Eleanor closed her bank tab. She opened an encrypted folder labeled "CONFIDENTIAL - CALLOWAY."
A high-resolution photo filled the iPad screen. Silas Calloway. The hottest AI tech billionaire in Silicon Valley. His eyes were dead and analytical. He wore his signature black turtleneck.
Next to his face, a red warning was typed: Severe Haphephobia. Extreme psychological rejection of physical contact with females.
Eleanor stared at his face. Her mind pulled her back to a hidden suite at the Four Seasons in San Francisco, six months ago.
Silas's mother, Beatrice, the iron-fisted ruler of the Calloway Family Trust, had summoned her.
Beatrice had shoved a thick medical file across the table. It detailed Silas's childhood trauma and his crippling phobia.
Beatrice was blunt. Silas was the CEO. Wall Street and his rivals could never know he was a "freak" who would have a panic attack if a woman shook his hand.
The family needed a PR shield. A fake girlfriend who could stand next to him in public without triggering his gag reflex.
Beatrice knew Eleanor was a mercenary who would do anything for money and keep her mouth shut.
Eleanor had held her teacup, smiling. "If he rejects all women, why would I be the exception?"
Beatrice pressed a remote. A video played on the wall.
It was security footage from a tech summit. Eleanor was walking down a hallway as someone's plus-one. She accidentally bumped into Silas as he tried to dodge the crowd.
The video clearly showed the back of Eleanor's hand brushing against Silas's knuckles.
Silas didn't flinch. He didn't hyperventilate. He stopped walking and stared at his own hand in pure confusion.
Beatrice stared at Eleanor. She claimed top neurologists believed Eleanor emitted a specific bio-electric frequency that bypassed Silas's trauma triggers.
Eleanor's stomach had dropped. She knew it wasn't a bio-electric field. It was the subtle, soothing frequency her rapidly regenerating cells naturally emitted.
She hid her panic perfectly. She set her teacup down and quoted a monthly retainer that was ten times her normal rate.
Beatrice didn't blink. She wrote the check on the spot.
The memory faded. Eleanor looked at the calendar on her wall. Tomorrow was the Calloway Tech annual product launch.
She had to play the loving fiancée to crush the rumors about his mental instability.
She walked to her closet to pick out a minimalist, Silicon-Valley-approved dress.
Her burner phone rang. The caller ID was a blocked California number.
She answered.
"Pack a bag," a deep, flat, robotic voice said. Silas Calloway.
He didn't say hello. "My jet is waiting. I require a desensitization test tonight."
Eleanor put on her sweetest customer-service voice. "This is an emergency summons outside of contract hours, Silas. That's double my hourly rate."
Silence hung on the line for two seconds.
"The funds are already in your offshore account," Silas said coldly, and hung up.
Eleanor listened to the dial tone. She shrugged and pulled her suitcase back out.
She walked to her bathroom. She grabbed a nondescript pill bottle provided by Dr. Cooper, her secret physician. The pills suppressed the physical manifestations of her rapid healing.
She threw them into her makeup bag.
As she zipped the bag, she remembered Dr. Cooper's grim warning from their encrypted call last night: "The medical syndicate has increased their dark web bounties. They are actively hunting for any anomalies matching your regeneration profile. Keep your head down, Cara. If you expose your abilities now, they will find you." The threat of the syndicate hung over her like a guillotine.
She looked in the mirror. Her eyes were hard. Silas was a machine. He was infinitely more dangerous than Julian or Tristan, and dealing with him while dodging a shadow organization required absolute perfection.
But as long as the wire transfers cleared, she would tame the beast of Silicon Valley.
