Chapter 9
The elevator doors opened to silence, and Serafina stepped out into a corridor as anonymous as the lobby below—pale walls, neutral carpet, recessed lighting that cast no shadows. There were no signs, no directories, no indication of what happened on this floor or any other.
She walked toward it, her footsteps muffled by the carpet, her hand brushing the familiar weight beneath her jacket. No one had stopped her downstairs. There had been no security checkpoint, no metal detector, no bored guard asking to see inside her bag.
That was wrong.
Any legitimate operation would have security. Any company offering ten thousand dollars to strangers who answered a cryptic ad would, at minimum, want to know if those strangers were armed.
She filed it away and kept walking.
The door to 401 was unlocked. She pushed it open and stepped inside.
The office was modern, minimalist, quietly expensive.
Clean lines, neutral palette, the kind of furniture that cost more than her yearly salary but didn't advertise it.
A single desk of pale wood, two chairs upholstered in something soft and gray, floor-to-ceiling windows with blinds half-drawn, filtering the morning light into gentle slats across the floor.
Along the left wall, a long panel of frosted glass separated the office from an adjacent room—dark shapes barely visible beyond it, too indistinct to read.
There was no receptionist, no waiting area, no other staff visible.
Just one woman, standing near the window, turning as Serafina entered.
Serafina's instincts catalogued her immediately.
Late twenties, maybe early thirties. Dark hair, well-cut, falling just past her shoulders.
Tailored shirt in crisp white, pants in charcoal that fit like they'd been made for her—because they probably had.
Her posture was easy, confident, the kind of stillness that came from knowing exactly where you stood in a room and not needing to prove it.
She looked like money. Old money or new money, Serafina couldn't tell, but definitely money. Corporate, polished, in control.
And completely alone in an empty office with no visible security, interviewing strangers who'd answered an ad promising cash for an unspecified opportunity.
Something didn't add up.
She was tempted to leave right now, but desperation and the promise of money held her there.
"Detective Montecristo." The woman's voice was pleasant, carrying just a hint of warmth that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Thank you for coming. Please, sit."
It wasn't a question, but it wasn't quite an order either. Something in between—an expectation, delivered with the quiet certainty of someone accustomed to being obeyed.
Serafina didn't sit. "You know my name."
"I know quite a bit about you." The woman gestured to one of the chairs. "That's rather the point."
Serafina held her ground for another moment, studying her. The woman didn't fidget, didn't fill the silence with pleasantries, didn't seem bothered by being assessed. She simply waited, composed, as if she had all the time in the world.
Serafina took the chair. She kept her posture open, her hands visible and close to her weapon. The woman sat across from her, one leg crossed over the other, unhurried.
"I'm Morgan," she said, offering no last name. "I'll be conducting your interview today."
"Interview for what, exactly?"
Morgan's mouth curved—amusement, maybe, or recognition—but it was gone before Serafina could read it. "We'll get there. First, I need to verify a few things."
She didn't have a clipboard, a tablet, or any visible notes. She simply watched Serafina with eyes that gave nothing away.
"You served in the Marines. Military Police. Deployed to Iraq during the surge."
It wasn't a question, but Serafina nodded anyway.
"You've been with LAPD for fourteen years. Made detective in 2016, homicide for the last eight." Morgan paused, tilting her head slightly. "Commendations for marksmanship, crisis negotiation, and conflict resolution under pressure."
Serafina's jaw tightened. "You've done your homework."
"We do thorough work."
The words hung in the air, neither boastful nor apologetic—a simple statement of fact.
Morgan's gaze didn't waver. "Your sister is currently in the ICU at UC San Diego Health. Emergency thyroidectomy performed last night by Dr. Anika Rao. The surgery went well—nerves preserved, parathyroids intact. The prognosis is good." She paused. "The bill, however, is considerable."
The words landed like a blow to the sternum.
Serafina felt her hands want to curl into fists. She kept them flat on her thighs, kept her expression neutral, kept her breathing steady—the way she'd learned to do in interrogation rooms, at crime scenes, in every situation where showing what you felt was a weakness someone else could exploit.
