Grafton stared at the closed door. His chest heaved. The audacity. The sheer, ungrateful audacity.
He looked at the keycard sitting on the folder. It looked cheap. Insignificant. He grabbed the phone and dialed his head of security.
"Track her," he ordered. "I want to know where she sleeps tonight."
Laughter drifted in from the hallway. The front door opened. Ainsley and Harlow stumbled in, carrying gift bags from the gala. They were high on adrenaline and champagne.
"Is she gone?" Ainsley asked, walking into the study. She saw the keycard on the desk and gasped. "Oh my god. Did she actually leave it?"
Harlow picked up the card, holding it up to the light. She wrinkled her nose. "It's so... basic. Honestly, Grafton, your security protocols need an upgrade. This looks flimsy."
"She ruined my vibe tonight," Ainsley complained, dropping onto the sofa. "Everyone was asking why she was wearing black. It was so embarrassing."
Grafton looked at the two of them. Ainsley, checking her reflection in her phone. Harlow, critiquing his security. He felt a surge of irritation, but he directed it entirely at the woman who wasn't there. Katharina was trying to manipulate him. She was trying to make him feel guilty.
He grabbed the blue folder. He didn't open it. He didn't read the terms. He didn't see the clauses about the medical IP or the non-disclosure agreements regarding his health.
He walked to the corner of the room where the industrial shredder sat. He kicked the power button. The machine hummed to life.
"She wants a fight?" Grafton muttered. "She can have nothing."
He shoved the thick folder into the feeder. The machine roared, teeth gnashing through the paper. He watched the blue cardstock turn into confetti.
"Computer," Grafton said loudly. "Revoke all biometric access for Katharina Wiley. Immediate effect."
A cool, synthetic voice responded. "User Katharina Wiley deleted. Elevator permissions locked."
Ainsley smirked. "Finally. Can we turn her art room into a yoga studio?"
"Whatever you want," Grafton said. He felt his phone vibrate. A notification from the bank. Supplementary Card 0988: Declined.
He smiled. "She's trying to buy something. Denied. She'll be back in three days, begging."
Twenty floors down, in the lobby, Katharina stood at the glass doors. Outside, the sky had opened up. Rain lashed against the pavement in sheets.
She realized she had left her umbrella in the umbrella stand by the concierge desk. She turned back to the inner doors to grab it.
She pressed her thumb to the scanner.
BEEP-BEEP. A red light flashed.
The concierge, a man named Robert who she had tipped every Christmas for ten years, looked down at his screen. He flushed.
"I'm sorry, Ms. Wiley," he stammered. "The system... it says 'Access Denied'. It lists you as... a restricted visitor."
Katharina looked at the red light. It had been less than five minutes.
She looked at the umbrella stand, just ten feet away on the other side of the glass.
"It's okay, Robert," she said. Her voice was steady.
She turned back to the street. She pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the deluge.
The rain soaked her instantly. Her black dress clung to her legs. Her hair plastered to her skull. The cold water ran down her neck, chilling her spine.
She walked to the corner, away from the awning, away from the cameras.
She reached into a hidden pocket in the lining of her duffel bag. She pulled out a black flip phone. It was old, thick, and ugly.
She snapped the back open and inserted a battery. The screen flickered to life with a dull blue glow.
A message was already waiting.
ENCRYPTED: Broker. Client is ready. Triple the rate. Urgent.
Katharina looked up at the penthouse. The lights were blazing. They were probably celebrating.
She wiped the rain from her eyes. Her expression hardened. The tired family outcast was gone.
She typed a reply.
Accepted. Prep extraction vehicle.
