Chapter 16
Kirill
The lobby stinks of patchouli and hope ground to dust. That sour, clinging undertone of too many cheap oils and sweat, burnt coffee, and the ash of sage smoked to the filter.
I would never choose to stay in this hotel.
The space is nice enough, sure. Three stars, maybe three-and-a-half. Beige marble flooring, hanging plants, tasteful though peeling wallpaper, and a faux-crystal chandelier above the check-in desk. But it’s in the dead center of the city. Too open, too exposed, and too easy to find.
Give me a hole-in-the-wall motel any day.
I scan for exits, for threat vectors, for anything that might matter.
Nothing.
Just men with beards that never fill in and tunics that billow off pale arms. Women with too-bright smiles layered up in tie-dye and gauzy scarves.
The attendees wade through booths of merchandise that include aura snapshots, crystals that promise a different self, and vibrational healing for ailments no one can name.
I am a shark caged in a plankton tank. Teeth are wasted here.
There’s nothing worth eating.
Except Jordan.
The black dress I ordered, along with the matching shoes, fit her like a blade’s sheath. But the change in her is more than external.
Her shoulders rise and straighten as her lungs fill. Her eyes close, and her chin lifts. With a tiny shake of the head, her hair shifts, lying in shimmering waves down her back. I witness the transformation as she grounds herself in this environment.
With each stride, her steps become fluid and powerful.
More solid. More definite. The black dress is a shadow slicing through the sea of earth tones and floaty beige, setting her apart and out of place.
Yet she’s also rooted by muscle memory. Even though the dress marks her as an outsider, she glides toward the conference registration desk with confidence.
I follow three paces behind, a satellite to her sun. Ready to move if necessary, though distant enough to be unseen.
The woman at the counter wears a large steel ring through her nose and a smile trained to smooth every surface. Her gaze bounces from Jordan to me. She twitches just slightly.
Jordan peers over her shoulder at me. “I think she knows you’re not signed in yet.”
I don’t answer, unamused by Jordan’s joke and the way the receptionist looks at me. As if my scars are stranger than her own hardware.
She’s literally got metal in her face.
“Jordan Thorne.” Jordan places her hand on the counter with warm, practiced ease. “Sorry I’m late. I’m one of today’s speakers.”
The receptionist taps her tablet with fluttering fingers. “Thorne…yes. ‘Manifesting Abundance Through Trauma Healing,’ Room 3A, eleven thirty. We were starting to worry.” Her eyes shift to me again.
Suspicion stretches her features. She knows I don’t belong.
I raise an eyebrow, wondering what she thinks she can do about that fact.
We both know the answer is nothing, but it’s fun to see her imagination flicker.
“Wardrobe issues.” Jordan folds her gloved hands together. “But I’m here now.”
The woman accepts the evasion with a nod and starts piecing together Jordan’s welcome kit. A plastic rectangular badge hangs from a lanyard stamped Speaker in block letters. A fat folder contains numerous recycled-paper pamphlets, schedules, flyers, and maps.
“Here’s your room key.” She slides a key card in a small envelope labeled with her room number across the counter. “Will you need any tech? Projector, screen, anything like that?”
Jordan’s eyes find mine, and in them I spy a challenge. “No. Unfortunately, I left my laptop at home.”
She knows that’s her own fault. She ran, she lost, and now she makes do.
I stare back, unmoved.
Though I’m tempted to accept and meet that challenge in a storage closet down the hall.
Jordan fixes the woman with a dazzling smile, designed for strangers and nitwits who can’t see below the surface. “I’ll wing it.” No trace of what lingers underneath.
The receptionist reaches over, her fingers brushing Jordan’s hand in a gesture thick with meaning, all shared faith and feminine solidarity or some shit like that.
“You’ll be wonderful. The universe sent you here for a reason.
” Then her attention returns to me, the smile deflating faster than a popped balloon.
“Can I get your registration number, sir?”
I hold her gaze with my own blank one and wait.
“He’s with me.” Jordan nudges me with her foot. “A late addition. Can you add him?”
“Three hundred dollars.” The woman doesn’t even bother to appear sorry.
Three hundred bucks for the privilege of surfing through a sea of people who believe quartz can outsmart chemotherapy.
Every con has its booth. The practice remains the same everywhere. Only the costume changes.
I reach for my wallet. Not the real one. Never that. This one has a clean alias, IDs, and a stack of bills nobody can chase. I count out the money, one deliberate motion after another.
“Do you need a room too?” The woman’s tone is ice under a thin layer of customer service.
Jordan beats me to answering. “He’s in mine.”
