Chapter 6: Play Pretend
The air in Callum’s apartment tasted like stale coffee and static electricity. It wasn’t a home; it was a command post for a single, obsessive man. Case files formed tectonic plates on the coffee table. A whiteboard, dominated by a photo of Cassadee and a schematic of the waterfront gallery, glowed in the gray afternoon light filtering through half-closed blinds.
Teresa sat rigidly on a worn leather couch, her heart tap-dancing against her ribs. Nate fiddled with a small, flesh-colored device no larger than a button.
“This is the transmitter,” he said, his voice clinically calm. “It goes here.” He pointed to a spot just below her collarbone, inside her bra. “The microphone is omnidirectional. It’ll pick up everything—your voice, his voice, ambient noise. We’ll hear it all.”
“Will it… can they detect it?” she asked, her voice smaller than she wanted.
“Unlikely,” Callum said from the kitchen island, where he was pouring three mugs of coffee. He hadn’t slept. The shadows under his eyes were like bruises. “It’s not a cell signal. It broadcasts to a receiver we control within a few hundred feet. I’ll be in a van or a nearby apartment. Nate will be running logistics back here.”
He brought the mugs over, setting one in front of her. His fingers brushed the back of her hand. A simple accident. It felt like a brand.
“Now, your story,” Callum said, pulling a stool over and sitting opposite her, a notebook in his hand. He’d shed the detective’s edge, temporarily replaced by the focus of a director. “You are Elena Vance. You’re twenty-eight. You moved here six months ago after a messy breakup. You work remotely as a freelance graphic designer, which explains your flexible hours and lack of local ties. You’re lonely. You’re adrift. You have a taste for beautiful things you can’t quite afford, and a longing to be around people who… appreciate refinement.”
Teresa absorbed it, nodding. “Elena. Okay. The breakup?”
“Finance guy. He left you for his assistant. Classic, undramatic, relatable. It made you question your choices, your entire aesthetic. Now you’re trying to rebuild, but you’re not sure where to start.” He looked up from his notes, his green eyes locking onto hers. “The core of it is this: you are seeking validation. You want to be chosen. To be told you belong in those beautiful rooms. That’s the hook they’ll bite.”
It was chilling, how easily her real fear—Cassadee being chosen, being taken—could be inverted into a fictional vulnerability.
“Practice,” Nate said, settling back in an armchair with his own coffee. “Tell me about the breakup, Elena. Don’t be Teresa.”
She took a shaky breath, looked down at her hands, then back up with a softer, more uncertain gaze. “His name was David. We were together for five years. I thought we were building a life. Turns out he was just curating one.” She let a hint of bitterness tinge the words, then smoothed it over with a wounded smile. “I needed a change of scenery. Somewhere to figure out who I am without his… blueprint.”
Nate gave an approving nod. “Good. The self-deprecation works. It’s appealing.”
“Now,” Callum said, his voice lowering. “The harder part. The flirtation. The invitation. We know the approach. He’ll be charming, complimentary, vaguely powerful. He’ll offer you a glimpse of something more. You need to be intrigued, but guarded. Flattered, but not desperate. You’re a prize, not a plea. Can you do that?”
“I’ve spent a decade managing classrooms of hormonal teenagers trying to cheat on tests,” Teresa said, a flicker of her real self breaking through. “I think I can handle one creepy guy with a membership card.”
A ghost of a smile touched Callum’s lips. “Fair. But this isn’t about detention. This is about making him believe he’s discovered you. Let’s try. I’m him.”
He stood up, setting his notebook aside. He didn’t change his posture much, but something in his eyes shifted, a layer of casual calculation sliding over the intensity. He took a few steps, as if noticing her across a room, and approached.
“That’s a remarkable color on you,” he said, his tone smoother, more detached than his normal voice. “It captures the light. Most people would be washed out by that shade of blue.”
Teresa felt a ridiculous flush rise. This was Callum. Yet it wasn’t. She was Teresa playing Elena. The layers were dizzying. She looked up, allowing a cautious smile. “Thank you. It was an impulse buy. A rebellion against beige.”
“Beige is a crime,” Callum-as-the-man said, smiling now. It was a cold, perfect smile. “Life’s too short for safe colors. You seem like someone who understands that. I saw you here last week, I think. You were alone then, too.”
“Just enjoying the art,” she said, shrugging one shoulder slightly, a gesture she’d practiced in the mirror. “It’s less complicated than people.”
“Perhaps you’ve been looking at the wrong people.” He moved closer, his gaze scanning her face not with desire, but with appraisal. “There’s a gathering, later this week. A private viewing of some newly acquired pieces. The conversation is… more stimulating than the usual gallery chatter. I have a feeling you’d contribute something unique to it.”
Here was the hook. Teresa made her eyes widen, just a fraction, with interested curiosity. Not greed. Not lust. Curiosity. “A private viewing? That sounds intriguing. But I’m not sure I’m really part of that world.”
