Chapter 5
Enzo
The building is too quiet at midnight. The hum of servers and the occasional click of the security system cycling through its checks are the only sounds.
I like it this way. No meetings, no performance reviews, and no Ansel hovering over my shoulder asking if I’ve reviewed the quarterly projections. Me, my code, and the problem I’ve been chasing for three days straight.
The authentication backdoor Remy found keeps nagging at me. Not because she found it—though that stings—but because I wrote the original protocol five years ago. Someone took my work and weaponized it, and I can’t figure out who or when.
My phone buzzes.
Ansel: You still at the office?
Me: Where else would I be?
Ansel: It’s midnight on a Friday. Anywhere else.
Me: I’m almost done.
Ansel: Don’t forget to eat.
I toss the phone aside. He’s been hovering more than usual since we hired Remy, like he’s waiting for an explosion. Maybe he’s right to worry.
I stare at the screen for another ten minutes, but the code’s not giving up its secrets tonight. My eyes are starting to blur, and I need food that isn’t vending machine garbage.
Time to call it.
I grab my jacket and laptop bag, lock my office, and head for the elevator.
The parking garage is nearly empty, and I’m halfway to my car when I hear a woman swearing. She’s frustrated, and the cursing is getting louder.
Remy’s standing next to a beat-up sedan that looks like it’s held together by duct tape, with her phone pressed to her ear.
“No, I understand surge pricing, but three hundred dollars to go fifteen miles is—” She spots me and straightens. “Never mind. I’ll figure it out.” She ends the call, shoving the phone in her pocket.
“Car trouble?” I ask.
“The battery is dead. Or it’s the starter. I don’t know.” She runs a hand through her hair, and I notice it’s down tonight, falling past her shoulders. “I’ll figure it out.”
“Pop the hood.”
“What?”
“Pop the hood. I’ll look at it.”
She crosses her arms. “You know about cars? Look at you, showing hidden depth. I thought you only spoke in code and disapproving silences.”
I pretend I didn't hear that last part. “I know about a lot of things.” I move toward her car. “Just pop your hood.”
She bites down on her lower lip and then reaches inside and pulls the hood release. I flip it open and immediately see the problem: corroded battery terminals, covered in white crystalline buildup that screams neglect.
“When’s the last time you had this serviced?”
“I don’t know. Six months? A year?” She’s standing so close. And whatever perfume she’s wearing—jasmine, maybe something floral—makes it hard to focus on the corroded terminals.
I look up and find her watching me. Her eyes blink slowly, and her gaze is unfocused. There’s exhaustion underneath. The kind that goes deeper than a long day.
“I’ve got tools in my car. Hold on.”
I grab what I need from the trunk of my Range Rover.
Remy watches in silence for a minute before she speaks. “Why are you here this late?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
Her eyes glint with humor. “I asked first.”
“I work better at night. No distractions.” I scrape away more corrosion. “Your turn.”
She continues watching me as I work on the car, then answers. “I was reviewing financial projections for the security upgrade. Trying to find ways to bring costs down without compromising effectiveness.”
“That’s not your job.”
“It is if I want to make sure this contract gets renewed.” She shifts her weight. “I need this job.”
Her determination isn’t desperate, but I want to learn more.
“Why?” I glance up at her.
“That’s personal.”
I look at her and quirk up a brow. “But I’m your boss, and you need this job.”
Her lips curve slightly. Not quite a smile, but close.
“Fair point.” She takes a breath. “My dad got injured a few years ago, and he can’t work anymore.
The insurance doesn’t cover enough, so my parents are barely able to pay their bills.
This salary means they don’t have to worry, and they won’t lose their house. ”
I stop working on the car, meeting her eyes. Fuck. That’s a lot of responsibility for someone in their late twenties.
The way she talks about her parents and what she’s going through bothers me more than it should.
Most people in my world have never worried about money. They’ve never had to stretch a paycheck or decide which bills get paid first. Remy knows what that’s like. She’s keeping her family afloat, and she doesn’t act as if anyone owes her anything for it.
I turn back to the battery, tightening the connections more aggressively than necessary. “That’s why you put up with Damon’s shit?”
“Partly.” Her voice goes quieter. “And partly because fighting back proves that I’m everything he told you I am.”
