Chapter 18
MIA
I wake to sunlight slicing through a gap in the hotel curtains, falling directly across my face like the universe’s alarm clock.
For a moment, I don’t move. I just lie there in the too-soft bed, staring at the ceiling, letting the events of last night wash over me in waves, in memories I never want to forget, that I probably never will forget, even if I tried.
Last night changed everything.
The rooftop. The kiss. The way he didn’t fucking die. The way he made me come apart with his hands and his mouth and those filthy words whispered against my skin.
Then, the debriefing at the safe house. Kat’s warnings. Poor Bayo, thinking he needs a lobotomy.
It won’t happen again.
I said it like I meant it but I never believed it.
What I felt on that rooftop wasn’t just physical release—it was something cracking open inside me, something warm and bright and brilliant, and you can’t just close that back up again. You can’t un-feel what it’s like to be touched by someone when you’ve been deprived of it for so fucking long.
The hotel room phone suddenly rings, and I jolt, leaning over to quell that garish noise again.
“Hello?” I mumble, hoping it’s Vanguard.
“Miss Baxter.” The voice is cool, precise, with that continental accent. “I hope I’m not calling too early.”
Julia Van Veen.
I sit up straighter, suddenly very awake. “Dr. Van Veen. Not at all, I—”
“I won’t keep you long.” She cuts through my fumbling with surgical efficiency.
“I wanted to extend an invitation, a private tour of our facilities here at Global Dynamix. I thought it might be useful for your profile piece—give you some context on how we operate, what we’re working toward in the future.
” She pauses. “Beyond the public-facing spectacle.”
My instincts prickle the back of my neck. Julia Van Veen doesn’t do anything without a reason, and this invitation makes me suspicious. It’s going to be highly sanitized, that’s for sure, but I’m not about to turn down the opportunity.
“That’s very generous of you,” I say carefully. “I’d love to see more of the operation.”
“Wonderful. Shall we say, eleven o’clock? I’ll have someone meet you in the lobby.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Oh, and Miss Baxter?” Her voice drops a degree, turning frosty. “I trust you had a pleasant evening last night after you left the gala.”
My stomach clenches. Oh no. Don’t tell me she knows.
“It was fine,” I manage. “Just went back to the hotel.”
“Good. I do so value a quiet night in.” Another pause, loaded with implication. “I’ll see you soon.”
She hangs up.
I stare at the phone, my heart thudding against my ribs. Yeah, that wasn’t just an invitation. That was a summons. I have a feeling she knows exactly what went on last night (at this point, who doesn’t?), and I’m about to get yet another lecture about boundaries.
Professional. Cold. Operative.
I’m still repeating it like a mantra when my mobile buzzes.
This time, I recognize the number. My pulse ratches up a notch.
“Hello?”
“Hey.” Vanguard’s voice is rough, like he hasn’t slept. Like he’s been up all night thinking about…
“Hey,” I say, aiming for neutral and landing somewhere around breathless.
A beat of silence. “I went back for you last night. You were gone.”
“Oh. Yeah. I found my own way down.” I keep my voice light, casual, no biggie. “Some people were having a party up there. I hitched a ride on the elevator.”
“I looked for you. At your hotel.”
I see.
I picture him hovering outside my window, searching for me. The thought should be unnerving, but it just makes my thighs press together. Being stalked by a superhero? Don’t mind if I do.
“I got back late,” I say, which isn’t technically a lie. “We must have just missed each other.” Last thing he needs to know is where I went after. I think I need to start being more careful.
Another silence, heavier this time. I can hear him breathing, can almost feel the weight of everything unsaid pressing through the phone.
“Mia.” His voice is softer now, careful. “About last night—”
“We don’t have to talk about it.”
“I think we do.”
“I really think we don’t.” I close my eyes, steeling myself. Professional. Cold. Operative. “It was a moment. It happened. It doesn’t have to be a thing.”
The silence that follows is so long, I check the signal bars to make sure the call hasn’t dropped.
“Is that what you want?” he finally asks, and there’s something vulnerable in his voice that makes my chest ache. “For it to not be a thing?”
No. God, no. I want it to be everything. I want you to fly through my window and finish what we started. I want to feel your hands on me again, because no one has ever touched me like that and I’m terrified I’ll spend the rest of my life chasing that feeling…
“I think that’s what’s best,” I say instead. “For the profile. For both of us.”
“Right.” His voice has gone cold. Distant. A door closing. “The profile.”
