Chapter 4
Mary
My head’s still trying to catch up.
To the photo. My photo.
To the canceled subletter.
To the fact that he was real, not a drunken hallucination. And that I basically molested him.
I…
Oh, no.
Oh no, no, no.
My hands go clammy on the desk. My throat closes like I’ve just swallowed a stapler sideways.
Memory clicks into place, one awful frame at a time. And then the scream detonates in my brain—
WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME?!
I tug at my own hair like that’ll somehow pull the memory out by the roots. Spoiler: it doesn’t. It just confirms that yes, I am awake, and yes, I am a menace to society.
The bank is already buzzing with the morning rush; early risers, graveyard shift zombies, and the usual mix of Vegas oddballs who treat banking like a public therapy session.
At Jessica’s window, there’s a guy who looks like he hasn’t slept since last Tuesday. He’s probably here to find out how much he lost at the tables and if his soul is still on the ledger.
A woman clutches a crumpled tissue in one hand and her phone in the other, staring at the screen like it holds the secrets of the Universe.
Or maybe it’s her gambling addiction recovery app. Same energy.
“ARE YOU EVEN THERE, MARY?”
I flinch.
Right. Present. Breathing. Allegedly functioning.
Apparently, I’ve been frozen for a few full minutes, my brain short-circuiting like a computer from 2004 trying to run a 4K livestream.
“Sorry, Jas, what did you say?”
“My subletter, buttercup! You know, the terrifyingly hot man I rented my place to while I’m getting my back blown out in Milan? Ring any bells, or did you drink yourself into actual amnesia?”
Oh God. I drag in the slowest breath known to mankind, except it snags halfway and abandons me for dead.
“Jas,” I whisper, practically under my desk now, “you never told me you sublet your apartment.”
“Because I didn’t think my emergency contact would brEAK INTO IT, honey lamb! What were you thinking?”
I can practically hear him pacing around whatever Italian sex palace he’s currently inhabiting, probably wearing nothing but a silk robe and his outrage.
“I thought it was still your place! I used the key! The FBI sticker key!”
“Which I told you about for EMERGENCIES, not for your post-breakup karaoke therapy sessions!”
There’s a beat. Then Jasper’s voice softens. Just a little.
“And for the record, I told you a thousand times: Evan was a limp-dicked parasite with the emotional range of a soggy paper towel. You deserve way better than that loser.”
I let out a strangled laugh that sounds more like a cough.
Better. As if men like that actually exist for women like me.
Evan was the only guy who ever stuck around. The only one who didn’t swipe left on my hips or ghost me after two dates. So yeah, he was a self-absorbed man-child who once bought me gas station roses and called it romance—but at least he wanted me. For a while.
That has to count for something… right?
This is a nightmare. This is actually happening.
I pull the phone away from my ear to look at the screen when it buzzes with a text. Grandma. My heart stops.
GramCracker: Morning, sweetie. Feeling dizzy again. Dr. says the vertigo is getting worse.
Shit. Grandma’s been dealing with Ménière’s disease for months now, and the episodes are getting more frequent. The ringing in her ears, the balance issues, the nausea that leaves her bedridden for days. She’s trying to be brave about it, but I can hear the fear in her voice when she calls.
“Jas, who is he? Your subletter?”
“Someone very private, very wealthy, and apparently very understanding about drunk women invading his space. Oh God, Mary, please tell me you didn’t do anything weird.”
I close my eyes, remembering exactly how weird I got. I peek around my monitor to check if anyone’s watching me conduct a full conversation from under my desk.
“Define weird.”
“MARY.”
I duck lower, practically kissing my keyboard. “Nothing, I didn’t… do anything,” I whisper so quietly I’m basically mouthing the words.
Lying. I’m completely lying. But I can’t tell my best friend I sexually assaulted his mysterious tenant.
“Why do you have a subletter?” I try to change the topic, texting Grandma back quickly.
Me: On my way after work. Don’t move around too much. Love you.
“Because my financial advisor said I needed extra income to support my ‘champagne tastes on a beer budget lifestyle,’ and I figured what you didn’t know wouldn’t hurt you.
Plus, he was supposed to be some kind of ghost tenant: barely there, super quiet, pays in cash.
I didn’t think you’d ever run into him!”
Of course Jasper has a financial advisor.
I’m over here celebrating when my credit card payment goes through without getting declined, and he’s casually investing in Milanese back-breakers and mystery subletters. My emergency fund is a twenty-dollar bill folded behind my driver’s license and the hope that I don’t catch the flu.
A prickle runs up my spine, and sure enough, Stephanie’s staring from across the office, already filing this away for her next gossip binge. Behind her, through the glass, Dave hunches in his office, probably scheduling my next performance review.
“Jas, I really need to—” My words die in my throat.
