Chapter 16: The Sari's Secret
The bottle of wine Milo carried felt cold and heavy, a 2015 Sassicaia that had cost more than most of the suits he pretended to own. It was a prop, a signifier of serious intent. Trisha Krishnan’s building was a steel-and-glass monolith in Belltown, all sharp edges and reflected sky. The lobby smelled of lemongrass and money.
He’d secured the meeting through a backchannel—a favor from a paralegal he’d once dated, spun as a fellow truth-seeker’s respectful request for insight. The lie was thin, but it was a foot in the door.
He knocked.
The door opened, and the air changed. It was warm, spiced with cardamom and sandalwood, undercut by the crisp, clean scent of legal briefs. And her.
Trisha Krishnan stood framed in the doorway, and for a half-second, Milo’s meticulously prepared opener died in his throat. The silk of her sari was a deep, impossible cobalt, shot through with silver threads that caught the hallway light.
It was draped with a precise, elegant negligence that did nothing to conceal the lush, dramatic curves beneath.
“Milo Davidson,” she said, not a question. Her voice was a rich contralto, threaded with an accent that softened the edges of her words. Her dark eyes scanned him, quick and analytical, missing nothing from the cut of his jacket to the label on the bottle. “You’re late.”
“Traffic,” he lied smoothly, offering the wine with a practiced, self-deprecating smile. “And I got lost admiring the building. It’s very… upright.”
She accepted the bottle, her fingers brushing his. A faint, amused tilt touched her lips. “Charming. And transparent. Come in.”
Her apartment was a testament to controlled success. The city sprawled beyond the windows like a spilled circuit board, glittering and cold. One whole wall was a fortress of legal texts and case files, but the space around the sleek leather sofa was clean, almost stark.
“Nice place,” Milo said, wandering toward the view. “Quiet.”
“It’s usually quieter,” she replied, placing the wine on a bar cart of polished chrome. She gestured to the sofa. “Sit. Tell me why a reporter with your… reputation is suddenly interested in regulatory failures at private security firms.”
He sat, stretching an arm along the back of the cushion. “I’m interested in the people they fail. And the people who pay them to look the other way.”
“Kronos Shield.” Trisha settled opposite him, tucking her legs beneath her. The silk whispered. “Your message said you had a source. A whistleblower.”
“I have fragments,” he corrected, leaning forward. His gray eyes held hers. “A college kid who stumbled onto something she shouldn’t have. A money trail that goes cold at a shell company called Mesa Vistas. And a feeling that Kronos isn’t just incompetent; it’s complicit.”
Trisha listened, her expression unreadable. She reached for a notebook on the glass table, flipping it open. “Rachel Morgan. I read your piece. It was clever. But it stopped short of naming names.”
“Because the names I have are behind bigger doors.” He held her gaze. “Doors a lawyer with your credentials, and your connections to the AG’s office, might be able to help open.”
She laughed, a short, sharp sound. “So this is a transaction. You bring me a puzzle, I use my clearance to get you the pieces.”
“It’s a partnership. You want justice.” He let his voice drop, soften. “I want the story. We’re both trying to expose the same rot.”
“Your last ‘partnership’ ended with Camilla Flores nearly getting shot in a warehouse district, according to the police reports I pulled.” Trisha didn’t look up from her notes. “She’s a social worker, Milo. Not a field agent.”
The mention of Camilla, of last week’s chaotic victory, was a precision strike. He kept his smile easy. “Camilla is fine. We’re fine. That was a clean win. This is different. This is paperwork and pressure. Your domain.”
He watched her weigh it. He saw the professional interest, the hunger for a consequential case, warring with the personal warning bells he knew his file would set off. He saw something else, too—a loneliness in the pristine apartment, a tiredness at the corners of her eyes that had nothing to do with work.
“Why me?” she finally asked, closing the notebook.
“Because you’re the best.” He said it simply, as if stating a fact. “And because I think you’re as bored with ambulance-chasing as I am with city council scandals.”
Another quiet laugh, this one warmer. “You’re good. The flattery is almost undetectable.” She stood, moving to the bar cart. She uncorked the Sassicaia with efficient twists, not waiting for a waiter. “A drink. Then you show me everything you have on Mesa Vistas. No omissions.”
“Scout’s honor.”
