Chapter 11
The building’s lobby is all glass and marble, overly aggressive minimalism that screams, we have money, and we want you to know it. Even at this hour, the space is lit up like midday, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, reflecting off polished surfaces until everything gleams.
The security desk sits in the center like a throne, and behind it sits a guard who looks like he’s counting down the minutes until his shift ends.
Mid-forties, probably. Wedding ring catching the light.
Thermos of coffee within reach. The slump of someone who’s been sitting too long and wants to go home.
Until he sees us.
His expression transforms the moment we walk through the doors, boredom shifting to attention, then to something else.
Something that looks almost like...eagerness.
Like he’s suddenly very invested in being helpful.
His posture straightens. He sets down whatever he was reading.
His whole body language changes from leave me alone to how can I help you?
Croesus’s power. I can feel it radiating off him, subtle but undeniable. Not compulsion, but something close. A pull. A want. Like gravity, but for desire.
It makes my skin crawl.
The guard wants to help us. Wants to say yes. Wants to please.
Seeing it from the outside makes me sick all over again. Was this what I looked like just now in the car? Puppy dog eyes and wet lips. It’s eerie watching someone else get caught in an angel’s orbit and not realize they’re being manipulated. It’s unsettling. Disturbing.
“Good evening,” Croesus says, his voice warm and friendly as we approach the desk.
He’s still holding my arm, and I’m acutely aware of how we must look, expensive, powerful, exactly the kind of people who belong in a building like this.
His suit is impeccable. My dress is silk and designer and completely impractical.
We look like money. Like privilege. People you say yes to automatically.
“Good evening!” The guard’s response is too enthusiastic. Too eager. “How can I help you folks tonight?”
“We’re here to see David Barnes. Fifteenth floor.” Croesus leans slightly against the desk, casual and conspiratorial. Not pushing. Not demanding. Just... present. And somehow that presence fills the space, making everything else smaller by comparison.
The guard doesn’t bat an eyelash at the otherworldly-ness of Croesus, the way his eyes have no irises. Zero reaction.
I tug Croesus’s arm and inspect his face. Looks the same to me. Worse, he gives me a wink and focuses on the guard again.
The guard’s fingers are already moving to his computer before Croesus finishes speaking. “Of course. Let me just,“ He pauses, frowning at the screen. “Hmm. I don’t see anyone listed on the visitor log for tonight...”
I tense, waiting for Croesus to push harder. To use more of that overwhelming presence. To compel the guard to let us through.
He doesn’t.
“It’s a personal visit,” Croesus says, and his tone shifts to something softer.
Concerned. “Last minute. I’m sure you understand how these things are.
David’s been under a lot of stress lately.
I’m worried about him, to be honest. Overworking himself.
I was hoping to convince him to take a break, maybe grab a late dinner.
” He pauses, and I can hear the genuine worry in his voice.
The care. “You know how it is with these investment types. They forget to eat, forget to sleep. Someone has to look after them.”
It’s a performance. I know it’s a performance. The concern is fake; the worry is manufactured. But it sounds so real. So earnest.
And the guard believes every word.
“Oh man, yeah.” The guard shakes his head, all traces of suspicion gone.
“Mr. Barnes has been here every night this week. Sometimes I wonder if he even goes home. His wife called looking for him last Tuesday, and I had to tell her he was still in his office at ten PM.” He lowers his voice, conspiratorial now.
“Between you and me, I think he’s having some kind of breakdown.
He looks terrible. You’re a good friend, coming to check on him like this. ”
“I try.” Croesus’s smile is modest. Perfect. The smile of a man who genuinely cares about his friend’s wellbeing. “So if you could just point us in the right direction...?”
The guard hesitates.
I watch it happen, the moment where his training says don’t let anyone up without authorization wars with the overwhelming desire to help this nice, concerned man who just wants to check on his friend.
Desire wins.
It always wins with Croesus. It will always win, and it’s something I need to remember.
“Fifteenth floor, suite 1520. Elevators are right over there.” The guard gestures. “And hey, good luck getting him to leave. That man’s married to his work.”
“We’ll do our best.” Croesus signs the visitor log with a flourish. I glimpse the name. Not his real name. Robert Smith. Generic enough to forget. I’m still standing here and absolutely a statue with all the attention the guard pays to me.
