Chapter 3

The next morning, I put my armor back on.

At Harbor Grand, I became Evie Lane again. Efficient. Composed. Impossible to crack.

"Why is the air-conditioning in the A-wing suites still not fixed? I want engineering there in five minutes."

"Guest breakfast complaints are up two points. Send the executive chef to my office."

"Those lobby flowers are dying. Replace the vendor."

Department calls flooded my radio. My heels snapped sharply against the marble. This was my battlefield, and here, at least, I knew how to survive.

Only in the restroom mirror did I let myself look at the faint red mark still on my cheek.

I covered it carefully.

"You look awful," Maya Reed said from the doorway.

She carried a latte, wore flawless makeup, and looked exactly like the friend who had stood beside me for seven years.

She was our front office manager, and once upon a time, I trusted her with everything.

"Didn't sleep well," I said lightly.

She crossed her arms. "Derek again?"

My lipstick paused midair.

"I knew it." Maya clicked her tongue. "What about that lawyer? Ethan Grant, right? You paid a fortune for him. Is he doing anything?"

At the sound of Ethan's name, I saw him again in that garage, calm as winter, handing Derek's threats back to him as legal charges.

"He's handling it," I said. "We're close to court."

"Good. Men like Derek only understand someone meaner than they are." She patted my shoulder. "Still, I've heard Ethan Grant is cold and expensive and only loyal to money. Don't trust him too easily."

"We're strictly professional."

That should have been the end of it.

Except later that morning, after I finished calming down a furious VIP over a delayed flight, a trainee at the front desk called out, "Ms. Lane, you have a delivery."

I frowned. I had not ordered anything.

It was a thermal lunch bag with my name on it and no sender.

Inside were three neatly packed containers: mushroom chicken soup still steaming, light side dishes, soft pumpkin porridge, a box of imported stomach medicine, and a tube of bruise cream.

I went still.

In this city, very few people knew about my stomach problems.

Only one person knew I had been hurt the night before.

Ethan Grant.

Wasn't he supposed to be cold?

Didn't people say he only cared about money?

Why did he send this?

The ointment had a small note attached in a sharp, disciplined hand.

Eat on time. Take care of the bruise yourself.

No signature. No wasted words.

I stared at it longer than I should have.

I was too old and too tired to mistake one warm meal for love.

Men were rarely generous without motive.

But what did Ethan Grant want from me?

My legal fees had already been paid.

And my heart? Surely a man like him had seen women far more polished, younger, easier, safer.

I pushed those thoughts aside and lifted the soup.

It was hot. Savory. Real.

The warmth spread through my empty stomach and eased the pain in a way that felt almost indecent.

While I ate, I pulled out the white card I had tucked at the bottom of my holder and searched the number on my phone.

I sent a friend request with two words.

Thank you.

He approved it in under a minute.

Black profile picture. Empty feed. No reply.

We sat there in each other's contact lists like a wire stretched in the dark, quiet for now, waiting.

00