She poured two glasses, the wine a deep blood-ruby. “You were never a scout.” Handing him a glass, she remained standing, looking down at him. The city lights haloed her silhouette. “But okay. Let’s see your fragments.”
They talked for an hour. He laid out Rachel’s digital crumbs, the suspicious pattern of Kronos patrols in the warehouse district, the labyrinthine corporate structure of Mesa Vistas. Trisha asked razor-sharp questions, connecting dots he’d missed, her mind a swift, elegant machine. The professional walls began to lower, brick by brick.
He felt the shift in the room, the subtle redirect of energy from the desk to the space between them on the sofa. He mirrored her body language, leaned in when she made a pointed observation, let a charged silence hang after a particularly sharp insight.
“This is good,” she admitted, tracing a line on his printed chart. Her shoulder brushed his. “This is very, very good. The AG would have to take notice.”
“Then help me give it to them.” He turned his head. Her face was inches away. The scent of her perfume, something of jasmine and dusk, was intoxicating. “Partner.”
She studied his mouth, then his eyes. That familiar, weary fascination flickered in her brown depths. She knew his type. She’d sworn off his type. Her finger came up, not to her own lips in thought, but to gently press against his.
“Ah-ah,” she whispered, her smile both warning and invitation. “The business proposal is compelling. The personal one needs a much longer briefing period.”
He caught her wrist, his touch feather-light. “I’m a thorough researcher.”
“I bet you are.” She didn’t pull away. She took a slow sip of her wine, watching him over the rim. “The files stay here tonight. You should go.”
He released her, raising his hands in surrender, the perfect picture of gracious defeat. “Of course. The material is safest with you.”
He stood, finishing his wine in one smooth swallow. He could feel the potential thrumming in the room, a live wire. He had her, professionally. The rest was just a matter of pacing. At the door, she handed him his coat.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said. “Early.”
“I’ll be waiting.” He leaned in, as if for a cheek kiss, letting his words brush her ear. “Try not to have too much fun without me.”
Her low chuckle followed him into the hall. “Goodnight, Milo.”
The elevator doors closed on the image of her, a statuesque shadow against the lit apartment. He let out a long, quiet breath, the charming smile evaporating. He pulled out his phone. Three more messages. One from Heather, a selfie from some cocktail lounge, her smile too wide. One from Abbie, a link to an academic article with a note: ‘This made me think of you!’ One from Rachel, just a question mark.
The night air was a cold slap. He looked back up at the glittering height of her building, pinpointing her floor.
A partner with access. A formidable mind. A devastating blind spot.
It was, he thought, lighting a cigarette as he walked toward the subway, an excellent start.
It was, he thought, lighting a cigarette as he walked toward the subway, an excellent start. The nicotine bit into his lungs, a familiar comfort as the city’s noise washed over him—honking cabs, snippets of laughter from a bar, the distant wail of a siren. He exhaled a plume of smoke into the chill, watching it dissolve into the neon haze.
Back at 221B Cedar Street, the quiet of his apartment felt abrupt after Trisha’s charged atmosphere. He tossed his keys onto the dark wood console, the sound sharp in the stillness. The city lights bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting blue streaks across the leather sofa.
He poured two fingers of whiskey, not bothering with ice, and carried it to his desk. The computer hummed to life, its glow carving his face into planes of light and shadow. He opened a new document, labeled it “Krishnan, T. – Profile.”
His fingers flew over the keyboard, transcribing the professional facts first: her education, her bar association memberships, her published articles on corporate liability. Then he paused, sipping the whiskey, the burn slow and warm. He added a new section: “Personal Observations.”
He described her intelligence, her controlled demeanor, the way her skepticism had yielded to professional curiosity. Then his smirk returned, unbidden. He typed: “Physical presence: striking. Maintains fitness. Notable poise and proportions—especially the rear aspect, which is, frankly, incredible.”
He leaned back in his chair, swirling the amber liquid. She would be a fun distraction between the sheets during this case, a thought that coiled in his mind with pleasant certainty. The dossier was a tool, a way to compartmentalize her, just like all the others. He saved the file and closed the laptop, the screen blinking to black.
The cafe they chose the next morning was all exposed brick and hissing espresso machines, crowded with people tapping on laptops. Milo arrived first, securing a corner table. He watched Trisha enter, her eyes scanning the room with that lawyer’s assessing gaze.
