Page 17 of Their Arrangement

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And then?—

You don’t owe me anything. You’re just mine, that’s all.

That sentence shattered me in ways I didn’t know how to explain.

My throat burned now, just thinking about it.

I traced the edge of her smile in the photo. Her laugh frozen in light and ink.

“I never got to say thank you,” I whispered.

The words barely made it out.

My fingers trembled as I slid the photo back into the pouch. I pressed it to my chest for one long second.

You always knew I couldn’t afford you.

And you loved me anyway.

I zipped the pouch shut. Closed the bag. Tucked it back beneath my desk like it was something sacred.

There were a thousand things I wanted to say to her.

But all I had was silence.

I turned back to the computer. The screen still lagged like itknew I didn’t belong. The cursor blinked in the corner, passive-aggressive and eternal.

I sipped my lukewarm coffee. It tasted like cardboard and desperation.

I’d brought it from a gas station two blocks over. I couldn’t afford the glossy, overpriced café in the building. Couldn’t bear walking in there with my shoes squeaking and my secondhand blouse and the shame living between my ribs.

Every time someone walked by, I stiffened.

I waited for a tap on the shoulder.

For someone to say I was a mistake.

That the offer had been meant for someone else.

That I was here by accident.

Part of me wanted them to.

Part of me was begging for a reason to run.

And then—like a live wire snapped across the base of my skull—I felt it.

The shift.

The sensation.

Like static brushing the back of my neck.

I looked up.

And froze.

Wolfe stood across the mezzanine, leaning against the steel railing.

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