The finality hurts.
“I should mention—Julia called me just now. She’s invited me for a tour of Global Dynamix. At eleven.”
“She what?” he says sharply. “Why?”
“She said she wanted to give me context for the piece. Show me what you’re really working toward. And by you, I mean the company.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
I frown. “Why not? It’s exactly the kind of access I need for the article.”
“Because Julia doesn’t give tours.” His voice is tight. “She doesn’t extend personal invitations to journalists on an unscheduled whim. If she’s reaching out to you directly, it’s because she wants something or she’s trying to figure something out.”
“She wants me to see what she wants me to see. She wants to make sure I write something flattering.”
“Julia doesn’t care about flattering press. She cares about control.” He hesitates. “Come to my place instead. We can continue the interview there. I’ll answer whatever questions you want. Any of them. You can have full access to me.”
The offer hangs between us, tempting and terrifying. His penthouse. Alone. After what happened last night?
And full access to him?
I know exactly what that means.
“Vanguard, I can’t,” I say, the use of his name deliberate. “I need to keep things above board. If I come to your place right now…”
“You’re scared,” he says quietly. “Of me?”
“I’m scared of myself. Of making things complicated when they can’t be. Not right now, not when I have a job to do.”
“The job…”
“I need to do this interview with Julia,” I go on. “It’s important for the piece. For the full picture. I know you can understand that.”
He grumbles in response.
“I’ll call you after,” I tell him. “Maybe we can schedule something for tomorrow, somewhere professional.”
“Professional.” He laughs sourly. Then, he sighs, and I can practically hear him rubbing a hand over his face. “Sure. Fine. Go to your meeting with Julia. Get your tour. Take it all with a grain of salt.” A pause. “But Mia? Be careful with her. She’s not what she seems.”
“You mean she’s somehow worse?”
Another chuckle, this one loaded with meaning. “You have no idea. Just…don’t believe everything she tells you.”
I end the call and sit on the edge of the bed, phone clutched in my hand, my heart racing and my thoughts a tangled mess. Part of me wants to call him back, tell him I’ve changed my mind, that I’ll come to his penthouse and let him do all those things his voice hinted at.
But I can’t. Because Kat was right. I’m already falling, and if I don’t pull the cord soon, I’m going to crash. And when I do, I’ll take everything down with me.
Professional. Cold. Operative.
I repeat it like a prayer as I shower, dress, and prepare for my meeting with the woman who created the man I’m trying very hard not to fall for.
Global Dynamix never fails to give me the heebie jeebies.
I give my name to the robot receptionist, who tells me to sit down and wait this time instead of issuing me a press badge. I try not to feel slighted by the somewhat patronizing tone it used, and I thank her anyway.
So, I loiter around the lobby, adjusting my blouse and modest skirt, which I thought made me look more respectable, even though I paired them with my usual shit-kicker combat boots.
Finally, a young man in a crisp suit approaches me.
He’s Asian with kind eyes that seem out of place in this evil conglomerate, dark, immaculate hair, and good posture.
“I’m Kevin,” he says, extending a hand. “Dr. Van Veen’s assistant. How are you this morning?”
“Good, I guess. You? How are you? Are you good?” I’ve never been very good at small talk, and it shows.
“Excellent. Can’t go wrong with a sunny fall day in Manhattan. Will you come this way?”
Kevin leads me through a series of security checkpoints (luckily, I removed the hidden daggers from the soles of my boots) before joining me in a glass elevator that shoots upward so fast, my ears pop.
The floor is quiet with deliberate serenity that feels oppressive. Kevin guides me down a corridor lined with abstract art that looks like a toddler drew it and probably costs a fortune and stops outside a frosted glass door.
“Dr. Van Veen will be with you shortly,” he says, gesturing me inside. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Water? Sparkling? Still?”
I decline them all, and he disappears, leaving me alone in what appears to be a private conference room. The concrete city sprawls beneath the tall windows, and the furniture is minimal and expensive—a glass table, leather chairs, nothing personal.
I’m studying the view when the door opens behind me.
“Miss Baxter.” Julia Van Veen enters like she owns not just the room, but the entire city beyond the glass.
She’s wearing dove grey today, a silk blouse and tailored trousers with modest heels that put her at least six feet tall.
Her silvery-blonde hair is slicked back from her face, giving her an edgy, androgenous look, and those pale eyes sweep over me with the same clinical precision I remember from the gala. “Thank you for coming.”