She wore a tailored pantsuit today, charcoal gray, but it did nothing to hide the curve of her hips as she weaved through the tables. “You’re early,” she said, sliding into the chair opposite him.
“I was motivated.” He pushed a ceramic cup toward her. “Americano, black. You strike me as a no-nonsense caffeine person.”
“Accurate.” She took a sip, her eyes never leaving his. “So. What’s the next move?”
Milo reached into his inner jacket pocket and withdrew a single, thick cream-colored envelope. He slid it across the table. “This.”
Trisha picked it up, her eyebrows lifting as she read the embossed script. “The Silver Leaf Foundation Annual Charity Gala. Hosted by Wilson Fisk.” Her tone flattened. “The real estate developer? The one with the… philanthropic smile.”
“The same. Sixty years old, loves cameras, and has dotted lines connecting him to Mesa Vistas through about three layers of shell companies.” Milo kept his voice low, conversational. “He’s the lock, Trisha. This dinner is the key.”
She opened the invite, studying the details. “And how did you get this?”
“A source in event planning who owes me for killing a story about her boss’s cocaine habit.” He shrugged. “It’s a single ticket. For you.”
Trisha looked up, her expression wary. “For me. To do what?”
“To pose as a potential donor. A very wealthy, very interested donor from out of town.” He leaned forward, dropping his voice further. “Fisk loves attention, especially from beautiful people. You need to grab his.”
“How?” she asked, though from the tight set of her jaw, she already suspected.
“Wear something memorable. Something that shows off your… assets.” He gestured vaguely, his gaze dropping to her form for a heartbeat. “Get him talking, get him boasting. He’ll want to impress you.”
Trisha placed the invite down carefully. “You want me to flirt with a suspected criminal. To use my… physique as a tool.” Her voice was cool, but a flush crept up her neck.
“I want you to get us into his private study after dinner.” Milo’s tone turned practical, a stark contrast to the implication. “He always gives a tour to his special guests. When he does, you’ll have this.” From his pocket, he produced a tiny, matte-black disk, no larger than a button. “A hidden camera. Stick it somewhere discreet in that room. Behind a bookshelf, under a desk leg.”
She stared at the device. The cafe’s cheerful clatter seemed to recede. “This is entrapment. It’s inadmissible.”
“It’s intelligence. We just need to see what’s on his desk, what’s on his walls. The admissible evidence comes later, from the warrants this will help us get.” He watched her grapple with it, the conflict vivid in her dark eyes. “You said you wanted to expose the rot. This is how.”
Trisha picked up the camera disk, turning it over in her fingers. “And you? What’s your role while I’m playing honeypot?”
“I’ll be nearby. Working the room as press, making sure you’re safe.” He offered a thin smile. “I’ll look after the rest. You just need to get the lens inside.”
She was silent for a long moment, her gaze drifting to the city outside the window. He could see the calculation, the professional drive warring with personal disdain. Finally, she let out a slow breath, the resistance seeping out of her shoulders. “For the cause,” she said, the words tasting faintly bitter.
“For the cause,” Milo echoed, lifting his cup in a mock toast. His phone buzzed in his pocket—another message, probably from Rachel or Heather. He ignored it, his focus entirely on Trisha’s resigned, determined face.
The game was in motion. Trisha stared at the tiny camera disk on her pristine kitchen counter for a long time after Milo left, the espresso’s bitterness still on her tongue. She finally picked it up, its weight negligible, its implications massive, and slid it into a drawer beside her sterling silver cheese knives.
Three nights later, the box arrived. She’d ordered it online, a tactical decision, her fingers trembling slightly as she entered the credit card details. She hung the garment bag on her closet door and ignored it for two hours, working through a brief on municipal liability.
Finally, with a sigh that was half resignation, half something else, she unzipped the bag.
The dress was black, a liquid spill of jersey silk and strategic stitching. It was backless, the fabric plunging in a deep V that would stop just above the base of her spine. The front was deceptively simple, a high neckline that would nevertheless cling to every curve, the material whispering over her skin as she pulled it on.
She stood before her full-length mirror, the apartment silent save for the low hum of the refrigerator.
Her reflection was a stranger—a weaponized version of herself. The dress fit like a confession, highlighting the fullness of her bust, the dramatic sweep of her hips, the pronounced, round curve of her posterior. It was exactly what Milo had suggested. The realization heated her cheeks.