Because walking through the bank’s front doors, moving with the kind of fluid confidence that makes everyone else look like they’re walking through molasses, is him.
Black coat. Black fedora pulled low. Dark sunglasses that he never removes, not once, not even indoors. He moves like he owns the place, like everyone else is just furniture he has to navigate around.
And he’s heading straight for my desk, just like he always does.
Oh no. Not today. Please, Universe, not today.
Every third Tuesday of the month, like clockwork. Always the same routine. Always deposits exactly $47,832.19. Never a dollar more, never a penny less. Always cash. Always in a black leather briefcase that looks expensive enough to buy a small car.
He never makes small talk. Never smiles. Barely speaks except to confirm the transaction. Just slides the briefcase across my desk, watches me count every bill with those hidden eyes, then disappears until the next month.
I’ve been calling him “Mr. Mystery” in my head because he never uses the same name twice on the deposit slips. Sometimes it’s “J. Smith.” Sometimes “A. Johnson.” Once, memorably, “B. Wayne,” which made me wonder if he was fucking with me.
Of all the days, of all the mornings, why now?
He’s wearing a black suit that’s clearly not off-the-rack, and he’s scanning the room like he’s cataloging every exit, every person, every potential threat.
His gaze lands on me.
Even from across the room, even crouched behind my computer like a desk gremlin, I can feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing.
Oh fuck. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.
“Mary? Mary, are you having a stroke? You’re making weird breathing noises.”
“I have to go,” I whisper into the phone, my voice barely functional.
“Wait, don’t hang up! We need to talk about—”
I end the call and immediately pretend to be very, very interested in my computer screen. Maybe if I don’t look at him, he’ll disappear. Maybe this is all an elaborate hallucination brought on by excessive shame and workplace stress.
But when I risk a glance up, he’s still there.
And he’s walking toward my desk.
I try to sit up straight and look professional, but I’m pretty sure I look like someone who just got caught hiding under their desk talking on the phone when they should be working.
He stops in front of my desk, and even through the sunglasses, I can sense something different about him today. He’s looking around the bank more than usual; quick, nervous glances toward the exits, the security cameras, the other customers. His hands are fidgeting with the briefcase handle.
Mr. Mystery is never fidgety. Mr. Mystery is always ice-cold calm.
But today, something has him rattled.
“Good morning,” I manage, trying to sound professional despite the fact that I’ve just been on the phone with Jasper, and my life is currently imploding.
He doesn’t respond immediately. Just keeps scanning the room like he’s expecting trouble to walk through the door at any second.
Finally, he sets the briefcase on my desk with more force than usual. The sound echoes loudly, making me jump slightly.
“Same account,” he says quietly, his voice rougher than I remember. “Same amount.”
I nod and pull out the deposit slip, my hands still shaky from everything—the hangover, Jasper’s call, this whole nightmare of a morning. “Of course, Mr…?”
I pause, pen hovering over the paper, waiting for today’s fake name.
“Volkov,” he says after a long pause. “V-O-L-K-O-V.”
That’s a new one. Usually, his fake names are boring and American. This one sounds… foreign. Russian, maybe?
I write it down and open the briefcase. Same neat stacks of hundreds, same perfect organization. $47,832.19, just like always. But something feels different today. His energy is off, like he’s wound too tight.
I start counting, muscle memory taking over while my brain tries to process everything that’s happened in the last twelve hours. The bills feel crisp and new, like they always do, but there’s something about the way he’s watching me count that makes my skin crawl.
I pause for half a second.
Where does this kind of money even come from?
I’ve never asked—not officially, anyway. It’s not my job to ask. I just record it, deposit it, keep my mouth shut, and my hands clean. But still… forty-seven thousand dollars in cash? On a Tuesday? Every month?
My stomach twists.
If I had this kind of money, I could pay off Grandma’s medical debt.
I could replace the cracked window in her kitchen.
Maybe even take her to that beach town she always talks about but never dares to plan for.
I wouldn’t be splitting my grocery bill across two credit cards or pretending my car’s “check engine” light is just decorative.
I glance up at him.
Same black coat. Same unreadable expression. Same presence that makes every cell in my body straighten like it’s been called to attention.
No one wanted to serve him when he first came in a few months ago.
Not with the way he looked—like trouble dressed in designer wool.
Too intense. Too silent. The kind of man who made your instincts whisper, Danger.
So, of course, it became my job. The unofficial “difficult client whisperer.” The Mary Special.
And after that first visit, he only ever came to me.
Usually, he just stands there like a statue.
Today, he’s tapping his fingers on my desk, checking his watch, glancing toward the security cameras.
“Everything okay?” I ask without thinking, then immediately regret it. We don’t do small talk. We’ve never done small talk.
He goes completely still, those hidden eyes locked on my face.
“Just process the deposit,” he says, and there’s something sharp in his voice that wasn’t there before.