Chapter 7: Morning Rituals
The darkness was absolute and warm, a thick velvet nothing. Then, a pressure. A tiny, persistent kneading against her sternum, right over her heart. Prick-prick-prick of needle claws through the thin silk of her pajamas. A rumble started, deep and vibrational, resonating against her throat.
Layla surfaced from sleep slowly, thickly. Something was on her chest. Something alive.
She cracked an eye open. In the faint gray light seeping around the blackout curtains, she could make out a fuzzy orange face, copper eyes screwed shut in purring concentration. Hemingway. His paws worked methodically, a baker kneading dough, his whole body a motor.
A second weight settled on her hip. She turned her head. Brontë sat there, poised like a sphinx, her smoky fur almost silver in the dimness. She stared, unblinking, until Layla met her gaze. Then she let out a single, clear, commanding meow.
It was not a request. It was a notice of dereliction of duty.
Layla groaned, a puff of laughter tangled in it. “It’s the middle of the night.”
Mrow. Brontë again, more insistent.
“You have an automatic feeder. Emilio set it up.” She’d watched him program the sleek, stainless steel contraption that dispensed precisely at 6 AM.
Hemingway ignored the conversation, shifting to knead a new spot, his purr hitting a gear that sounded like a distant motorcycle. The combination—the vibration, the prickling claws, the judge-y stare from her hip—was too much. Layla’s groan turned into a full laugh, the sound raw and sleep-hoarse in the quiet room. She lifted a hand, heavy with sleep, and sank her fingers into Hemingway’s impossibly thick fluff. He collapsed immediately, a boneless, purring puddle on her chest.
“You’re a tyrant. Both of you.” She nudged Brontë gently. “And you’re the brains of this operation, aren’t you?”
Brontë blinked, slowly, as if accepting a tribute.
The digital clock on the nightstand glowed 5:17 AM. Of course. They’d slept through the night, a miracle, and now their internal clocks were set to ‘farm.’ She lay there for a few minutes, trapped by the warmth and the weight and the sheer absurdity of it. Her penthouse. Her kittens. Her silk pajamas. The fragments of her old life—the diner’s grease smell, the frantic pre-dawn alarm, the room so small she could touch both walls—felt like someone else’s bleak biography.
With a grunt, she shifted, gently dislodging Hemingway. He protested with a chirp. She scooped them both up, a wriggling armful of fur and indignation, and carried them out to the living area.
The floor-to-ceiling windows held the city in that strange, silent hour between night and day. The sky was a deep indigo bleeding to violet at the horizon. Lights still glittered, but they looked tired, awaiting the sun. She filled their ceramic bowls with fresh water and tapped kibble into the smaller dishes. The crunching sounds that followed were immediate, voracious.
While they ate, she made coffee. The machine was a complex foreign artifact, all polished steel and silent extraction. She’d YouTube’d it yesterday. Now, the rich, bitter aroma filled the space, mingling with the clean scent of the apartment and the faint, dusty smell of kitten. She took her mug to the window, curling into the corner of the vast, still-empty sofa.
This was the quiet time. The time before the day’s architecture was imposed. The kittens, mission accomplished, trotted over. Brontë leaped up with elegant grace, circling twice before settling against Layla’s thigh. Hemingway required a scramble and a brief pull from Layla’s hand, finally flopping across her lap with a contented sigh.
She sipped her coffee, one hand absently stroking Hemingway’s back, the other tracing the rim of the mug. The peace was a physical thing, a blanket. It was also fragile. She could feel the other life humming beyond the windows, down in the streets. Rafael’s world. A world of early meetings that weren’t in boardrooms and decisions that carried permanent consequences. The man who’d given her these sleeping beasts in her lap was the same man who operated in that shadows. The duality didn’t cancel out; it coexisted, a constant low-grade hum beneath the surface calm.
Her phone buzzed on the side table. Not the burner. Her new one. The contact flashed: R.
She stared at it for two rings before answering. “Do you ever sleep?” Her voice was still morning-rough.
“Occasionally.” His own voice was clear, wide awake. A background hum suggested a car. “They woke you.”
It wasn’t a question. “How’d you know?”
“Emilio reported the feeder was ignored. The backup plan was facial assault.”
She could hear the slight smile in his words. “Hemingway’s a champion kneader. Brontë is the drill sergeant.”
“Good. They’re establishing order.” A pause. The hum dipped as if the car had slowed. “The designer, Alina, will be there at ten. She’s the best. Listen to her, but ultimately, it’s your space. Tell her what you want.”
“I will. The desk. The bookshelves.”
