The first sign came on a Tuesday.
Carson stood in the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear, and I watched the line appear between his eyebrows. The one that meant he was trying to solve something that didn't make sense.
"Tonight?" he said. "I thought the Riverside briefing wasn't until—" He stopped. Listened. "Right. Okay. I'll be there."
He hung up and looked at me. Apologetic. Tired already.
"Barrett needs the full acquisition strategy by morning," he said. "I have to go back in."
It was eight-thirty. We'd just finished dinner. Sunny was still under the table, waiting for scraps.
"Okay," I said.
He kissed my forehead. Grabbed his jacket. Left.
I cleared the plates and didn't let myself think about it.
---
By Thursday, Carson was coming home after midnight. Friday, he didn't come home at all—just texted at two a.m. that he'd crashed on the office couch. Saturday morning he showed up with circles under his eyes and a stack of files he spread across the dining table.
"I don't understand," he said, staring at the papers. "This is the third full revision he's asked for. The strategy hasn't changed. The numbers are solid. I don't know what he wants."
I set a mug of coffee beside him. "Maybe he's just being thorough."
Carson rubbed his face. "Maybe."
But he didn't sound convinced.
I wasn't either.
---
Sunday night, his phone rang during dinner. Again. He looked at the screen and his whole body went tight.
"I'm sorry," he said.
I nodded. He stepped into the hallway. I heard his voice through the wall—patient, professional, strained at the edges.
When he came back, he didn't sit down.
"I have to take a call with the Singapore office in twenty minutes," he said. "Barrett wants me on it. I'm sorry. I know we were going to watch—"
"It's fine," I said.
He looked at me for a long moment. Like he wanted to say something else. Like he could feel the weight pressing down but couldn't name it.
"I love you," he said quietly.
"I love you too."
He went upstairs. I sat at the table and listened to his voice through the ceiling—steady, competent, carrying the whole thing alone.
I knew what this was. I'd seen Barrett build pressure before. Slowly. Precisely. Until the person under it started to crack in ways they didn't even notice.
I wanted to tell Carson. I wanted to say: *This isn't real. This is engineered. He's doing this to you because of me.*
But I couldn't. Not without explaining why. Not without dragging every buried thing into the light and making Carson choose between his career and a past I'd promised myself I'd left behind.
So I cleared the table. I washed the dishes. I went upstairs and lay in the dark and listened to Carson's voice in the next room, patient and exhausted, holding the line.
---
Barrett Knight sat in his office and studied the file.
Dominic Shaw had delivered it that afternoon. Thick. Thorough. Every detail of Carson Greene's Georgetown years laid out in clean, annotated pages.
He turned to the section marked *Stephanie Weaver.*
Sophomore year. Junior year. A quiet, unresolved thing that had ended naturally when she'd taken a consulting position in London after graduation. No drama. No betrayal. Just two people who'd drifted apart.
Barrett read it twice.
Then he leaned back in his chair and looked out at the city. Lights spreading in every direction. Thirty floors below, people moved through their small, breakable lives.
He picked up his phone.
"Dominic," he said. "I want you to build the Zurich project around Carson Greene and Stephanie Weaver. Adjacent suites. Shared car services. Late-night strategy dinners. I want every possible proximity."
A pause on the other end. Then: "Understood."
"And Dominic?" Barrett's voice was calm. Almost gentle. "Make it look like an opportunity. Something he can't refuse without consequences."
"Of course."
Barrett hung up. He set the file aside and poured himself a drink. Stood by the window. Watched the lights.
He wasn't angry. He wasn't even particularly interested in whether Carson Greene would actually touch Stephanie Weaver.
He just needed to know if Makenna's faith had a bottom.
And if it did—he would find it.
---
On Monday morning, Barrett called Carson into his office.
Carson sat across from him, still carrying the exhaustion of the last week, and Barrett smiled.
"I have good news," he said. "You're being reassigned to the Zurich engagement. Two weeks. High-stakes consulting work. It's a significant opportunity."
Carson blinked. "Zurich?"
"You've earned it," Barrett said smoothly. "I've been watching your work. You're ready for this level of responsibility."
Carson nodded slowly. He looked pleased. Surprised.
"Thank you," he said.
Barrett leaned back. "You'll be working with a small team. Stephanie Weaver's on it—she's flying in from London. I believe you two know each other from Georgetown?"
Something flickered across Carson's face. Recognition. Maybe memory.
"Yeah," he said. "We do."
Barrett smiled.
"Good," he said. "That'll make the transition smoother."
Carson stood. Shook Barrett's hand. Left the office with the file under his arm and a faint, uncertain lightness in his step.
Barrett watched him go.
Then he picked up his phone and texted Dominic.
*It's done. Confirm the suites are adjacent.*
The reply came immediately.
*Confirmed.*
Barrett set the phone down. Poured another drink. Raised the glass to the empty office.
"Let's see how deep it goes," he said quietly.
And drank.
