Chapter 17
LILA
I gulp down fresh air as I exit the subway station near my apartment.
My phone weighs heavy in my bag, Dane's unanswered message practically burning a hole through the leather.
For some reason, I felt strong urge to reach out to him after getting out of my interview, but I managed to wait and thoroughly think about my decision.
As I walk I fish out my phone, reading his text again.
Dane: Good morning. What did you decide about me?
Straight to the point. No games. No "hey beautiful" or other bullshit lines I've heard a million times.
I stop at the corner and lean against the building's stone facade, thumb hovering over the screen.
Brian's weird vibe did something unexpected to me. It made Dane's intensity feel... safer somehow. At least with Dane, there's no calculation in his gaze, just that thrilling intensity. He doesn't hide behind perfect smiles and subtle innuendos.
Okay, Here it goes.
Lila: Just crushed an interview where a creepy investor made me feel like I needed a shower afterward. So naturally, I'm thinking about giving you another chance.
I hit send before I can overthink it. Then immediately panic.
Shit, maybe that sounds harsher than I meant it to.
My phone buzzes almost instantly.
Dane: I'm honored to be your post-creep palate cleanser.
I snort, drawing looks from passing people. A second message follows.
Dane: For what it's worth, I'm sorry about the other night. I get intense. Working on that.
I start walking again, smiling down at my phone like an idiot.
Lila: You? Intense? I hadn't noticed.
Dane: Says the woman who brings backup to first dates.
Lila: Hey, Tessa volunteered. Standard girl code protocols.
Dane: Smart. Though next time, tell her binoculars are overkill.
Next time. The thought sends a little thrill through me that has nothing to do with professional accomplishments.
Lila: So there's a next time?
Dane: Ball's in your court, Marks. I'm just sitting here waiting for you to take your shot.
God, he's so fucking direct it’s disarming. No passive-aggressive bullshit, no games. Just laying it all out there.
Lila: Dinner. My place. 8 PM. I'll cook.
I hesitate, then another message pops up.
Dane: Actually, let me make it up to you. My place. I'm cooking. I don't do half measures with apologies.
I blink at the screen, surprised but not displeased by the takeover.
Lila: Fair warning: I'll judge your culinary skills harshly.
Dane: I have zero expectations beyond seeing you again.
I'm grinning like a damn fool as I enter my building. The sleaze from Brian Langford's once-over has evaporated, replaced by something sharper, more electric.
Lila: It's a date. And Dane? I'm glad you stopped when you did. That's why you're getting another chance.
Dane: Always. See you later, Lila.
I pocket my phone, suddenly feeling lighter despite. The interview, Veritas, even that creep Langford—they all matter, but right now, they're dwarfed by the twist in my gut.
Life hands you red flags and second chances in equal measure. Maybe the real skill is knowing which is which before you get burned.
Dane
I pocket my phone, a rare smile tugging at my lips. Lila's giving me another shot. Feels like a goddamn miracle.
But the warmth fades as I push open the door to some hipster coffee joint. The bell jingles, a cheery sound that doesn't match the shit I'm about to dump on Claire Langford's perfectly manicured life.
She's sitting there, all pearls and poise, nursing some fancy concoction. No idea her world's about to implode. Some doors open, others slam shut. Today, I'm the motherfucking doorman.
Her finger tap nervously on her cup. The light catches the diamond on her wedding ring. Pretty little prison.
"Mrs. Langford." I slide into the seat across from her.
"Please, just Claire." Her voice is soft but steady, like she's been practicing how to sound calm. "What do you have for me?"
I pull out a manila folder and lay it on the table between us. "I have movement. Not everything yet."
She opens it slowly, like it might bite. Inside are property records for the 72nd Street pad, legally owned by her husband, but hidden to others.
"What is this?" Her brow furrows as she reads.
"Your husband has a separate apartment he doesn't want you to know about." I keep my voice low. "Secret place, secret life."
Her fingers trace the documents. "This isn't proof of an affair."
"I've tracked him. He's meeting a college student."
Claire's eyes snap up to mine, hazel flashing green in the harsh café lighting. "You saw them together?"
"I did. NYU freshman named Sarah." I don't mention my conversation with the girl. Client doesn't need those details.
"Did you get pictures? Of them... together?" Her voice catches slightly.
"Just these." On the camera's screen, I show her the pictures of them going into the apartment, Brian's hand on Sarah's back.
She shakes her head, disappointment etched in the lines around her mouth. "I need more, Mr. Wolfe. Something undeniable. The court will need that."
"I'm aware." The words come out harsher than intended. I hate making excuses. Feels like failure. "I'll have them soon."
Claire wraps her hands around her coffee cup, knuckles white. "My lawyer says without evidence?—"
"I know what your lawyer says." I cut her off. "I'm good at what I do. You'll have your proof."
She studies me, searching for reassurance or maybe just honesty. "You're certain he's cheating?"
The question hangs between us. I think about Sarah's calculating eyes, about Langford's predatory smile.
"Yes." And my gut tells me there's more going on than just infidelity, I want to say, but I hold it back.
Proof. We both need proof.
I leave Claire Langford with promises I intend to keep. Her face follows me as I walk out—that look of controlled desperation. She's afraid of what she'll find, but more afraid of staying blind.
Makes two of us.
Back in my apartment, I toss my jacket over a chair and crack open a beer.
The condensation feels good against my palm.
Cold and real, unlike everything else in this case.
Maybe it's time to admit I've been circling too long without landing a real blow.
I would already have the proof Claire requires if not for my obsession with Lila.
I down half my beer, trying to ignore the twisted knot in my gut.
Lila.
She'll be here tonight, and the prospect of her coming over for dinner hits harder than walking into potential ambushes ever did.
I look around at my stark apartment, and for the first time in years, I question my approach. My carefully constructed walls. The deliberate emptiness I've cultivated like a fucking art form.
I imagine Lila walking through my door, those sharp green eyes dissecting me on arrival. What would she really see? A man with nothing to lose, or just nothing worth keeping? The distinction matters more than it should.
Hell of a time for existential crisis, Wolfe.
I check my watch. Only a few hours until she's here, a short window to decide how much of myself I'm willing to put on the table. Or if I even remember how.
The Langford case can wait one night. Some monsters have patience. So can I.