Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
M arise watched the cab drive off, barely aware of Darlene close beside her at the curb, her hand on her arm as they waited for their uber.
Her mind was still back at the table with Kathleen.
The moment their eyes met had knocked the breath out of her.
The look on Kathleen’s face, shock, then something worse—hurt and confusion.
And she hadn’t been able to do a damn thing about it.
No acknowledgement, no reassurance. Only the hollow performance of Veronica Hale, smiling politely like they’d never met.
Their taxi pulled up and Darlene got into the back seat with Marise.
"You were very popular tonight," Darlene said, brushing her fingers lightly along Marise's arm. "Your presence made the whole dinner sparkle. That mousey Kathleen couldn’t keep her eyes off you. I can’t believe that Katleen Knowles is so simple and repressed.”
“Kathleen’s hardly simple,” said Marise, keeping the annoyance out of her voice. “She’s a brilliant scientist.”
“But socially inept, poor girl.” She smiled at Marise. “Now you, on the other hand, know how to look after a woman.”
It took an effort for Marise not to sneer. "I’m glad I could be of service."
Darlene gave a throaty chuckle, her eyes gleaming. "Oh, you haven’t started yet, darling."
The words sent a quiver down Marise's spine, not of desire, but annoyance. She knew what was expected of her. Known from the moment she’d picked Darlene up.
She made it obvious enough at the restaurant, with long glances at the table, the subtle slide of a hand on her arm.
There was no wriggle room here. No polite out. Not with a woman like Darlene.
And not with the Langford agency watching from the sidelines.
If she said no, Darlene would complain. Not loudly, but politely.
A word to Elise, a coolly constructed email about professionalism and chemistry and "a lack of connection," and Marise would be on ice for weeks.
She would have to put in place her escape plan.
They pulled up outside Darlene’s apartment and Marise walked her to the door.
"Well," Darlene purred, "We can continue upstairs. I have a bottle of champagne waiting for us.”
Marise would have liked to refuse there and then, but she knew that was out of the question. It wasn’t late and Darlene had paid a considerable price for her company. “That would be nice,” she said with a practised smile.
They walked through the lobby to the lifts, the air of expectation in every step they took.
The elevator ride to the penthouse was silent, but charged.
Darlene leaned against the mirrored wall, watching her with a half-lidded gaze in the slightly predatory way of powerful people who were used to getting what they wanted.
"I hope you don’t have an early morning," Darlene murmured.
"My time is yours," Marise replied.
The elevator chimed and the door opened at the penthouse suite. Darlene led the way in, letting her coat slip off her shoulders and drop onto a nearby chair. The suite was immaculate, all soft lighting and white leather, with a wall of glass that offered an uninterrupted view of the skyline.
"The champagne is in the fridge. Pour us a glass," Darlene said, already unfastening her necklace and laying it carefully on the side table.
Marise nodded and moved to the bar. The fridge opened with a hiss of cold air, and she retrieved the bottle then popped the cork. She poured two glasses, and handed Darlene one. She took a long sip of her own, letting the alcohol dull her nerves.
Darlene stood in front of her, eyes sharp now, the flirtation hardening into something more direct. She reached out, brushed Marise’s cheek with her fingertips, then let her hand trail down to her collarbone.
"You really are exquisite," she murmured. "And you know exactly how to hold a room."
Marise didn’t flinch. She let the words settle as Darlene stepped in closer. Their faces were inches apart when she leaned in and kissed her. When they broke apart, Darlene said, “You’re better than I imagined you’d be, Veronica. Worth every cent.”
Marise stiffened at those last three words. Fuck the woman with her air of entitlement, thinking money could buy her anything. She wasn’t half the person Kathleen was. “Sorry…I have to go to the loo,” she said quickly
“I’ll be waiting,” murmured Darlene.
As soon as Marise closed the door, she pulled out her phone and opened the Fake-call app. She set it for four minutes then used the toilet.
When she returned, Darlene put down her glass and slid her arms around her waist. She tugged her closer, running her lips up her neck until she found her mouth.
Marise responded automatically, her hands finding the curve of Darlene’s hips, her mouth parting slightly under the pressure.
The warmth of skin, the taste of champagne, the faint scent of French perfume clung to them as the moment stretched.
Darlene broke the kiss first. Her breath was warm against Marise’s cheek. "Come to bed," she commanded.
Marise’s phone began to ring in her pocket.
