Inside the elevator, the air feels different—stagnant and still compared to the quiet clatter of silverware and low conversation in the restaurant. Evan stands a step ahead, scrolling through his phone like this is just another transaction he’s obligated to complete. He doesn’t notice I haven’t pressed the button yet, that my fingers are still hovering over the panel, frozen for reasons I can’t explain.

And then, before I can stop myself, I look up and catch one last glimpse of the man at the bar.

The doors begin to close on their own, sealing shut with a soft thud, leaving me staring at my reflection. My pulse runs faster than it should, thumping in my ears. My skin feels warmer than a second ago, flushed with a heat I can't explain.

He was still watching me.

And somewhere, deep in the part of me I don't want to acknowledge, I think I wanted him to be.

NOT MY BUSINESS. I MAKE IT MY BUSINESS.

CALLAHAN KNIGHT

The woman in the black dress doesn't belong here.

Not in the way the rest of the crowd does. Not in the way her boyfriend—if the narcissistic, distracted man sitting across from her even qualifies as that—fits into this overpriced steakhouse like he was born in a tailored suit and a boardroom. No, she's a contradiction to everything around her. A genuine presence. A rare authenticity that doesn't match the polished, soulless gleam of our setting.

I clock her discomfort the second I see her. The way her lips press together every time the man across from her says something, like she's biting back the urge to argue. I can’t figure out why I watch her. Maybe because it's something to do while I wait. Maybe because I've always had a habit of seeing what lies beneath the surface.

Or maybe because for the first time in a long time, I see a woman I don't want to look away from. She's beautiful in a way that isn't obvious at first. Not the sort of beauty that knocks you sideways the second you see her, but the kind that unfolds the longer you look—the kind that sinks under your skin and takes root.

Thick, dark hair, slightly messy, like she ran her fingers through it too many times on the way here. Big, brown eyes, expressive even as she tries to keep them guarded. A full pout, and even though her lips are pursed tight, something tells me when she smiles, it transforms her entire face.

She's curvy, soft in all the right places, but I can tell she doesn't think so. Can tell by the way she pulls at the fabric of her dress where it hugs her hips. She shrinks herself without realizing it. But she shouldn't. Because from where I'm sitting? She's impossible to ignore.

I take a slow sip of my whiskey, letting the burn roll over my tongue as she lifts her glass, tilting it toward her mouth just enough to catch the red of her lipstick against the rim. The ice clinks softly against the crystal. She hesitates before drinking, just for a second. Like she's somewhere else in her head. Somewhere far from here.

It's not my business. I have no reason to care about whatever the hell is happening at her table. But when the guy across from her shows her something on his phone and I see her recoil, the way her shoulders go tight, the way she grips her napkin like she's fighting the urge to throw it, a cold anger settles deep in my gut.

I know that look.

I've seen it before.

Not in a restaurant like this with its polished wood and low lighting, but in places where people aren't supposed to show emotion. Places where you're trained to keep your face blank no matter how bad it gets. I recognize what she's doing, what's happening behind her eyes. She's swallowing it down. Taking the hit.

I wonder how many she's taken before this one.

She stands when he does, moving a little slower, like she's bracing herself for whatever comes next. He doesn't wait for her, his attention shifting the second the check is paid. She follows him toward the elevator, her arms folded across her stomach, like she’s trying to hide.

I watch as they step inside, the sleek metal doors sliding shut behind them. He's still scrolling, barely acknowledging her. She glances up at him once, her lips parting like she might say something—then she doesn't.

Instead, she looks back.

And just before the doors close, her eyes meet mine through the narrowing gap.

She hesitates.

Then she's gone.

I exhale slowly, flexing my fingers against the cool weight of my glass. The ice shifts, melting against the heat of my palm.

Time passes after the elevator doors close until the reason I’m here finally appears. I shift my attention as a man in his mid-fifties approaches the bar. He's in a navy suit, the kind that costs as much as my last security setup, his hair perfectly combed back in that executive but approachable way corporate guys love. Expensive cologne announces his arrival before he does.

"Callahan."

I stand, shaking his hand. "Mr. Reyes."

"Call me Tom," he says, settling into the seat across from me. "Glad we could get you out before you officially start tomorrow. Welcome aboard."

I nod, waiting as he waves down the bartender, orders himself a scotch, and leans back with the comfortable ease of someone who thinks he's the most important person in the room. "Hell of a time for you to join us," he says, shaking his head. "Thefts are up, staff is stretched thin, and corporate expects miracles on a budget. Hope you like a challenge."

"I don't mind a challenge."

His mouth tips in approval. "That's what we're hoping for. The last guy couldn't handle it. The store's too high-profile—too many VIP clients, too many people looking for a quick payout. These aren't teenagers stealing lip gloss. It's organized, and we need someone who knows how to handle that."

I've dealt with worse. I don't say that, but it's the truth.

He takes a sip of his drink before gesturing toward the dining area. "Crossed paths with your new store manager on my way up. Isabella Russo. She's young, but smart. Corporate's got high hopes for her."

Isabella.

I roll the name over in my head, testing it against what I already know about her, which isn't much. Just that she doesn't like the food here. That she picked at her napkin all night. That she spent her whole dinner barely speaking while the guy she was with ignored her.

I down the rest of my whiskey, the liquor burning a warm path down my throat. "I'll meet her tomorrow."

Tom nods. "Good. You two will be working closely. Just make sure she doesn't make your job harder—these store managers can get a little... particular."

I don't answer, because I already know how this goes. Guys like Tom always think they know everything about a situation. They don't.

I sit through the rest of dinner, listening to his rundown of the job, the security concerns, the real reason they wanted to bring in someone with my background. I tell him what he wants to hear, shake his hand when we part ways, and head home.

My apartment is nothing special. One-bedroom, nothing on the walls, a place to sleep and nothing more. I never saw the point of making a place feel like home when I don't even know if I'll still be here in a year.

It's a habit I never managed to break after getting out. The military has a way of drilling the impermanence of things into you—constant movement, temporary deployments, never staying in one place long enough to let it settle under your skin. I spent almost a decade living out of duffel bags, sleeping in barracks, tents, and sometimes, wherever the hell I could find cover.

You learn to live without attachments.

Or at least, you tell yourself that.