The two women share a look. Some female communication I’m not privy to. Maybe pity, maybe warning.
I don’t care. Jordan’s not going anywhere without me.
The woman hands over my badge. A simple lotus in pastel pink and sun-washed gold. The kind of thing I’d rather light on fire than wear.
I hesitate, glaring at the colors.
Jordan’s lips quirk, amusement flickering in her eyes for the first time since this started. “They might kick you out if you’re not wearing that.”
I pocket the pass and meet her mirthful gaze with a steely one. “I’d like to see them try.”
She doesn’t answer. But I catch the slight shake of her head, the act more resignation than disapproval.
Or maybe just tired acceptance.
A woman in loose, swishy pants comes barreling toward us, a clipboard hugged to her chest like body armor. When her eyes land on Jordan’s speaker badge, she lights up in relief.
“Oh my god, we’re so glad you made it! We were getting worried.” She gives Jordan a once-over, taking in the severe, elegant black dress. A world away from the patchouli haze and yoga pants everywhere else. “Are you nervous? First time at a big conference? Do you need to change?”
“No.” Jordan doesn’t elaborate. Just offers a straightforward, unapologetic answer without any attempt to explain or reassure.
The woman blinks, thrown off for a beat by the lack of nerves, but she rallies fast. “Okay! Follow me. You’re in 3A.” She spins, slicing her way through the crowd without looking back.
We follow a few paces behind. As we walk, I glance at Jordan’s profile.
The length of her neck, the perfect line of her jaw.
Every stride has a kind of careful balance, old-school refinement under calm confidence.
It’s like she was trained to walk, step by step, until the movements lodged deep in her bones.
These are ingrained manners, passed down to her from childhood.
They clash with the bohemian wild-child persona she presents online.
Part of me starts to wonder when the swap happened.
“You’re really not nervous?” I keep my voice low. No sense in making it easy for eavesdroppers. “Not even a little?”
She moves forward, smooth and centered, her eyes locked ahead.
“I lived under a bridge when I was sixteen.” Nothing melodramatic. Just facts. “Learned the bakery on Mill Street dumps the day-old bagels on top of the garbage heap and that superglue will keep some wounds closed. You would not believe the things I’ve seen.”
My own stride falters.
I never saw that in any of my files on her. Nothing about living rough or under a bridge.
After her father died, I assumed she lived with her mother.
Not sleeping under concrete, scavenging bagels, and bleeding alone with only glue for medical care.
She glances back at me, her gaze calm and unguarded. No mysticism, no show, just the hard clarity of someone who’s endured worse than this. “So yeah, maybe I’m always running on grapefruit and stubborn hope, but I don’t scare easy.” Her iron-steady eyes lock on mine. “Except with you.”
I’m not sure she meant to say that out loud.
Before I can really register the confession, though, she lets a small smile slip. Crooked, sly, and dipping deep enough to emphasize a dimple I’d never noticed before.
Not a happy smile.
That’s the expression of a survivor who’s stared into the dark and learned not to blink.
I can’t stop staring.
The woman in front of me—the dress, the smile, the persona—is fucking beautiful.
The reality of her past collides with my first impression of her. As well as my second impression of her hiding in the park and escaping in a cab without calling the cops. Add in this dimple, and I can’t help but wonder…
Who is Jordan Thorne?
What did she survive to become this?
I’ve been using her as a means to an end. Viewing her as a problem to solve.
But I’ve never gotten to know her. Not really.
An ache deeper than pain twists my gut. Guilt, probably.
I’ve never experienced this before.
But the realization that I’ve never once coaxed a smile from her, that I never truly knew who she was, all while trying to manipulate her….
No. I won’t let this affect me.
There’s no room for guilt, for emotions, in my world. Not in this job.
I learned that difficult lesson when I was a kid and pain and loneliness severed the connection. Whatever churns my stomach when I look at Jordan… I can’t let it get in my way.
Once we reach a set of double doors, the clipboard woman starts babbling about the AV setup, chair count, and schedule, eager for approval. Jordan listens intently as she plays her part, walking away from me to her place in the spotlight.
I hang back, scanning the exits and reading the room for danger. Doing what I do.
But the drive persists, image of this fascinating woman burned in. That smile. That dimple. The person underneath all the layers.
I want to see her smile. At me. Her real, full smile, dimple and all.
Every bit of this desire is dangerous. The kind of thing that gets men like me erased.
I force the realization down and lock the yearning behind steel walls and stone doors. There’s no room for this. No margin for error. She’s a means to an end. A tool.
But even as the thought comes, I know it’s a lie.