Glass Spinner

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

M arise’s business was finding secrets.

She didn’t advertise—her number was passed quietly between penthouses and private jets. She worked alone, and for the right price, she could slip into any life. Track down anyone.

From her apartment window, Boston unfolded in a patchwork of historic brick buildings, gleaming glass towers, and the glittering expanse of the Charles River.

Twenty-one floors up, the city didn’t encroach into her space.

Her living area wasn’t cluttered, decorated with modern furniture.

It wasn't a home; it was a fortress for one.

When the laptop on her desk pulsed and a single notification blinked onto the screen, Marise closed her novel and opened the message. There was no subject line. No sender. No attachments. Only one sentence, followed by her instructions.

Knowles Project: Read then delete.

She read it twice. The email included the mark’s place of work, her home, her habits and where she could have the opportunity to meet her.

Marise sat back, tapping one finger against the top of her desk.

Kathleen Knowles. Even in her world, the name meant something. A brilliant environmental scientist, working on a project that could shift the global economy off fossil fuels, that is, if the rumours were true. Knowles hadn’t put out a statement or published any papers as yet.

If they were correct, oil magnates would bleed money, political dynasties would crumble, and fortunes would change hands overnight.

And someone with very deep pockets wanted to know if that future was about to become a reality.

Whether they wanted to stop her or back her, Marise didn’t care.

Her assignment was to find out what exactly Knowles was working on, how far she had progressed with her research, and if she was nearly there.

As always, payment had already been arranged. One that whispered of corporate bottomless budgets, and ambitions big enough to topple nations. Six figures for discretion. Ten percent now, the rest when the assignment was complete.

After she closed the email and locked it behind four layers of encryption before deleting every trace, she went to work.

First, she checked the money had been put into her offshore account, and then she googled everything she could find about Kathleen Knowles.

As soon as she typed out a profile, she emailed it to herself.

That way, she could access it on any device.

She smiled slightly—an easy assignment for once. Knowles was reported to be a timid woman who shunned the limelight.

Marise moved to the corner cabinet and pulled out a locked briefcase.

She opened it to reveal her tools: five identities, polished and ready; bundles of US and foreign currencies, secured with black bands; ten burner phones; a slim USB drive preloaded with access programs; a box of coloured contact lenses.

Marise selected an identity: Veronica Hale , an independent lifestyle consultant based in New York. Then she put into a small case the tools and cash she would need.

She packed without fuss. Skirts for day and night wear, three cocktail gowns with splits high enough to hint but not reveal, formal gowns, black slacks, silk blouses, a pair of stilettos sharp enough to double as weapons and a leather jacket that fitted like a second skin.

Everything went into a suitcase, making sure nothing in it would draw a second glance from airport security.

If she needed more clothes, or weapons, she’d buy them when she got there.

Her movements were automatic, efficient, with no second-guessing.

Marise had learned long ago that hesitation was a luxury.

After sliding hazel contacts into her eyes, she glanced once around the apartment as she shrugged on her coat. Everything was in its place. The weapons were sealed into hidden compartments. The security system would trigger on the smallest vibration once she left.

No one would miss her. No one ever did.

She slipped her feet into ankle boots, zipped them up, and with a single touch, armed the alarm system as she pulled the door shut behind her.

The elevator ride to the parking level was silent except for the whisper of movement.

Her reflection in the mirrored walls showed a woman who appeared attractive and harmless.

Long-lashed, hazel eyes, full lips, luxurious hair that swung as she moved, and an hour-glass figure.

But behind the curves was a body proficient in the martial arts, and hands that could break a person’s neck in ten seconds.

A silver SUV uber was waiting outside the apartment building. Without a word, the driver put her case in the trunk, and opened the door for her. She slid into the back seat and they soon hit the expressway heading for the airport.

B y the time her plane banked over the skyline of Manhattan, Marise no longer existed.

She was Veronica Hale now. A name she couldn’t afford to forget.

Veronica had a very important business to arrange. She had already worked out the ideal place to interact with Knowles, for the person who had compiled her file had been thorough. She wondered how they knew what the woman intended to do, but that wasn’t her worry.

The car from LaGuardia moved through Manhattan’s early afternoon traffic, down wide boulevards and into quieter side streets. Marise leaned back against the leather seat, scanning the city through tinted windows. Her driver didn’t speak, nor she did she encourage conversation.

Her hotel of choice was discreet, expensive, and entirely closed to the outside world.

No flashing lights or branded umbrellas at the entrance.

Merely a pair of anonymous glass doors tucked between two corporate buildings, and a brass plaque no larger than her hand bearing the simple name: The Alderidge.

Perfect.

The doorman smiled at her as he opened the car door. She gave him a nod and moved through the lobby, taking in the muted tiled floors, the smoked glass vases. The handful of travellers checking in, were probably under fake names like her. People who valued privacy over prestige.

She checked in at the front desk under Veronica Hale. The receptionist, well-trained, didn’t blink at her request for a room on a high floor, preferably away from the elevators.

“Of course, Ms. Hale. Thirty-third floor, end of the hall.”

