I heard Kash moving in the bedroom before dawn broke completely. The shower turned on. The familiar rhythm of his morning routine—the one I used to find comforting.
I stayed in my office chair, watching the sky lighten over the East River.
Maisie arrived forty minutes later with two coffees and a look that told me she'd known something was wrong before I'd even finished typing the text. She set the cups down and pulled the office door shut behind her.
"What happened?"
I handed her Kash's phone. I'd taken photos of every message before putting it back.
She read in silence. Her jaw tightened. When she looked up, her eyes were hard.
"When?"
"Three weeks. The gala."
"What do you need?"
That was Maisie. No wasted emotion. No platitudes. Just the question that mattered.
"Everything they think they have on me, I need to have on them. Better. Cleaner. Airtight."
She nodded once. "I know someone. Security contractor. Discreet. He can sweep the apartment, map what's here, and set up counters without touching anything."
"Today."
"I'll make the call."
The office door opened. Kash stood in the doorway, hair still damp, wearing the shirt I'd bought him last month. He smiled when he saw me.
"Hey. You okay? You weren't in bed."
I stood and crossed to him. Let him pull me close. His arms came around me the way they always did—secure, warm, exactly right.
"Couldn't sleep," I said against his shoulder. "Work stuff."
His hand moved in slow circles on my back. "You're doing too much. The gala's going to be perfect. You don't have to stress."
I pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were concerned. Tender. I searched his face for something—a crack, a tell, anything that would confirm what I'd read in those messages.
Nothing.
He was perfect.
"I made coffee," he said. "Your favorite. It's in the kitchen."
I kissed him. Soft and lingering. Felt him relax into it.
"You're too good to me," I whispered.
His smile reached his eyes. "Not possible."
Maisie's expression was carefully neutral when I glanced past Kash's shoulder. She lifted her coffee cup in a small salute and slipped out.
Kash kept his arm around my waist as we walked to the kitchen. The coffee was exactly 140°F. He'd used the thermometer I didn't know he owned.
I drank it and told him it was perfect.
---
Maisie's contact arrived at noon, while Kash was at his cooking class—Italian cuisine, level two, the class I'd suggested he take because I'd mentioned once that I loved homemade pasta.
The contractor was efficient and silent. He moved through the apartment with a handheld scanner, marking locations on a digital schematic. Bedroom. Closet. Bathroom. Living room bookshelf. Kitchen corner. Office—two devices, one near the window, one angled toward my desk.
Seven total.
"Can you remove them?" Maisie asked.
"I can do better," he said. "Loop feeds. He'll see what you want him to see. His confirmation signals stay green. He'll never know."
"Do it," I said.
It took ninety minutes. By the time Kash's key turned in the lock, the contractor was gone and Maisie and I were sitting on the couch with fabric swatches for the gala, looking exactly like two women planning a party.
Kash came in carrying grocery bags, his face bright.
"I learned how to make cacio e pepe," he announced. "The real way. I'm making it for you tonight."
Maisie stood, gathering her things. "That's my cue. I'll leave you two to it."
Kash kissed my temple as he passed, heading for the kitchen. I heard him humming.
Maisie paused at the door. Her voice dropped. "The test. You still want me to do it?"
I nodded.
"Tomorrow night. Seventh and Avenue A. The bar with the green awning. Make it convincing."
She held my gaze for a long moment. "You sure?"
"I need to know."
---
The next evening, Kash mentioned he was meeting a friend for drinks. Casual. Easy. He kissed me goodbye and told me not to wait up.
I waited.
Maisie texted at nine forty-seven.
*"He's good. Deflected everything. Leaving now. Mentioned you three times in ten minutes."*
Kash came home at ten-thirty. He found me reading in bed.
"How was it?" I asked.
He pulled off his jacket, shaking his head with a small laugh. "Weird night. Some girl hit on me at the bar. Pretty aggressive."
I set down my book. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." He sat on the edge of the bed, taking my hand. "All I could think about was coming home to you."
His thumb traced circles on my palm. The same gesture he'd done a thousand times.
I pulled him down beside me. Let him wrap around me the way he liked. Felt his heartbeat against my spine.
"I love you," he whispered into my hair.
I closed my eyes.
"I love you too," I said.
And I couldn't tell—even now, even knowing everything—if somewhere beneath the performance, in some small ruined corner of this, he actually meant it.
That was the worst part.
Not knowing if I'd lost something real, or if I'd never had it at all.
