Good answer," Lucian said. He turned, came back to the table, and stopped so close the citrus of his cologne replaced the coffee. "Here's another question." His voice dropped, intimate and not at all friendly. "Why did you say to my wife last night that you've heard so much about me?"

"Because I have," Adrian said.

"From whom?"

"Everyone." He let the word widen, a shrug disguised as a syllable.

Lucian didn't move for a long two seconds. His pupils were steady now, his mouth careful. "You remind me of someone who isn't here anymore." The sentence landed between them like a mistake. He didn't take it back. "And I don't like being reminded."

Adrian felt the floor tilt, just enough to make his body remember marble and blood and a ceiling that wouldn't stay still.

He smiled slowly and let his gaze drop to Lucian's hands. "That's the thing about reminders," he said. "We don't get to choose them."

The elevator chimed. Footsteps in the hall, hurried voices. Evelyn, returning. Lucian straightened. The mask slid back with the practice of a man who'd worn it too long.

"Mr. Vale," he said, cool again, "we'll be in touch about your... dividend."

Adrian nodded, gentleman-polite, and reached for his jacket.

As he did, a shadow blocked the doorway. The conference room glass turned the world into a reflection. In it, a familiar figure stood behind Evelyn, searching the room past her shoulder like a man who smelled smoke but couldn't find the fire.

Jace.

His brother's gaze snagged on Adrian and stuck there. Something flickered through Jace's face-confusion, recognition, grief with nowhere to go. Evelyn turned to introduce him, oblivious to the way the air had changed.

"This is my husband's oldest friend," she was saying, bright and smooth. "Jace-this is Adrian Vale-"

"Adrian," Jace repeated, and the name sounded wrong in his mouth, like a borrowed coat. His eyes didn't blink. They searched Adrian's face the way hands search a dark shelf for a lost thing.

He opened his mouth, and for a terrible second Adrian thought he would say her name. The real one. The one that belonged to a girl with warm hands and bad instincts.

Jace said something else instead, voice barely there, a ghost squeezed into a single word:

"-sis?"

The coffee in Adrian's stomach turned to ice.

Evelyn laughed, not understanding. "What?"

Jace covered badly. "I said-uh, sir. Mr. Vale. Sorry. Thought you were-" He stopped. He couldn't fix the sentence; it had already betrayed him.

Lucian's head turned slowly toward Jace, toward Adrian, the line between his brows deepening.

Adrian's mouth found a smile that didn't belong to any of them. "Happens all the time," he said lightly, his voice the right register, the right casual. "Faces get recycled. The city's a greedy copier."

On the glass, his reflection didn't move, except for the smallest tremor along the jaw. He pressed his tongue into his molar to stop it.

"Shall we continue the tour?" Evelyn asked, too quickly. "We're running late."

"Yes," Lucian said, eyes not leaving Adrian's. "Let's."

Adrian slid his hands into his pockets to hide the shake and stepped into the hallway. Jace's shoulder brushed his as he passed-a tiny, deliberate contact that said I know something I shouldn't.

Adrian didn't look back.

Jace's near-slip rattles Adrian's disguise, and Lucian has started hunting for the name of the ghost he can't stop seeing. Tomorrow's tour isn't just robotics and donors-it's a chessboard, and someone's about to make an illegal move.