With an apologetic, “I’ll have to take this,” she pulled free of Darlene’s arm and dug for the phone. She walked to the window, pretending to listen intently. After making a few comments, she tapped it off.
She looked over at Darlene, feigning concern. “I’m sorry. A medical emergency at home. I have to go.”
Darlene pursed her lips, not looking happy. “Is it important you go immediately?”
“I’m afraid so. My father’s been taken to hospital.” She pecked Darlene on the cheek. “Thank you for the lovely evening,” she said and hurried from the suite without a backward glance.
She stepped out into the dark street and hailed a cab. As she slid into the back seat, she finally let her shoulders fall.
All she felt was relief. She was a professional, did what was necessary. She’d never had any compunction about screwing people to get what she wanted, but Darlene turned her stomach, and she knew that Kathleen would never look at her the same again if she had.
Marise stared morosely out the window as the city passed in silence, her relief fading to dejection. What foul luck to turn up with Darlene to Kathleen’s dinner. Strangely, she wasn’t so much disappointed because her assignment was in jeopardy, it was because she had disappointed Kathleen.
And that was dangerous. She couldn’t afford to have feelings for her mark.
T he next morning, she opened her laptop and started a file: Ted Winters.
She searched the internet all day, jotting down notes as she found something.
Ted was twenty-eight. A PhD student in Quantum Physics from NYU, he was doing his thesis on electrical conductivity in living systems. Impressive, but it wasn’t his credentials she was interested in, it was his social footprint.
He was easy enough to track. His background was textbook achiever: son of a biology lecturer and a systems engineer, raised in Charlotteville.
He’d been entering regional science fairs since middle school.
His mother had passed away from cancer when he was seventeen, and after that, he’d thrown himself into environmental causes with a kind of righteous focus.
A colleague had documented that Ted “thought like a protestor and built like a coder.”
He ran a small online tutoring business for students which bought him in a few dollars.
He lived by himself in a modest apartment not far from the lab and biked to work every day.
From his various posts on social media, he was the kind of idealist who believed science could fix everything.
Marise leaned back. He sounded likable. Earnest. Probably incapable of keeping a major breakthrough to himself for long, especially if he thought the person asking was genuinely interested.
Ted had an active online life. His professional posts were predictable: research updates, recycled press from climate innovation forums. But it was his personal profiles that interested her more.
He had a mildly chaotic X (formerly Twitter) handle, @Bionerd42, where he alternated between science memes, and Science fiction with references to Star Trek and Doctor Who.
He maintained a medium blog titled BioLogic , which veered between his thesis and mini-essays like why Blade Runner predicted the AI future. He was an Isaac Asimov and Arthur C Clark fan and thought The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy and Dune were classics.
And then there was his Reddit history. Marise found him posting in subs like r/Futurology, and r/ScifiNoir.
He had a surprisingly good sense of humour—nerdy, but clever.
He'd once written a full post detailing how the root architecture of engineered plants could function in Martian soil, “assuming no one minds a few sparks.”
He was a nerd. A smart, passionate, over-sharing one who had no idea how visible he really was.
She scrolled through one of his threads about an old film screening at a local indie cinema, the Metro .
It showed vintage science fiction twice a month: everything from Metropolis to Forbidden Planet.
And there, three comments deep, Ted had replied to a post: Can’t wait. The Blob’s on. I’ll be there.
The screening was Thursday night.
Marise smiled. Perfect.
She shut the laptop and walked to the wardrobe.
If she wanted to make contact, she had to ditch her Veronica Hale persona.
The woman Ted needed to meet was casual, nerdy, a little awkward herself.
Someone who loved science fiction. Someone who wore worn denim and vintage jackets and carried a dog-eared copy of Asimov in her bag.
She’d slip down to the second hand store this afternoon and buy a faded tee, a pair of jeans with holes, and a jacket with scuffed elbows. Her flat boots would do.
Ted wouldn’t respond to seduction.
He’d respond to familiarity.
She would go to the screening, grab a seat a row behind him. She already had a photo to recognize him, so all she needed was to find an opening to strike up a light conversation. Like "Didn’t expect to see anyone under fifty who knew this film."
If she played it right, he’d invite her to talk again.
She reached for her notebook and began scribbling lines of dialogue. Responses. Possible cues.
This wasn’t the kind of op she was used to, but thankfully she’d been a Sci-Fi fan in her teens. Ted was the only one with direct access to Kathleen’s research, and if she got him to him trust her, she might finally learn what she was paid to find out.