“He said you were vindictive. That you couldn’t handle the breakup.”
“I know what he said.”
“Was he lying?” I ask.
She’s silent long enough that I look up again.
“I don’t want to talk about Damon.” Her words are flat, final.
I nod. “Okay.”
I return to the car engine, and we don’t speak again until I’m done.
“Try starting it now.”
She slides into the driver’s seat and turns the key. The engine catches immediately, rough at first, then it smooths out.
“You fixed it.” Genuine surprise fills her words. “Hidden depth, Enzo Jacobs.”
I grunt. Depth she doesn’t need to see.
“It should hold for now. Get it serviced.” I close the hood and wipe my hands on a shop rag. “And think about an upgrade.”
“I’ll just get my car serviced.”
We pay her enough money that she can afford a better car. So if she keeps it, that’s her prerogative.
“Fine. Drive the death trap. Just don’t make it my problem when it strands you somewhere.”
That gets a surprised laugh. She climbs out of the car but doesn’t move to leave. Instead, she leans against the door, studying me. “Such a charmer.”
“I didn’t say I was nice.” And there is truth to those words.
“But Enzo, you are being kind of nice to me,” she responds.
Hearing my name in her mouth makes me forget what we were talking about.
"You found a hole in my code I didn't see." I shrug. "That earns you a little civility."
Before she can answer, headlights sweep across the garage. A black Escalade pulls in too fast, the engine cutting off with aggressive finality.
Damon stumbles out, and I know immediately he’s drunk. Not falling-down wasted, but loose-limbed and loud in a manner that means he’s been at it for hours.
“Well, well.” He spots us and grins, but there’s nothing friendly about it. “Isn’t this cozy? Working late together?”
“Her car died. I fixed it.” I move between him and Remy without thinking. “What are you doing here?”
“I left my laptop. Big presentation Monday.” He sways slightly, squinting past me at Remy. “But it looks like I’m interrupting.”
“You’re not.” Remy’s shoulders tense. “I was leaving.”
“Sure you were.” Damon’s smile turns ugly. “That’s what you do, right? Play innocent while you sink your claws in? How long before you’re fucking all three of them, Remy? Going for all three triplets?”
Unexpected anger courses through my nerves. “Shut the fuck up, Damon. You’re drunk.” I step toward him with my fists balled up, and he backs up instinctively.
“What?” He laughs, but there’s fear in his eyes now. “You’re going to hit me?”
My fist is already cocked back before his words register. I freeze, muscles locked, realizing I was about to deck my best friend of thirteen years in a parking garage.
I lower my fist. “You’re drunk. Go home. I’ll even drive you.”
For a second, I think he’s going to push it. Then he must see whatever is in my expression, because he raises his hands in surrender.
“Fine. Whatever.” Damon straightens his shirt, anger and hurt warring on his face. He stares at me for a long moment, then heads for the elevator.
The elevator doors close, leaving Remy and me in silence.
I don’t turn around immediately. My hands are shaking from adrenaline and anger, and I need a second to get myself under control.
She studies me, and I can feel the weight of her gaze. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me.” I pull out my phone and open my contacts. “Give me your number.”
“Why?”
“I’m going to text you, so you have my number. Then you’ll text me when you get home safely.”
Her eyebrows lift.
“Humor me.” I hold out the phone.
She takes it, types in her number, and hands it back. Our fingers brush. The contact lasts half a second, but I feel it everywhere.
“There.” She moves toward her car door. “Happy?”
“Just text me when you get home.”
She slides into her car, and I watch her drive away, taillights disappearing up the ramp.
The elevator dings, and Damon emerges with his laptop bag, his earlier aggression replaced by sullen silence. He doesn’t look at me as we walk to my car.
The drive to his apartment is quiet except for the city sounds filtering through the windows. I keep my eyes on the road, hands tight on the wheel, because if I look at him, I might say something I can’t take back.
When I pull up to his building, he finally speaks. “She’s going to fuck everything up. You know that, right?”
I don’t answer.
He climbs out, slams the door, and disappears into his building without looking back.
My phone buzzes.
Remy: Made it home.
I stare at the message for longer than I should, then pocket my phone and drive home through empty streets, wondering why the hell I almost hit my best friend over someone I barely know.