She turned slightly, checking the line of the back. The exposure was profound. A sudden, unbidden image flashed behind her eyes: Milo’s hands, those long-fingered, knowing reporter’s hands, sliding over that bare skin, tracing the dip of her spine. He was twenty years her senior, his hair peppered with gray, his face etched with cynicism. He was exactly the kind of charming, irresponsible man she always fell for. The fantasy was vivid, tactile, a wave of heat that started low in her stomach and radiated outwards, making her skin prickle.
She snapped her eyes open, meeting her own shocked gaze in the mirror. Her breath hitched. “God,” she whispered to the empty room, pressing cool palms to her flaming face. What was wrong with her?
Shaking her head, she peeled the dress off, the silk catching against her suddenly-sensitive skin. She hung it back up, a definitive gesture, and pulled on her worn cotton robe. The dress waited, a sleek black promise on the door.
Across the city, the faint, city-glow seeped around the edges of Milo’s blackout blinds. The room was dark, warm with the smell of sex and Rachel’s vanilla shampoo.
She lay sprawled on her stomach, her fiery red hair fanned across his pillow, the sheets tangled around her athletic legs. Milo propped himself on an elbow, his lean frame outlined in the dimness. He kissed a slow trail down the knobs of her spine, feeling her shiver.
His mind, however, was a separate, cold chamber. As his lips brushed the small of her back, he clinically reviewed the plan. He hadn’t told Trisha everything about Wilson Fisk. The man’s philanthropy was a facade; his after-party behavior was legend in certain circles. Hands that “wandered,” a proprietary grip on a waist, breathy compliments that crossed lines. Milo calculated the offense, the distraction. Fisk’s entitled attention would be an annoyance, but it would also fixate him. It would give Trisha the crucial, unobserved seconds she’d need to place the camera.
Perfect.
Rachel stirred, a contented murmur escaping her. “Mmm. I missed this,” she chuckled, her voice sleep-rough and young. “You being… here.”
He nuzzled the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder, inhaling the scent of her. “I missed you too,” he whispered, the lie sweet and smooth as honey on his tongue. The truth was simpler: her body was warm, familiar, a pleasant way to pass the empty hours before the gala’s high-stakes chess game began. She was a comfortable habit.
She turned her head, seeking his mouth, and he kissed her deeply, tenderly, a performance of affection that made her sigh into him. After a few languid minutes, she stretched. “I should go. Early class.” She slid from the bed, a pale, curvy shadow in the dark.
He watched her dress, offering the right, appreciative smiles. At the door, she turned. “Call me tomorrow?”
“Absolutely.” He crossed the room and kissed her again, a soft, lingering press of his lips to hers that felt like a goodbye. “Be safe.”
The door clicked shut behind her. The apartment settled into its true silence. Milo stood still for a moment, then walked to the window, pulling the cord to flood the room with the cold neon wash of the city. The tender pretense sloughed off him instantly.
He picked up his phone from the nightstand, Rachel’s warmth still clinging to the case. He navigated past her unread message, past Heather’s and Abbie’s, and brought up the notes for the gala.
The task was at hand. Milo stood in the press line thirty minutes later, a stolen photographer’s credential dangling from his neck. The Silver Leaf Gala was a cataract of light and noise, a sprawling penthouse ballroom where the air smelled of imported orchids, seared scallops, and unearned privilege. He sipped tonic water, no gin, his senses sharp.
He scanned the room, ignoring a councilman’s aide trying to catch his eye. Then he saw her.
Trisha entered through the main doors, and a pocket of conversation near the entrance momentarily stilled. The black dress was a masterstroke. It moved with her, a shadow given devastating form, carving her silhouette against the golden haze of the chandeliers. She looked like a rumor given flesh—unapproachable, expensive, exactly what Fisk would covet.
Milo felt a cold, professional satisfaction. And something else, a brief, unwelcome tug low in his gut as he watched the heads turn. He buried it, lifting the tonic to his lips.
Across the room, Trisha accepted a flute of champagne from a passing tray. The bubbles were sharp, acidic. She felt hyper-aware of the dress, of the cool air on her exposed back, of the small, adhesive camera disk tucked securely in the hidden silk wristlet coiled around her arm. She’d practiced the motion a dozen times in her bathroom: the casual lean, the subtle press.