A card key slid across the counter without ceremony.

No signature required. Payment had already cleared.

Her suite was quiet luxury: muted greys, deep carpets, a wall of windows offering a view of the city skyline without exposing the room to prying eyes. Marise set down her suitcase and took a slow walk through the space, checking the locks, the sight lines, the potential exits.

She showered quickly, washing the smell of airports and strangers off her skin.

She blow-dried her hair until it was glossy and tamed into soft waves, then dressed carefully: black tailored pants that hugged her curves but spoke of business rather than seduction.

A silk cream blouse, open enough at the throat to suggest confidence without offering anything more.

Low heels, practical but flattering. Minimal makeup.

Just a hint of smoky eyeliner and pale gloss on her lips.

Jewellery simple: small diamond studs, an elegant silver watch.

Veronica Hale was not here to seduce anyone.

She was here to sell companionship—the illusion of intimacy without the complications.

She checked her reflection one last time. Professional, polished and approachable.

Exactly what the agency would want.

Marise took the elevator down and called for a car. Ten minutes later, she stood outside a brownstone tucked into a quiet, wealthy block overlooking a park. There was no sign outside, only a small brass buzzer next to a reinforced oak door.

She’d done her homework before requesting an interview.

The agency prided itself on discretion. It had been operating quietly for years, its clientele whispered about only in the most exclusive circles.

A place for men and women who needed a partner for events, public appearances, or the occasional lonely evening, without the expectations that came with traditional dating.

The Langford.

Marise pressed the buzzer once.

The door was clicked open by a slim woman in her late forties. Her hair was silver-blond, cut into a sleek bob, and she wore an impeccably tailored dress that said money without shouting it.

“Veronica Hale?” the woman asked in a polished voice.

“Yes,” Marise replied with a professional smile.

The woman stepped aside, leading her into a softly lit foyer that smelled faintly of jasmine and expensive leather.

“I’m Elise Berry. I am the owner of the agency.” She gestured toward a pair of deep leather chairs. “Please, sit.”

Marise moved to the chair, the expensive leather soft and buttery as she sank into it. She crossed her legs and waited.

Elise sat opposite her, folding her hands loosely on her lap. She looked Marise over with a practiced, appraising eye—not lascivious, but professional. Judging her posture, her grooming, her presence.

“You understand the nature of our service?” Elise asked finally.

“I do,” Marise said. Her voice was pitched low and warm, her expression open but controlled. “I’m here for companionship services to events and dinners. And I understand there are no sexual arrangements.”

“That is correct. Any sexual encounter is strictly between you and the client. You are not obliged to provide it. We have nothing to do with that. The Langford gives carefully selected companions for men and women who require discretion, polish, and a certain level of... emotional intelligence.” Elise smiled faintly.

“We are not an escort service in the traditional sense. We are a lifestyle agency. Our clients expect charm, presence, and the ability to navigate high society without missteps.”

“I’m comfortable in those environments,” Marise replied without hesitation. “I’ve worked with high-profile clients before. Confidentiality is my specialty.”

“You stated in your application form that you prefer to escort women.”

“I do.”

Elise nodded her approval. “Very good. We have a vacancy in that department.”

Marise ghosted a smile and waited without commenting.

Elise’s eyes sharpened slightly. “We vet all candidates. Background checks. Interviews. In some cases, security clearance verifications.”

Marise inclined her head as if she found that reassuring. “Understandable.”

Elise tapped a manicured nail lightly against the arm of her chair. “There is a gala dinner next Saturday night for the Atlantic Environmental Research Foundation. A new client will be attending and has requested a companion.”

Marise kept her expression neutral, but inside, the words lit up her mind like a flare.

Atlantic Environmental Research Foundation.

The event Kathleen Knowles was scheduled to attend.

“Would I be considered for that engagement?” Marise asked casually. “I have a degree in environmental science.”

Elise smiled. “If you pass our screening process, you will be among the candidates offered for selection. We are particular who we send this client. She was extremely shy when she called. The final choice, of course, remains with her.”

Marise smiled, demure but confident. “I’m happy to do whatever is necessary.”

Elise rose from the chair. “I’ll have you meet with our coordinator.

She’ll handle your intake interview and schedule your portfolio shoot.

” She offered a business card. “You’ll need to submit a professional bio and undergo an etiquette screening before we accept you. Would you be available tomorrow?”

Marise stood, accepting the card with a flicker of gratitude she didn’t feel. “Of course. Thank you for considering me.”

Elise flashed her a smile. “If you pass our evaluation, and I’m sure that’ll only be a formality, on Wednesday night I have a client who would enjoy your company.”

Marise was under no illusion what that meant. This client would be the tester. “I look forward to it.”

“First impressions matter, Ms. Hale,” Elise said softly as she led her to the door. “Remember that.”

As Marise stepped out into the crisp New York afternoon, she allowed herself a small, satisfied breath.

Half the battle was won.

Soon, she would be standing beside Kathleen Knowles. She would make sure of that. She had read the report on the scientist and knew how to appeal to her.

Marise had forged her scientific credentials, but she did have a degree.

In psychology.