Chapter 18
Mary
Idid it.
Holy shit, I actually did it.
My hands aren’t shaking anymore. My pulse is still racing, but it’s not panic; it’s pure, electric adrenaline, thrumming through me like I just mainlined lightning.
I planted that device right under Caleb’s nose, and he had no idea.
Me. Mary Sullivan. The girl who apologizes to automatic doors when they don’t open fast enough.
Who says sorry when someone else bumps into me.
Not today.
I walk back to my desk like I own the place, shoulders back, chin up, spine straight as a steel rod.
The files Caleb dumped in my hand—something about “sensitive material” and “special projects”—barely register.
They feel weightless compared to the secret I’m carrying.
Everything feels sharper, brighter, like someone just hit the contrast button on reality.
The fluorescent lights don’t feel as harsh.
The carpet doesn’t look as grim. Even the ever-present stench of burned coffee and financial desperation can’t touch me.
I’m a spy. A real, actual spy who just completed her mission.
The thought makes me want to laugh out loud, throw my arms up, maybe do a little victory twirl in the middle of Brightside National.
Instead, I slide into my chair with a satisfied smile I can’t quite hide.
My computer screen glows with the usual soul-crushing banking software, but I see it differently now.
This isn’t just my boring job anymore—it’s my cover.
I’m not Mary, the overlooked clerk. I’m Mary, the secret agent.
God, if only my seventh-grade self could see me now.
“Mary?”
The voice cuts through my secret-agent fantasy. I glance up toward the teller line—the row of counters where customers shuffle up to complain about fees, make deposits, or glare at us like we personally printed their overdraft notice.
Mrs. Johnson stands there, clutching a wrinkled check in one hand and her enormous floral purse in the other.
Seventy-something, sharp eyes, hair in a perm that probably hasn’t changed since Nixon.
She’s been coming here for years, always calling me “dear” like I’m her granddaughter who needs fattening up.
“Could you help me with this deposit?” she asks, her voice carrying that patented brand of elderly impatience. “The machine keeps rejecting my check.”
Usually, I’d scurry over like a summoned puppy, apologizing before I even knew what the problem was. Sorry for the delay, sorry for the confusion, sorry for existing.
Today? I stand up smoothly, grab my pen, and stride over like a woman who just bugged her boss’s boss.
“Of course, Mrs. Johnson,” I say, voice steady. “What can I do for you?”
She hands me the check, muttering about how technology is “a conspiracy to kill patience.” I take one glance and spot the problem—the date’s wrong. A common mistake. Quick fix. I correct it with a few confident strokes of my pen.
“There you go,” I tell her, sliding it back. “Sometimes the scanner gets finicky with handwriting.”
Her face softens. “Oh, thank you, dear. You’re always so helpful.”
Normally, I’d brush it off with a self-deprecating “Oh, it’s nothing” or “Just doing my job.” Today? I flash her a smile and say, “You’re welcome. Have a wonderful day.”
Mrs. Johnson beams at me like I’ve just given her a gift, and maybe I have. Confidence, it turns out, is contagious.
From across the lobby, I catch Stephanie watching me.
Her perfectly penciled eyebrows are furrowed like she’s trying to solve a complex equation.
Her coral lips are pressed into a thin line of confusion.
She tilts her head slightly, studying me like I’m a familiar painting that’s suddenly been hung upside down.
Let her wonder. Let her try to figure out what’s different about boring little Mary Sullivan.
I process three more transactions with the same easy efficiency, and with each one, I feel myself growing taller. Not physically—I’m still the same five-foot-six I’ve always been—but something inside me is expanding, taking up space I never knew I was allowed to claim.
Twelve-thirty rolls around—lunch time. The magical hour when the bank lobby empties and the real social hierarchy reveals itself.
Usually, I eat a sad sandwich at my desk, scrolling through my phone while Stephanie and Janice hold court in the break room, discussing whose life is more pathetic than theirs.
Their laughter always carries just far enough for me to hear, sharp and cutting like broken glass.
Today, I grab my purse, straighten my shoulders, and head straight for their territory.
The break room is their kingdom. They’ve claimed the small round table by the window—the good table with the view of the parking lot instead of the dumpster.
Stephanie sits with her back to the wall like a mafia don, picking her salad, some kale and quinoa and organic whatever, arranged artfully in a container that screams “I shop at Whole Foods.”
Janice sits to her right, scrolling through Instagram while stabbing lettuce leaves with aggressive precision. Her acrylic nails click against her phone screen—tap tap tap, like a woodpecker with anxiety.
They look up when I enter. Stephanie’s fork pauses halfway to her mouth. Janice’s tapping stops.
“Well, well,” Stephanie says, not looking up from her phone. Her voice carries that particular tone—the one that suggests I’ve wandered into a space above my pay grade. “Look who decided to join the break room.”
“Hi, Stephanie. Janice.” I sit down at their table without asking permission, without apologizing for the intrusion, and unwrap my peanut butter sandwich like it’s gourmet cuisine from a five-star restaurant.
Janice blinks at me like I’ve grown a second head, possibly one that speaks fluent Mandarin. “You’re… sitting with us?”