“That’s exactly why you should be there,” he countered, his voice a persuasive murmur. “It’s all become so predictable. You’d be a breath of fresh air. Let me be your guide.”
He extended a hand, not to shake, but as an offering. The gesture was clear: take it, and step across the threshold.
Teresa looked at his hand, then up at his face. She let the conflict play out—the want, the fear, the pride. She bit her lower lip, a fleeting, vulnerable gesture. Then she placed her hand in his, her touch light. “A guide would be… welcome.”
Callum held her hand for a beat longer than necessary, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles. A shock of pure, undiluted heat shot up her arm. His eyes flickered, the practiced detachment wavering for a microsecond. He was still the man, but Callum was there, reacting to her.
He dropped her hand smoothly. “Excellent. I’ll make the arrangements.”
The scene broke. Callum took two steps back, running a real hand through his hair, mussing it thoroughly. He looked agitated. “Good. The hesitation was perfect. The lip-bite was a nice touch. Maybe too nice.”
“It worked, didn’t it?” she said, her own breath feeling short. The phantom feel of his thumb on her skin was a live wire.
“It worked because he’s a predator and that’s exactly what he’s looking for,” Callum snapped, the director gone, the frustrated detective back. “Vulnerability wrapped in a pretty package. Just… keep it clean out there. Don’t improvise too much.”
“Clean?” The word stung. “You want me to seduce a human trafficker but keep it clean?”
“I want you to get the invitation and get out!” he fired back, his volume rising. “I don’t want you trying method acting on this guy!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Nate cleared his throat, a loud, pointed sound. “Children. The wire’s live, remember? We’re all on comms. This bickering couple vibe isn’t in Elena’s backstory.”
They both fell silent, glaring. The air was thick with everything unsaid: the fear, the proximity, the scent of his shirt that still lingered in her memory.
“Let’s test the range,” Nate said, standing. He picked up a receiver, a small box with an earpiece trailing from it. “I’m going downstairs to the lobby. Talk about something mundane.”
He left, the door clicking shut behind him.
The silence in the apartment was profound. Teresa could hear the hum of the refrigerator. She focused on her coffee mug, tracing a chip in the ceramic.
Callum sighed, a heavy, weary sound. He walked to the window, looking out at the city. “I’m sorry. I’m not good at this part.”
“What part? The part where you’re not in complete control?” She didn’t look at him.
“The part where I’m sending you into that.” He turned around, leaning against the sill. “The lip-bite was good. It was too good. It rattled me. And if it rattles me, it will absolutely work on him. That’s the problem.”
Teresa finally met his gaze. The raw honesty there disarmed her completely. The professional wall was gone. This was just a man, terrified for her.
“You think I liked it?” she whispered. “Playing vulnerable? Letting you look at me like I was a piece in his collection?”
“I wasn’t looking at you like that.” His voice was rough.
“How were you looking at me, Callum?”
He pushed off the window and crossed the room in three strides. He didn’t stop until he was right in front of her, looking down, his body tense with a different kind of conflict. The space between them crackled.
“Like I wanted to call the whole damn thing off,” he said, his words low and fierce. “Like I wanted to forget Cassadee, forget the gallery, forget everything except getting you as far away from this city as possible.”
Her breath caught. This wasn’t in the script. This was a catastrophic, wonderful breach of protocol.
“But you can’t,” she said, not as a question.
“No.” The word was a surrender. “I can’t. And you can’t either.”
She reached up then, not as Elena, but as Teresa. Her fingers touched the side of his face, tracing the fatigue, the tension. He flinched as if burned, but didn’t pull away. He leaned into the touch, his eyes closing for a second.
When they opened, the want in them was so stark it stole her breath.
“This is a really bad idea,” she murmured, her thumb brushing his cheekbone.
“The worst,” he agreed, his head dipping closer.
The buzzer from the intercom screamed through the apartment, sharp and insistent.
They jerked apart. The moment shattered, scattering into the charged air.
Callum swore, turning away to stomp over to the intercom. “Yeah?”
Nate’s voice, tinny and distorted, came through. “Range is perfect. Crystal clear. Also, I got a ping on the burner. The gallery just sent out digital invites for an event. Tomorrow night. ‘A Nocturnal Gathering.’ Black tie. Exclusive.”
The real world crashed back in, cold and urgent. Teresa’s hand fell to her side, her fingertips still tingling.
Callum looked back at her, all detective again, the vulnerability sealed away behind a mask of grim resolve. “See? No time for bad ideas. You’re on tomorrow night, Elena. Get ready.”
He picked up his notebook, his focus already on the next tactical problem. But his hand, she noticed, was trembling just slightly. Teresa turned toward the whiteboard, toward Cassadee’s smiling photo. The warmth on her skin where he’d almost kissed her collided with the icy fear in her gut.
The clock was now audibly ticking.