He pushes the log toward me now, though.
I sign below his signature, Sarah Smith, keeping the fiction consistent, my handwriting looking cramped and nervous next to Croesus’ elegant script.
“Have a good night,” the guard calls as we head toward the elevators, already returning to his coffee and his book, probably feeling good about himself for helping a concerned friend.
Never knowing he was manipulated.
“You too,” Croesus replies, all warmth and charm.
The moment the elevator doors close behind us, everything changes.
The warmth bleeds away as if someone flipped a switch. His expression goes cold. Calculating. The friendly concern vanishes completely, replaced by something that looks almost bored.
Like he had just performed a role and now the performance is over.
It’s jarring. Seeing the mask drop so completely.
“That was disturbing,” I say.
“Effective,” he corrects, pressing the button for the fifteenth floor. The elevator lurches into motion with a soft hum.
“He wanted to help you so badly, he didn’t even think twice about letting two strangers up to a private floor after midnight.” I can hear the edge in my voice. The accusation. “He broke protocol and could lose his job if anyone finds out.”
“He made a choice.” Croesus’s tone is matter-of-fact. No guilt. No remorse. “I simply made that choice feel appealing.”
“You manipulated him.”
“I encouraged him.” He turns toward me, and even in the elevator’s harsh fluorescent lighting, those gold eyes glow faintly.
“There’s a difference, Raven. I didn’t force him to let us through.
Didn’t compel him. Didn’t remove his free will.
I just...made saying yes feel better than saying no.
Made helping me feel like the right choice.
The good choice. The choice that would make him feel like a decent human being. ”
“That’s still manipulation.”
“Yes. It is.” He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t soften it. “That’s what I do. That’s what I am. I make people want to give me things. Want to say yes. Want to please me. It’s my nature, Raven. It’s how angels like me survive. How we’ve always survived.”
The elevator continues climbing. I watch the numbers tick upward. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
“You think angels got where we are by playing fair?” Croesus continues, his voice quiet but hard. “By following human rules about honesty and consent? We’re predators. We just are very good at looking like something else.”
Thirteen. Fourteen.
“You don’t have to like what I am,” he says. “But you should understand it. I am greed. I want things. I take things. I make people want to give me things. That will not change just because you find it distasteful.”
Is he angry at me now?
The elevator dings. Fifteenth floor.
The doors slide open onto a dimly lit hallway. Plush carpet, cream-colored walls, expensive art that could be sold to pay for a Kia. A space designed to make you feel tiny and inadequate. The perfect place for greed to hunt.
Croesus steps out, and I follow, the silk dress whispering against my legs with each step.
“I know what you are,” I say as we walk, ignoring the fact that he’s pissed now. “I’m not na?ve enough to think you’re going to suddenly develop a conscience. But that doesn’t mean I have to enjoy watching you work.”
“Fair enough.” We stop in front of Suite 1520. Lights glow through the frosted glass door, and I can see a silhouette moving inside. Working. Always working. “But let me ask you something.”
“What?”
“You saw the guard. Did he look unhappy? Upset? Violated?”
I think about it. About the guard’s eager expression, his genuine concern for Barnes, the way he smiled as we left. The way he probably felt good about himself for helping.
“No,” I admit.
“No,” Croesus agrees. “He felt helpful. Useful. He made what he thinks was a kind choice, and he’ll go home tonight feeling like a decent person.
He’ll tell his wife about the concerned friend who came to check on Mr. Barnes, and she’ll tell him he did the right thing.
He’ll sleep well, wake up tomorrow, and never think about it again. ”
He turns to face me fully, and his expression is serious, intent.
“I could have stripped away his choice entirely, walked past him like he was furniture, made him forget we were ever there. I can’t compel him to give me his soul, but I can manipulate the world around him so he wants to do it.
Yes, walking past him, forcing his mind to forget us, would have been cleaner.
More efficient. But I gave him a choice and made that choice appealing.
He still chose. He just chose what I wanted him to choose.
” He pauses. “Tell me honestly, Raven. Which is worse? Taking away someone’s free will entirely?
Or letting them keep it but influencing their decision? ”
I don’t have a good answer for that.