Chapter 33 #2
“And I find myself missing those walls I used to build.” He silently assesses.
He’ll read this all wrong if I don’t explain.
“I’m not feeling like celebrating right now.
We won. We succeeded. And yet, I’m…” How to explain?
“I care about you. I’m worried about you.
” I hesitate, then say it—plain, unguarded.
“I love you. And that’s new for me. It makes everything feel higher risk. ”
He stills. His arm doesn’t slide away this time—it tightens.
“Brie,” he says quietly. “I love you too.”
The simplicity of it hits harder than any declaration. No certainty. No promises. Just truth.
We sit there for a moment, letting it settle.
“Before, we didn’t get into what our day-to-day lives looked like. This case brought us back together, but it gave us both insights into our…businesses.”
“A look behind the image.” He sounds doleful, dejected even.
“Our real selves. And I think we’re both still evolving. Still figuring out who we are. The question is whether we can build something genuine while we figure it all out.”
“I believe we can,” he says, reaching for my hand. He toys with my fingers.
“Me too,” I say, breathing in deeply and becoming aware that this talk has me feeling lighter.
“You’re going to stay here for a while, right?
I mean, we know it was Elena who sent someone to your place.
” I narrow my eyes, well aware he packed everything he could jam into my suitcases when he brought me here.
It feels like we’re moving too quickly for caution, but I’m also aware that I’d rather be with him until we’ve got a handle on Elena’s whereabouts and plans.
“Brie. Please. I’ll sleep better and—”
“I’m fine staying here. As long as you recognize I’m not giving up my home. I own that apartment, by the way.” It’s a pittance to someone like him, but it’s my biggest investment.
“Completely understand,” he says, lips curving on the ends. Victorious is the word that comes to mind.
“Besides,” I take a sip, “I suppose I can get used to living in a place where the flowers in the foyer are replaced daily.”
“They aren’t replaced daily,” he says, scoffing as if I’m being ludicrous.
“Oh. Excuse me. Seasonally.” He tilts his head, questioning.
“That gorgeous white orchid arrangement that I’m going to guess cost thousands is being replaced by that equally stunning fall display.
But that’s one that has to be replaced weekly, I’d imagine—black dahlias don’t keep.
” I don’t actually care about the flowers; I’m just teasing him and reveling in the subject change.
“What do you do? Ask the florist from The Sanctuary to deliver flowers weekly to your home too?”
“What are you talking about?” He looks genuinely stumped.
“You walked right by them…” I gesture in the direction of the foyer.
He looks down the hall, possibly seeing the flowers for the first time, and pushes up. He strides to the flowers, which have been set in front of the orchids. Perhaps Maria was going to ask him where to put the arrangement. It is huge. More of something you’d see in a hotel lobby than in a home.
He pulls out his phone and dictates a message.
Adrien
Where’d the flowers come from?
Maria
A business associate. I messaged you earlier today asking where you wanted me to place them.
I’m reading the messages as he says, “An associate?”
We look at each other, and my stomach balls into a pit of dread. Adrien moves to the flowers, and I call out, “Wait. If Elena sent something…”
But he’s already at the entry table, looking at the elaborate arrangement. Dahlias, lilies, asters, and sunflowers fill a vase of maroons punctuated with golden yellows, accompanied by a small, wrapped box tied with silver ribbon. The card reads: Congratulations on your successful negotiation. –E
It’s from Elena, but did she send it before or after the DOJ authorized picking up Pierce?
“Don’t touch anything,” I say sharply, phone in hand, wine glass left on the table. “Hudson, we need bomb tech at Adrien’s penthouse. A gift from Elena.”
The next few minutes blur together—evacuation protocols for the entire condominium tower, emergency responders flooding the building, residents being moved to safety while specialists examine Elena’s gift.
Adrien and I wait in the lobby, watching through his hallway monitoring system as figures in protective suits carefully dismantle whatever Elena left for us.