“Exactly.” Another pause. Longer this time. “I have to go to Miami for two days. A logistical issue. Emilio will be your point of contact. He has the number for the security detail downstairs. Use it if you need anything. Anything at all.”
The information landed with a thud. Miami. A ‘logistical issue.’ She didn’t want to know. The sudden, stark reminder of the mechanics of his life pushed through the cozy morning scene. “Okay,” she said, her voice neutral.
“Layla.”
“Yeah?”
“The books for the shelves. Start a list. I’ll want to see it.”
The tension in her shoulders loosened, just a fraction. It was a thread, a connection to the man who talked about cats and old men and his mother’s books. “I’ll think about it.”
“Good.” A voice murmured something in the background, urgent, male. Rafael’s tone shifted, the warmth receding like a tide. “I have to go. The kittens. And the desk. Don’t compromise.”
The line went dead.
She held the phone to her ear for another second, listening to the silence. The sun was breaching the horizon now, a thin line of incendiary orange slicing the violet, painting the glass towers in liquid fire. The city was waking up. So was he.
Alina arrived at ten sharp. She was a woman in her fifties with a severe silver bob and eyes the color of flint. She wore architect’s glasses on a chain and head-to-toe black linen. She did not coo over the kittens. She observed Brontë, who observed her back from the top of the cat tree, and gave a single, approving nod. “They will shed. We will choose fabrics accordingly. Performance velvets, durable wools. No silk upholstery.”
It was less a consultation and more a friendly annexation. Alina marched through the space, tapping on her tablet, issuing rapid-fire statements that were really decrees. “This wall for your books. Custom, white oak, integrated lighting. The desk here, facing the corner window. You get the city skyline for inspiration, not distraction. The sofa must be deep enough to sleep on. A man should be able to stretch out his full length. Is he tall?”
Layla, feeling perpetually two steps behind, just nodded. “Very.”
“Good. Then we will accommodate.” Alina paused in the bedroom doorway, looking at the burgundy chair. “This stays. It has history. Everything else is a canvas.” She turned, her gaze laser-focused on Layla. “He said you are a writer. Is this true?”
The question, so blunt, felt like an accusation. “I… want to be. Maybe.”
“Then the desk is not furniture. It is a tool. It will be the first thing installed. Next week.” Alina’s eyes softened, just a millimeter. “Do not fill the shelves with books you think you should have. Fill them with books you have dog-eared and spilled coffee on. That is how a room becomes real.”
For the first time, Layla felt seen by this woman. Not as an accessory or a client, but as a person who might make marks, create messes. “Okay,” she said, with more force this time. “Okay.”
They spent two hours going over fabric swatches, wood stains, the impracticality of light rugs. Layla found herself arguing for a deep, emerald green velvet for the sofa, and to her surprise, Alina smirked and said, “A bold choice. I approve.” It felt like a small victory.
After Alina left with a promise of preliminary drawings in forty-eight hours, the apartment felt charged with potential. The emptiness now had a blueprint. It was going to become something. Hers.
The quiet of the afternoon stretched. She played with the kittens until they conked out in a sunbeam. She tried to read but couldn’t focus. She started the list for Rafael, jotting down book titles from memory: Jane Eyre, of course. The Old Man and The Sea. A collection of Mary Oliver poems. The Secret History for its sheer, dark escapism. Each title felt like a piece of herself being offered up.
As dusk began to bleed into the sky again, the restlessness got the better of her. The penthouse, for all its impending perfection, felt like a gilded cage. She needed air that wasn’t filtered, a sound that wasn’t her own breathing or a kitten’s purr.
She called down to the security desk, a number on a crisp card Emilio had left. “I’d like to go for a walk. Just around the block.”
The voice on the line was professional, unsurprised. “Of course, Ms. Green. Leo will accompany you. He’ll be in the lobby in five minutes.”
So, not just a walk. A walk with a shadow. The price. She pulled on a hoodie and sneakers, the most normal items she owned.
Leo was a mountain in a slim-fit black suit, with a kind, tired face. He nodded to her. “Just set the pace, Ms. Green. I’ll keep my distance.”
The autumn air was crisp, sharp with the smell of fallen leaves and pretzel carts. She walked, head down, hands in her pockets, trying to feel anonymous. But she was aware of Leo, a steady, looming presence ten feet behind her. She passed a café where couples laughed over wine, a bookstore with warm, inviting light. Normal life, happening just beyond the glass.
She stopped at a small park, leaning on the iron fence, watching dogs chase each other in the last of the light. This was what she’d wanted. Safety. Space. Beauty. And she had it. It was just wrapped in barbed wire.
Her phone buzzed. A text from the burner, from Rafael. No words. Just a picture. A stunning, sweeping art deco hotel balcony overlooking a turquoise ocean at sunset. Miami. The ‘logistical issue.’
