The first thing I notice is that my name is spelled right.
"Ms. Harper?" The receptionist's voice is soft, but the way she says my name—clear, precise—makes my skin crawl. My real name, not the version people usually mangle or the alias I've used for landlords who don't ask questions.
"That's me," I answer, because pretending it isn't would only make it worse.
Crowe Industries' executive floor smells like money and industrial-strength air freshener—sleek glass walls, dark wood floors, a massive abstract painting that looks like someone set fire to a landscape and then framed the remains. I keep my hands folded tight around my beat-up messenger bag like a shield.
Reception gestures to the double doors at the end of the hall. "Mr. Crowe will see you now. You can go right in."
Right, because that's what people like me do: stroll right into the office of a man worth more than most small countries.
My knees threaten mutiny. I nod instead of speaking, because my voice is too close to shaking. I walk. Each step taps out the rhythm of the last twenty-four hours against the polished floor: Police station. Questioning. Fraud. Marriage license.
"Don't run," I tell myself under my breath. "Running makes you look guilty."
The doors open on a whisper of hydraulics when I push. His office is too bright—floor-to-ceiling windows pouring honed, cold daylight over everything. A sprawling city view, a desk bigger than my entire studio apartment, and behind it, the man himself.
Aiden Crowe stands instead of sitting, one hand braced on the desk. The first time I saw him was on the office intranet, a clipped video message about productivity targets and "navigating the turbulence." In person, he's taller, the clean lines of his suit pressed like they were drawn on him. Dark hair, careful, annoyingly perfect. His tie is the same deep blue as the logo on every elevator wall downstairs.
His eyes are the thing, though. From the screen, they'd just looked sharp. Now, as they lock on me, they’re something else entirely—startled, almost raw, before the expression slams shut.
"Ms. Harper," he says, as if he hasn't been staring. His voice is low, even. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."
"I didn't know 'no' was an option," I say, and immediately want to bite my tongue. This is not the time for my mouth to go freelance.
A corner of his mouth moves—too fast to be a smile, more like a muscle memory trying to break through. "Please. Sit."
The chair across from his desk swallows me, soft leather against my palms. The door clicks quietly behind me as it closes; the sound traps the air in my lungs.
For a beat, neither of us speaks. The hum of the HVAC, the faint thrum of the city below, the distant ring of a phone outside—it all presses against the silence between us.
He slides a manila folder across the desk. My name is typed on an attached label, bold and inescapable: MAY ELAINE HARPER.
I eye it like it might bite. "I've already seen copies. At the station."
"These aren't copies." His gaze doesn’t leave my face. "These are the originals. Or what the county clerk believes are the originals."
The word county claws at old memories. Courthouses. Social workers. Judges who never once looked directly at me.
