7. Jasmine
JASMINE
The revolving doors push me into an evening that has emptied too fast. Quarter past nine, and the plaza outside holds only a delivery cyclist and a guard who clocks me, then finds his clipboard fascinating.
I head for the corner where the rideshares line up, phone half-raised, and a half-finished text to my mother.
Footsteps are beating on the sidewalk. I keep moving. But when I slow by the curb, the steps slow too. When I lengthen my stride, they lengthen. The rhythm sits a half-beat off mine, like an echo that never quite learned the song.
I pause at a closed storefront and pretend to study a posted menu. In the glass I catch the street behind me — a man wearing a flat gray jacket, thirty feet back, who stops the instant I do and becomes deeply interested in his own phone.
My pulse shifts up a gear. Running would announce that I know, so I turn left instead, away from my usual garage route, onto the side street toward the avenue.
The footsteps follow. I count storefronts to keep my breathing flat — laundromat, shuttered bakery, a nail salon throwing pink light onto the pavement — and aim for the avenue, where the crowd thickens enough to swallow me.
I glance back. He's gone. Not turned-a-corner gone. Disappeared the way a thing leaves when it was never meant to leave a trace. The narrow street stretches empty to another laundromat's glow. A dark car idles where he stood, then eases into traffic, and I never see whether anyone climbed inside.
I stop at the corner with my thumb hovering over the security line, and I don't press it. What would I even report? A man walked behind me, and then he didn't. I waited too long to be certain, and now there's nothing.
My phone buzzes in my hand. Not the main number. His.
"Jasmine."
"Mr. Crowe."
"Are you still near the building?"
I look at the blank stretch of sidewalk where a man stood ten seconds ago. "Why?"
"Security reported a possible concern. Come inside until the car reaches the front."
"That sounds terminal."
"It may be contagious."
"You called me back because of security?"
"I called because I wanted you inside. The draft is the excuse."
I should go home. Instead, I check the curb one more time, then cross back through security with my phone locked tight against my hand.
Sebastian is waiting by the conference table, jacket off, cuffs turned back, the city stacked black and silver beyond the glass. The screen glows behind him showing a document. Not a contract. Not a schedule. A founder statement for a platform partner threatening to withdraw before morning.
"They want reassurance," he says. "They wrote anesthesia."
I skim the first paragraph. "This is not reassurance. This is a locked door with bullet points."
"Then unlock it."
I cross out the opening line. "Start here. Acknowledge disruption without confessing guilt. Use one plain sentence before you start hiding furniture under sheets."
"No furniture is being hidden."
"You are hiding an entire dining set. Possibly a chandelier."
His mouth almost gives. "You object to the tone."
"I object the insult. People know when they're being soothed by committee. Say the partner raised concerns. Say Crowe Technologies is reviewing access protocols. Say clients will see no service interruption. Then stop talking."
"That leaves very little room to maneuver."
"Good. Maneuvering is what makes it sound guilty."
He studies the screen. I watch him instead of the words, now that he's gone still in that precise, listening manner that makes my skin prickle.
"You came back through the front entrance," he says. "You usually use the garage after nine."
The marker pauses against my thumb. "Do you track every door I use?"
"I track enough."
My laugh comes out thin. "You know, people call billionaires like you bloodless. All glass and no pulse."
The line should slide past him. It doesn't. His attention fixes on me, precise enough to make the joke feel suddenly serious, but he doesn't look offended. He looks caught.
"Do you believe that?" he asks.
"I believe you're lonely."
His hand drops from the table. "That is a bold statement."
"It's observation. Everyone treats you like a verdict they have to survive. Nobody talks to you like you're allowed to be tired."
"Tired is easy. Known is harder."
I think of Owen's version of me traveling faster than my proof ever could. "Being unknown is bad. Being known wrong is worse."
"Yes," Sebastian says. "It is."
For a few minutes, we work without filling the silence. I cut the draft down to eight sentences. He adds one phrase, I remove three. He argues for a line about continuity, and I call it a hostage note written by a shareholder. That finally gets the smallest sound from him, low and surprised.
I reach for the printed copy just as he reaches for it. The pages slide sideways. His hand stops beside mine, close enough that the hairs along my wrist lift, though he never touches me. I could move first. He could. Neither of us does.
"The sentence stays out," I say.
"Agreed."
His voice drops. The screen light catches the silver in his eyes, and the absurd part is that my body urges me to step closer. Then I remember the doors downstairs, the garage, and the question he never asked. I let go of the pages.
He steps back at once, giving me the space like he has been holding it ready. "I'll send this version. Thank you, Jasmine."
There is my name again, careful in his mouth. Professional. Controlled. Too careful. By the elevator, he presses the call button while I am still a step away.
"I can get myself downstairs," I say.
"I know."
"Then why are you walking me?"
"Because the draft is finished," he says. "And I prefer complete endings."
The doors open. I step inside and turn before they close.
Sebastian stays where he is, one hand in his pocket, the polished calm back in place.
The elevator drops. I step into the lobby, the guard at the desk is already facing the doors with his radio in his hand.
He lowers it when he sees me notice. I keep walking, but the thought follows me out: Sebastian Crowe does not guess. He arranges.