She stared at the image. It was beautiful, lonely, and violently far from the dusty park, the barking dogs, the man shadowing her. This was his view. Isolated. Breathtaking. Removed.
Another buzz. A second picture came through. Closer, angled down. On the ornate balcony railing, balanced perfectly, were two small, pristine porcelain figurines. A gray cat and an orange cat.
Her breath caught. He’d seen them, in some tourist shop, and thought of her. Of them. In the middle of his other world.
She typed, her fingers cold. They’re kitschy. I love them.
His reply was immediate. I know. Security says you’re out. Tell Leo to buy you a hot chocolate. It’s getting cold.
She looked up, scanning the street. Leo stood by a newsstand, pretending not to watch her. Of course Rafael knew. He probably knew her heart rate.
The weight of his attention was a yoke. It was also, undeniably, a thread. A connection that stretched from a Miami balcony to a chilly New York park, holding a piece of her in place. She was living a life she’d once dreamed of, curated by a man whose own dreams were locked behind glass. He was giving her everything, and all it cost was the simple, terrifying freedom of being unknown, unwatched, and truly alone.
She pushed off the fence, the decision solidifying as she walked back toward Leo and the towering, lit-up silhouette of her building. She didn’t want hot chocolate. She wanted to go back upstairs. She wanted to add more titles to the list. She wanted to be there when the first piece of real furniture—that desk—arrived and placed its weight on the empty floor. The momentum was no longer just his. It was hers, too. And for better or worse, she was choosing to step into its path.
And for better or worse, she was choosing to step into its path. She crossed the sidewalk toward the building’s shimmering glass doors, Leo falling into step a respectful distance behind. The canopy lights painted the concrete in soft gold pools, but the edges of everything were swallowed by a deep, city-night black.
A uniformed doorman inside saw her approach and moved to open the door, his smile bland and professional. She was ten feet from the threshold, her key fob already in her hand. The night air was cool on her cheeks.
The black van parked across the street had been there, engine off, lights dead. She’d registered it as part of the street furniture. Its side door slid open with a violent, metallic shriek.
Everything happened in a horrifying, silent burst. Two men in dark clothing moved with ugly efficiency. They crossed the distance before Leo’s shout fully left his lungs. A hard, blunt weight slammed into the back of Layla’s knees, buckling her legs.
The world upended. The polished lobby lights, the doorman’s shocked face, spun and vanished. A thick, chemical-smelling cloth clamped over her nose and mouth, scratching her skin. It smelled like rotten fruit and gasoline.
Her lungs burned, screaming for air she couldn’t afford to take. She thrashed, a wild animal panic firing her nerves. Her elbow connected with something solid—a grunt—but the arms around her were bands of iron.
Leo was a blur of motion, his hand reaching under his jacket. A sharp crack split the night, not a gunshot but something darker, wetter. Leo crumpled forward onto the pavement, a dark bloom already spreading across his shoulder.
“Don’t kill him! Not the protocol!” a guttural voice hissed near her ear. The words meant nothing, were everything.
They were dragging her backward, her sneakers scraping uselessly against the concrete. The van’s open mouth yawned, a rectangle of deeper black. She tried to scream, but the cloth swallowed the sound, and the fumes were in her throat now, thick and sweet.
Her last conscious sight was the doorman, frozen behind the glass, his phone pressed to his ear. His mouth was moving, shaping silent words. Then the world folded into a narrow, dark tunnel, the lights of her building stretching and bleeding into streaks before winking out entirely.
The van door slammed shut, cutting off the night. Tires squealed against asphalt. Inside, the air was choked with the smell of sweat, chemicals, and fear. Layla’s body went limp, the fight siphoned out of her by the chloroform-soaked rag.
One of the men held her upright on the cold metal floor as the van accelerated, weaving through traffic. “Check her pockets. Everything. Phone, fob, everything.”
Rough hands patted her down, yanking the key fob and her new phone from her hoodie. The window between the cab and the back slid open. The driver’s eyes flicked to the rearview. “Clean?”
“Clean. He’s making the call now.”
Up front, a third man was speaking into a burner phone, his voice low and calm. “It’s done. The package is acquired. The shield is down, non-critical injury confirmed. We have the primary location. Proceeding to the transfer point. Five minutes.”
He listened, nodded. “Understood. We’ll await the swap.”
The van took a sharp turn, throwing Layla’s dead weight against the man holding her. Her head lolled, long black hair covering her face. In the dark, with the city’s pulse thrumming through the van’s frame, the only proof of life was the faint, shallow rise and fall of her chest under the soft fabric of the hoodie she’d put on to feel normal.