Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Adrien
I wait until the divider clicks up, enclosing us in silence, before speaking.
Alicia said KOAN employs former Special Forces and intelligence officers.
My guess was correct—Sophie, or rather Brie Anderson, is former intelligence.
That’s why I didn’t make a scene in the meeting.
And why, after spending tens of thousands searching for her, I’ll have my answers in private.
She sits composed, hands folded in her lap.
No rings, nails cut short and square—the same as Monaco, when she told me it was for the piano.
She played beautifully, and at least that detail wasn’t a lie.
Her blue eyes flicker, uncertain, and for the first time I see not the woman who vanished, but the operative trained to disappear.
I force myself to look away, but the damage is done.
I’ve cataloged her—a habit from years of studying what people want versus what they’ll admit.
The way her pulse jumps at her throat. The slight catch in her breathing when I moved closer to close the divider.
The tension in her thighs beneath that pristine skirt, muscles coiled as if prepared for fight or flight.
Or something else entirely.
She wants me too. The awareness sears, unwelcome heat in professional cold.
I’ve spent years learning to read desire—it’s currency in my world, the foundation of everything people crave.
But this isn’t performance. This is the same pull I felt in Monaco, that visceral recognition of mutual hunger. Authentic. Rare. Elusive.
“I owe you an explanation.”
“We are in agreement.”
She lowers her gaze and speaks quietly. “When I met you, I worked for the CIA.”
As I suspected. “Was I your target?”
“No.” Her eyes spear mine, steady and unflinching. “I can’t share details. But when we met, I was compromised. Someone was onto me. You were a man at a bar, nothing more. By engaging with you, I diverted their attention.”
“Ah. So I was cover. The Bond woman to your story? A convenient weekend at the edge of a mission.”
“I’m not sure that’s the Bond girl’s function.”
Sharp, clever. She always was.
“Your name?” I press. “It’s not Sophie.”
“No. That was an alias.”
“And Brie Anderson?”
“My name.”
“No longer using aliases?”
“If the job requires it, I’ll use one.”
“But not this one?”
“It might before it’s over. We don’t know, right?” She cocks her head, those astute eyes studying me, her mind undoubtedly forming questions. “You bought a sex club?”
“It’s an elite social club,” I correct, clipped. “I acquired the New York location three years ago. Expanded to four cities since. Restaurants, luxury travel, private events.”
“That’s a unique spin on a sex club.”
“Social club,” I repeat with pointed emphasis.
“We offer private suites that cater to a variety of proclivities. On occasion we host special events that are tasteful,” I tilt my head.
“And erotic. We plan exclusive, members-only weekend getaways for members. Let me clear up any confusion—we’re like another Harvard Club.
Not all participate in all of our offerings.
Many members have never attended a special event or weekend getaway—they use the club for business connections.
For some, privacy is a priceless benefit. ”
“Did you and your father come to blows?”
The personal question stills me. She remembers.
Not just the sex—anyone could remember that.
She remembers our conversations. The confession I’d made in the early morning hours, her head on my chest, fingers tracing idle patterns on my skin while I told her things I’d never said aloud.
How my father used legacy as chains. How Margot deserved to take the reins more than I did.
How I wanted to build something of my own, something that didn’t carry the weight of generations.
Rare, that I share anything real. Rarer still that someone listens—truly listens—and remembers three years later.
The rub is that I was fool enough to believe a stranger in my bed might stay.
“Do you live here now?” she asks, seeming to accept that I won’t answer some questions and moving on to less personal ground.
“I do. Almost three years. I travel, but New York is home.” I study her in turn. “And you?”
Her lips almost curve—almost. “Eight years.”
“Then we were bound to meet again.”
“I doubt we frequent the same places.” Her finger taps a rhythm on the armrest—always the piano in her. “I appreciate you not making a scene,” she says.
“That was chance. I was shocked.”
“If I’d known you were there—”
“You wouldn’t have come?” My jaw tightens. “Unbelievable.”
“Perhaps it’s best I don’t work this project. KOAN can reassign easily.”
“Oh, I want you on the team. I need to trust—” I cut myself short. Trust her? Impossible. But I won’t let her vanish again, not without reason. “I want to know how much of Monaco was real.”
Her eyes soften—for a breath—before cooling again. Pity flickers there. I don’t need her pity.
What I need is to stop noticing the way her lips part when she’s about to speak.
The elegant line of her neck. The rise and fall of her chest beneath that professional blouse.
My body hasn’t forgotten Monaco, even if my mind knows better.
Desire coils low, persistent, inappropriate.
In my business, I routinely exercise control—when to indulge want, when to weaponize it, when to practice denial. She’s making me forget every lesson.
“The leak is an employee,” I say, hardening, putting the focus where it should be for the moment. “I need the culprit exposed before members flee.”
“Assuming it is an employee.”
“How could it not be?” It’s infuriating. “We treat them well. Raises. Extra leave. Loyalty rewarded.”
“Larger enterprises have been hacked.”
“Preferable, I suppose.” I exhale, releasing some of the tension that’s built since she entered the meeting. “At least betrayal wouldn’t wear a familiar face.”
She shifts. “Where are we going?”
“Lunch.”
“It’s not even ten.”
“Call it brunch.”
“Adrien—”
My scowl ends the protest.
“Alright. I can join you.”
“We could go to my place. But I thought you’d prefer the club.”
Her eyes widen. What has she heard? Rumors, perhaps. Gossip. The photos alone. Let her wonder.
“We should set boundaries,” she says, her voice now all business. “This is professional. Whatever happened between us—”
“Was real,” I cut in. “For me.”
Her tapping stops. For a moment, vulnerability shadows her face. Then the mask settles, immaculate. “We need to focus on the case. Protecting your business, yes?”
“Of course.” I lean back, studying her. Lovely doesn’t begin to cover it. She’s radiant. And I remember every detail of her body, every sound she made. Sex I can buy. What I had with her, I can’t replicate.
The sedan’s interior feels too small suddenly.
Her scent—that damned jasmine—fills the space between us like a third presence.
I want to touch her. Not professionally.
Not as the man who owns a club built on managed carnality.
I want to touch her the way I did before, when we were just two people absconding reality for a weekend, when her laugh was unguarded and my fingers knew the geography of her skin.
The partition feels thin. The driver mere feet away. The leather seat creaks as I shift, trying to create distance that doesn’t exist in this enclosed space. Every breath I take tastes like her.
She stares out the window, as if anywhere else would be preferable.
“In your CIA training,” I ask, “did they teach you how to forget an unforgettable weekend? One that changed everything?”
The car stops at The Sanctuary. She reaches for the handle.
“They taught me how to compartmentalize,” she says.
“And how is that working for you, Brie Anderson?”
She looks back, just once, eyes ocean-deep, the woman who played piano under moonlight breaking through the operative’s mask.
“It never fails me.”
But her hand trembles on the door handle.
Just slightly. Just enough for me to see the lie.
The driver opens her door. Cold air rushes in, breaking the spell of memory.
She steps out onto the sidewalk with practiced grace, every inch the professional who knows how to disappear. This time, I won’t let her.