The first thing I notice about the room is that there are no windows.
Just four walls of matte charcoal, a table of black glass, and the man sitting at the far end of it—like the chair was built around him instead of the other way around.
"Emma Carlisle?" His voice is smooth, precise. Like a scalpel.
My name doesn’t sound like mine in his mouth. It sounds like a case file.
I stop two steps inside, clutching the strap of my bag so hard my fingers tingle. The door clicks shut behind me, heavy and final. I don’t have to turn around to know it locked.
"You already know who I am," I manage. My throat is dry, the words scraping out. "Your people dragged me out of a library, Mr. Hale. I’m assuming that wasn’t a wrong-number situation."
A flicker at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. More like the idea of one that he dismisses before it can embarrass him.
Connor Hale looks younger than I expected. Early thirties, maybe. Clean shave, dark hair cut close at the sides, the top just grown out enough that it rebukes the straight lines of his suit. The tie is midnight navy, the kind of color you don’t notice until you’re already staring.
He isn’t big like the men who dragged me down the hallway. He isn’t covered in ink or scars. He’s… precise. Tailored. Dangerous in the way chemistry labs are dangerous—if you miscalculate, you don’t know until something explodes.
His gaze runs over me once, not lingering anywhere long enough to be called rude. Just cataloguing. Cream sweater, jeans, battered backpack. Wind-tangled hair from being hustled into an unmarked SUV. The bright red smear on my wrist where one of his men had grabbed too hard.
Something in his jaw ticks at that, and he looks away first.
"Sit down, Emma." He gestures to the chair opposite.
"No." The word leaps out before fear can smother it. "You can’t just—kidnap me. If this is about my father, I already told your guys in the car. He’s dead. Whatever he—whatever he owed you—"
"Sit," he repeats, quieter. Not louder, not harsher. Just… under my skin. A command wrapped in velvet.
The chair might as well be a mile away. I can hear my pulse in my ears. My father’s face flashes behind my eyes, the way he looked when the casket lid closed. How the preacher said "financial missteps" like it was something quaint and not the reason I got eviction notices with his name on them.
I told myself the worst was over.
I was wrong.
"You’re trespassing on private property, Ms. Carlisle," Connor says calmly, lacing his fingers on the glass. "Armed security removed you for questioning. You are not kidnapped. Now, sit down."
The lie is so neat it almost sounds true.
My knees bend before my pride can catch up. I drop into the chair, keeping my back straight, fingers knotted in my bag strap like it’s a lifeline.
Up close, I can see the small things—how his cufflinks are plain steel instead of gold. The faint shadow under his eyes, like he doesn’t sleep much. The subtle scar cutting across his right eyebrow, white against tan skin.
He looks like a man who lives on the edge of knives.
