Flavia woke at 6:00 AM. Her internal clock was a relentless machine, unbothered by emotional trauma or lack of sleep. She had slept for three hours.
She dressed in a charcoal pencil skirt and a crisp white blouse. To Eliseo, this was her understated, professional attire. In reality, it was her armor for a day of forensic auditing at a failing biotech firm.
She walked out of the guest room.
Eliseo was asleep on the sofa. He was still wearing the stained shirt. One arm hung off the edge, his knuckles grazing the rug.
Flavia walked past him to the kitchen. Her heels on the marble floor were deliberate, loud.
Eliseo stirred. He groaned, bringing a hand up to shield his eyes from the morning light streaming through the windows. He sat up, wincing as a headache split his skull.
He saw Flavia's back. She was operating the espresso machine, her movements precise and mechanical.
"Good morning," he croaked. His voice was rough with sleep and hangover.
Flavia didn't turn around. She watched the dark liquid drip into the cup.
Eliseo felt a spike of irritation. He stood up, swaying slightly.
"I'm talking to you, Flavia."
She picked up her coffee and turned. She took a sip, her eyes scanning him from his messy hair to his ruined shoes.
"You should shower," she said. Her tone was conversational, polite.
Eliseo blinked. "What?"
Flavia walked toward the foyer. She paused as she passed him, leaning in slightly but not touching him.
"You smell like cheap perfume mixed with expired lies. It's nauseating."
The words hit him physically. He looked down at his shirt. The scent of the model-vanilla and musk-clung to him.
Shame flared hot in his chest, but his temper flared hotter. He reached out and grabbed her upper arm, spinning her around. He pinned her against the cool steel of the apartment's front door.
The contact was aggressive. His breathing was ragged.
"I was set up," Eliseo hissed through his teeth. "I already explained this. How long are you going to keep this up?"
Flavia didn't struggle. She didn't look afraid. She looked bored.
"Keep what up? I am stating facts."
Her indifference was maddening. He wanted a reaction. He wanted her to yell, to hit him, to show him that she cared enough to hate him.
"You think you're so perfect," Eliseo spat. "Who do you think you are? Without me, you'd still be in the country wearing discount clothes from Walmart."
Flavia's pupils contracted. The reference to her fabricated past-the poor country girl cover story she had so carefully constructed-struck a nerve, but not for the reason he thought. It reminded her of the role she had played, the indignity of it.
She pulled her arm from his grip. She smoothed the fabric of her sleeve, checking for wrinkles.
"Since you think so little of me, why did your grandfather insist on hiring my firm?"
Eliseo froze. It was the truth. Arthur had hired her firm, 'Lancaster Resolutions,' to clean up a family mess, and bringing her to New York under a cover story was part of the deal. But his pride wouldn't let him admit that now.
"Yeah," he sneered, leaning back. "At least you used to be obedient. Low maintenance."
Flavia felt the last thread of connection snap. It was a clean break.
She picked up her briefcase.
"Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Fitzpatrick."
She walked out the door.
Eliseo stood in the kitchen, the silence rushing back in to fill the space she left. He slammed his fist against the refrigerator door. The metal buckled, leaving a small, concave dent.
He lifted his wrist to his nose and sniffed his cuff. The cloying, sweet scent filled his nostrils. He gagged, rushing to the sink to dry heave.