“Sophisticated device,” the bomb tech reports over radio. “Pressure sensitive, motion activated. Would have taken out half the floor.”
I think about Maria placing them carefully on the entry table. If the device had been slightly more sensitive, if Elena had chosen a different trigger mechanism, if Maria had decided to transfer the flowers...
“She was sending a message.” But what is the message? The goal? “She could have killed us anytime she wanted. This was about showing us she could reach us anywhere. And she’s not particularly worried about our deaths tracking to her.”
“Nor is she worried about collateral damage.”
She’s out for vengeance. Elena Vasquez doesn’t just know where we both live—she knows who matters to Adrien, who he’d move to protect, who could be used as leverage against him in the future.
Fortunately, she doesn’t have the same intel on me.
It’s a benefit to maintaining walls, the reason behind the CIA’s protocol.
Hence, Adrien has more to lose, and she’s probably far more interested in hurting him than someone doing a job.
My phone buzzes with a news alert: brEAKING: Exclusive photos and video leaked from Manhattan's most exclusive private club.
The images are already spreading across social media—interior shots of The Sanctuary, footage of unidentifiable members in compromising positions, financial records showing payments to offshore accounts.
Everything Elena promised to protect in exchange for partnership, now being systematically released to destroy Adrien’s business and reputation.
“How long before this reaches the major networks?” Adrien asks.
I check my phone, scrolling through the rapidly spreading story.
“It’s already trending. Podcasts and small pubs will be on it immediately.
Larger outlets will attempt to verify. It looks like what’s playing out on social media is much more of a guessing game of who is in the photos. At least you’re not a public company.”
He lifts his phone to his ear, presumably calling Alicia.
I watch the bomb disposal team carefully carrying their equipment out of the building, while Adrien paces the corner of the lobby, phone tight to his ear.
The Sanctuary—three years of work, a billion-dollar investment, Adrien’s first independent success—crumbling in real time as Elena Vasquez demonstrates exactly what happens to people who cross her.
When he joins me again, I say, “I’m sorry. This is my fault. I pushed to find the blackmailer and–”
“If you hadn’t pushed, Pierce would still be extorting votes and Elena would still be operating freely. You did the right thing.” He stretches his neck to one side and kneads the area, as if he’s moved on and a tight shoulder muscle is now his biggest worry. “We did the right thing.”
“Even if it costs you everything?”
“Some things are worth any cost,” he says, pulling me into his side. “You’re one of those things.”
Outside the lobby windows, Manhattan continues its eternal rhythm—traffic flowing through streets like blood through arteries, lights flickering on in windows as people settle into their nighttime routines, the great machine of the city grinding forward regardless of individual triumphs or disasters.
Residents in the tower cluster in pockets around the lobby, waiting to be allowed back up to their homes. Some went across the street to Starbucks. Firetrucks are lined up on the street outside, the red lights flashing but the sirens silent.
“You realize she’s a terrorist. She was willing to kill innocent people to make a point.”
“True,” he says, his hold on me tightening. “After they’re done here, we’re to meet Alicia at her place in Manhattan. She’s offered for us to stay there tonight.”
“Do you want to do that?”
“No. The floor and building will be secure. But I do need to go to her place. She’s handling member communications at the moment, but I need to meet with her. You’ll go with me, right?”
“Of course,” I say.
What I don’t say is I wouldn’t allow him to go out on his own.
This kind of enemy requires a different approach entirely.
And as I watch the news alerts multiply on my phone, each one documenting another piece of what goes on in his private club, I realize that this war is just beginning.
She wanted fireworks on top of public humiliation.
Well, she’s spun him into a PR crisis, but my gut tells me she won’t consider it done until her fireworks explode.
Adrien leans down, his breath warm against my ear. “You know what’s good about this?”
“People didn’t die?” It’s hard to derive any other good angle.
“It’s a mess, but I’m not facing it alone. You’re with me.”
And he’s right. I am. And for the first time, I have someone by my side too, at least, someone other than colleagues and a mission statement.