"How do you know that?"
"We know a great deal, Detective. It's our job to know.
" Morgan's tone carried no apology or embarrassment.
"Your apartment in Los Angeles was destroyed in an electrical fire two days ago.
Your stepfather is struggling with heart failure and medication costs he can't afford.
Your sister's scholarship has been revoked due to her medical withdrawal. "
Serafina stared at her. The anger was there—hot and immediate, pressing against her ribs—but beneath it was something colder: calculation.
This woman knew everything, and not the kind of surface details you could pull from a background check.
She knew the specifics, the timing, the exact shape of the disaster that had driven Serafina to answer a suspicious ad and walk into a strange building with a gun on her hip.
Either Morgan was connected to something with serious resources, or she was connected to something very dangerous. Possibly both.
"You're here because you're desperate," Morgan said, the words matter-of-fact, almost gentle. "That's not an insult. It's simply the truth. We look for people in your situation."
"People you can exploit."
Morgan tilted her head, considering the accusation without flinching from it. "People who are motivated. Who have nothing left to lose but something worth fighting for." She paused. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"I think so, but you'll have to decide that for yourself."
She shifted slightly in her chair, recrossing her legs, and something in her demeanor changed—a subtle shift from assessment to something more purposeful.
"I need to ask you some questions that may feel intrusive," she said. "I assure you they're relevant."
Serafina's eyes narrowed. "Go ahead."
"Are you currently in a romantic relationship?"
The question caught her off guard. Of all the things she'd expected—criminal history, financial details, medical records—this wasn't on the list. She almost laughed.
"No."
"When was your last serious relationship?"
"I don't see how that's relevant to—"
"Please answer the question."
Serafina exhaled slowly through her nose. The detective in her recognized the technique: keep pushing, don't let the subject redirect, maintain control of the conversation. She'd used it herself a thousand times, and having it used on her was irritating in a way that felt almost personal.
"Four years ago," she said. "Maybe five. It didn't last."
"Why not?"
"Because I work seventy-hour weeks and I'm not good at—" She stopped, feeling the edge of something she didn't want to examine too closely. "This is none of your business."
"It is, actually." Morgan's voice remained steady, as if she'd had this conversation before and knew exactly how it would go.
"The nature of this role requires someone without current romantic ties.
Not just single on paper—genuinely unattached.
No partners, no complicated entanglements, no one waiting for you to come home. "
The description settled over her like something heavy.
Serafina felt it land somewhere uncomfortable.
No one waiting for you to come home. She thought of her empty apartment—gone now, burned to nothing—and the years of coming back to silence, of eating takeout alone at midnight, of relationships that ended because she couldn't give them what they needed and eventually stopped trying.
The truth of it shouldn't sting, but it did anyway.
"I need to confirm," Morgan continued, "that your preference is for males."
Serafina blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Romantically. Sexually. Your orientation."
"I—" She stopped and stared at the woman across from her, searching for any crack in that composed facade, any hint of what the hell was actually happening here. "What kind of job is this?"
"One that requires compatibility on multiple levels." Morgan didn't flinch, didn't look away, didn't offer any justification beyond the words themselves. "I need a clear answer, Detective."
Serafina's mind raced through possibilities. Escort service—but the setup was wrong, too clinical, too expensive. Surrogacy program—but why the military background, the combat proficiency? Some kind of elaborate honeytrap—but for whom, and to what end?
None of it fit. None of it explained the money, the empty office, the precision of Morgan's questions, or the certainty with which she asked them.
"Yes," Serafina said finally. "Men. Why does it matter?"
"It matters." Morgan didn't elaborate. "Thank you for your honesty."
"Are you going to tell me what this is actually about? Because I've sat through interrogations on both sides of the table, and this—" Serafina gestured at the room, at Morgan, at the entire impossible situation. "This feels like you're building up to something you don't want to say."
Morgan regarded her for a long moment. The light from the window caught her eyes, and for just an instant, Serafina thought she saw something there—not deception, but weight. The kind of weight that came from carrying knowledge that changed everything.
"You're perceptive," Morgan said quietly. "Good. You'll need that."