Bonus Scene
Six months after the Epilogue.
GRANT
I do not get paid enough for this.
I remind myself of this fact approximately four times a day, usually when I am forced to mediate a dispute between a billionaire security contractor and an architect who refuses to back down from an argument.
I am standing in the lobby of Apex Architecture’s new four-story headquarters in the Gold Coast. It is eight o'clock on a Friday evening.
The building is empty, save for the cleaning staff on the third floor and the two people currently standing in the center of the ground-floor gallery, glaring at each other over a massive slab of imported Italian marble.
"It’s a reception desk, Malcolm," Audrey says, crossing her arms over her chest. She is wearing a sharp black suit, her hair pulled back into a severe knot. "It doesn't need bulletproof glass."
"It is the primary point of entry for the building," Malcolm replies.
He is wearing a charcoal suit, his hands resting flat against the surface of the marble.
He looks entirely immovable. "If a hostile element breaches the front doors, the receptionist requires a fortified position to initiate the lockdown protocols. "
"Who is breaching the front doors? We design boutique hotels and commercial office spaces. The most hostile element we deal with is a real estate developer who doesn't understand zoning laws."
"Threats do not announce themselves, Audrey."
"Neither does your paranoia, apparently."
I stand ten feet away, my hands clasped behind my back, staring straight ahead at a blank white wall. I do not engage. Engaging is a tactical error.
When Malcolm first hired me to be the Director of Operations for Apex, I assumed my duties would consist of vetting contractors and managing the physical security of the building.
I did not anticipate that my primary operational challenge would be preventing my two employers from murdering each other over interior design choices.
"Grant," Malcolm says, not looking away from his wife. "Tell her the statistical probability of a frontal assault on a high-net-worth commercial property."
"Grant," Audrey says, her voice dropping to a dangerously calm register. "Tell him that if he installs bulletproof glass in my lobby, it will ruin the open-concept aesthetic and make my clients feel like they are walking into a bank vault."
I do not look at either of them.
"I am officially off the clock, sir," I say, my voice a low, even rumble. "My current operational priority is deciding whether to order Thai or Italian food for dinner."
Audrey lets out a short, exasperated laugh, her defensive posture dropping instantly. She shakes her head, walking around the marble desk to stand next to Malcolm.
"You are impossible," she murmurs, resting her hand flat against his chest.
"I am thorough," he corrects her, his hands sliding around her waist to pull her flush against him. The cold, calculating CEO vanishes the second he touches her. It is a transformation I have witnessed a hundred times over the last year and a half, and it still manages to surprise me.
"It’s a desk, Malcolm," she whispers, tilting her head back to look at him.
"It is a vulnerability."
"I’ll put a panic button under the counter. Wired directly to your office at Vanguard."
Malcolm looks down at her. He considers the compromise. "Two panic buttons. One under the desk, one in the floorboard."
"Deal."
She pulls his head down by the lapels of his suit jacket and kisses him. It is not a polite, public kiss. It is the kind of kiss that usually precedes me clearing the building and locking the doors from the outside.
I clear my throat. Loudly.
Malcolm pulls back slightly, though he doesn't let go of her waist. He looks at me over her shoulder, his expression a mixture of dark amusement and mild irritation.
"You are still here, Grant," Malcolm notes.
"I am waiting to lock the perimeter, sir. Unless you plan to sleep on the Italian marble."
Audrey laughs, burying her face in Malcolm’s neck. "He’s right. We should go home. Vivian is coming over tomorrow morning, and if the penthouse isn't spotless, she will judge me."
"Vivian judges everyone," Malcolm points out, stepping back and offering Audrey his arm.
She takes it, her fingers wrapping securely around his bicep. The vintage diamond on her left hand catches the recessed lighting of the lobby.
We walk out of the building together. The Chicago air is crisp, carrying the faint chill of early autumn. I lock the heavy glass doors behind us, engaging the biometric alarm system that Malcolm personally designed and installed.
The armored SUV is parked at the curb.
I open the back door. Audrey slides in first, Malcolm right behind her.
Before I close the door, Malcolm looks up at me.
"Thai food," he says smoothly. "Order it to the penthouse. Put it on the company card."
"Which company, sir?" I ask, my expression completely blank.
"Whichever one is currently winning the argument about the reception desk," Audrey calls out from the dark interior of the car.
A faint, genuine smile touches the corner of my mouth.
"Understood, boss," I say.
I shut the heavy door, sealing them in the quiet, secure space of the back seat. I walk around to the driver’s side, the familiar weight of my sidearm resting comfortably against my ribs.
I get into the car, put it in drive, and pull away from the curb.
I look in the rearview mirror. Malcolm has his arm wrapped around Audrey’s shoulders, her head resting against his chest. They are speaking quietly to each other, the chaos of the city completely locked out.
I do not get paid enough for this job.
But as I merge onto the highway, heading toward the Gold Coast, I realize there is absolutely nowhere else in the world I would rather be.