“I’m sitting in the break room,” I correct, taking a bite of my sandwich. The peanut butter tastes better than usual—everything does when you’re drunk on your own competence. “Which, last I checked, belongs to all employees.”
Stephanie’s perfectly contoured face twitches. “Someone’s feeling bold today.”
“Someone had a good morning, I reply, chewing thoughtfully. “How about you? How’s your day going?”
The question hangs in the air like smoke. They’re not used to me asking them questions, not used to me engaging as an equal rather than a target.
“So,” Janice says, leaning forward with that fake-sweet smile that usually makes my stomach clench. “Saw you getting cozy in Caleb’s office earlier.”
She draws out his name like it’s made of honey and venom. “What did the new boss want with little old you?”
The old Mary would have flushed crimson, stammered some excuse about work stuff, maybe even apologized for existing in his general vicinity. The old Mary would have shrunk down in her chair, made herself smaller.
The new Mary—the Mary who just successfully bugged a money launderer’s office—takes another bite of her sandwich and shrugs.
“Just work stuff.”
“Must have been some pretty important work stuff,” Stephanie adds, her voice tight with curiosity. “You were in there for quite a while. And he seemed… interested.”
There’s something hungry in the way she says it, like she’s fishing for gossip she can weaponize later.
“He asked me to attend a networking event with him,” I say casually, like it’s no big deal. Like I get invited to fancy parties every day.
Both their faces change. Janice’s fork stops halfway to her mouth. Stephanie’s eyes narrow.
“What kind of networking event?” Stephanie’s voice has lost its casual tone.
“The Starlight Gala. This Friday.” I take another bite, chewing thoughtfully while they process this information.
The silence that follows is delicious. I can practically see the wheels turning in their heads—the calculations, the jealousy, the desperate need to find a way to diminish this.
“You?” Janice’s voice goes up an octave. “He invited you to the Starlight Gala?”
“That’s what I said.”
“But that’s…” Stephanie’s mouth opens and closes like a fish. “That’s the biggest event of the year. CEOs, investors, politicians. It costs two thousand dollars just to get in the door.”
“I know.” I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms. “Should be interesting.”
The looks on their faces are worth every uncomfortable moment I’ve endured in this break room. Pure, undiluted shock mixed with seething resentment.
Of course, I’m not stupid. I know there are other reasons behind Caleb’s invitation—reasons that have nothing to do with my stellar performance reviewing savings accounts.
The documents he handed me are still sitting on my desk, and I haven’t even looked at them yet.
But I know they’re some kind of test, another hoop to jump through in whatever game he’s playing.
But right now, sitting here watching Stephanie’s face twist with jealousy, I don’t care about the ulterior motives. I’m too busy enjoying this new high, this feeling of being someone who matters enough to be invited to exclusive events.
My eyes drift down to the watch on my wrist, the bracelet catching the light. They heard everything. Anton and Boris, my pack—listening through these beautiful, expensive shackles. They know about the gala, about Caleb’s invitation, about the trap we’re all walking into.
The thought should terrify me. Instead, it makes me smile.
Because for the first time in my adult life, I’m not facing something alone. There are people—dangerous, complicated people—who care what happens to me. Who are probably already planning how to keep me safe, even as they use me to get what they need.
“Wow. The Starlight Gala.” Her voice is syrupy, but her eyes are knives. “Must be nice, being the convenient plus-one.”
It’s the kind of jab meant to gut me, not just sting. To put me back in my place as the pathetic little bank clerk who should be grateful for scraps.
A week ago, they would have worked.
A week ago, I would have crumbled.
But not today.
I look at Stephanie without a single waver in my gaze, letting the silence stretch until she starts to squirm. Then I stand up slowly, deliberately, my movements fluid and confident.
“You know what is nice, Stephanie?” My voice is steady, calm. “Not having to tear other people down to feel good about myself.”
The silence that follows is so complete I can hear the hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of traffic outside, the tick of the wall clock marking seconds like a countdown.
Janice’s mouth actually drops open. A piece of lettuce falls off her fork and lands on the table with a wet plop.
Stephanie’s face goes red; not the delicate flush of embarrassment, but the mottled red of genuine anger.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” I stand up slowly, wrapping the rest of my sandwich with deliberate care. Every movement is measured, confident. “I said it’s nice not having to tear other people down to feel good about myself. Some of us don’t need to make others feel small to feel big.”
I pause at the table’s edge, looking down at both of them. For once in my life, I have the high ground.
“Maybe you should try building yourselves up instead of knocking everyone else down. Might be more fulfilling than whatever this is.” I gesture vaguely at their shocked faces, their half-eaten salads, their entire toxic dynamic. “Enjoy your lunch, ladies.”
I walk out of that break room like I’m walking off a battlefield I just won. My spine is straight, my head is high, and my heart is pounding with the same adrenaline rush I felt in Caleb’s office.
Behind me, I hear Janice whisper, “What the hell was that?”
Silence. Even Stephanie, for once, has nothing to say.
The afternoon stretches ahead of me, full of possibilities I never dared imagine. A gala. A mission. A life that suddenly feels bigger than deposit slips and overdue bills. For the first time in my entire life, I feel like I could take on the world. And win.