“Ms. Krishnan.” The voice was a deep, cultivated baritone, velvet over gravel. Wilson Fisk materialized beside her as if summoned by the room’s collective attention. He was taller than she’d expected, broad in a way his tailored tuxedo couldn’t fully conceal, with a face that was both jovial and curiously inert, like a mask held in place by excellent surgeons. “We are honored. I understand you’re newly interested in our urban revitalization projects.”
His eyes, a pale, watery blue, did not meet hers. They traveled down, a slow, inventorying sweep that took in the plunge of silk at her chest, the cinch of her waist, the dramatic swell of her hips. It was not a glance. It was an appraisal. He smiled, his teeth very white.
“Mr. Fisk. The honor is mine.” She extended a hand, her voice steady, layered with the polite warmth she used in court. “Your foundation’s work is… ambitious.”
He took her hand, but instead of shaking it, he turned it slightly, his thick thumb brushing her knuckles. “Ambition is the engine of progress. Come. Let’s talk away from this din.” His other hand settled on the bare small of her back. The touch was proprietary, heavy, the heat of his palm seeping through the thin silk. He began to guide her, his grip firm, away from the main crowd.
Milo watched them go, Fisk’s large hand a stark possession against the darkness of her dress. Perfect. He drifted toward a bank of monitors showing bland, looping foundation videos, pulling out his phone. A dedicated app was already running, its screen dark. Waiting for a signal.
Fisk led her through a discreet arched doorway, down a short hallway lined with dramatic, abstract paintings. “My private collection,” he said, his voice dropping to a confidential rumble. “Most of these artists are unknown. I prefer to discover beauty before the market corrupts it.”
The room was smaller, quieter, a velvet-draped sanctum. The lights were lower. Canvases of violent color and slashing lines covered the walls. Fisk stopped before a large, chaotic triptych, his hand still on her back. “This artist channels pure id. Don’t you think?”
His hand moved. It was a slow, deliberate slide, fingers splaying, down the curve of her spine until his entire palm was cupping the full, round curve of her ass. He squeezed, just once, a testing, possessive pressure.
Trisha froze. The air left her lungs. She’d expected leering, maybe a brush of the hand. Not this blatant, quiet claim. She forced an amused, arched eyebrow, turning her face slightly toward him. “Forward, Mr. Fisk.”
“Life is short,” he murmured, his breath warm against her temple. He didn’t remove his hand. “True beauty demands a visceral response.”
This was the moment. The distraction. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She gave a low, theatrical chuckle, as if playing along, and leaned slightly away from him, toward a severe-looking bronze sculpture on a plinth next to the painting. It was a natural movement, turning her body within his grasp. “And this piece? What does it demand?”
As she spoke, her left hand, shielded by her body and the fall of the sculpture, slipped to her wristlet. The tiny disk was cool between her fingers. She palmed it, reaching out as if to steady herself on the plinth’s edge. She pressed the adhesive side firmly against the underside, where the bronze met dark wood.
“Raw power,” Fisk was saying, his attention split between her and his own performance. He didn’t notice.
The camera was placed.
A wave of nauseated relief washed through her. It was done. She started to straighten, to formulate an exit.
He moved faster than she anticipated. His grip on her tightened violently, yanking her back against him. Her spine met the solid wall of his chest. “But you,” he whispered, his mouth against the side of her neck. His lips were wet. “You are the masterpiece in this room.”
She felt it then—the hard, urgent press of his arousal against the cleft of her ass, unmistakable even through the layers of fabric. A jolt of pure, animal alarm shot through her. “Mr. Fisk—”
“Wilson,” he corrected, his mouth trailing open-mouthed kisses along her jugular. One hand clamped on her hip, holding her firmly against him. The other found the concealed zipper at the back of her dress and began to pull it down. The sound was horrifically loud in the quiet room. The silk parted, cool air washing over her newly exposed skin from her shoulders down to the base of her spine.
She moaned, a choked sound of frustration and shock. This had escalated far beyond the calculated annoyance she’d prepared for. She should knee him, scream, flee. But the mission. The camera was live. Milo was watching. Would he see her fail? Would he see her panic?
Fisk mistook the sound for encouragement. His kisses traveled down her bared spine, his hands sliding around to her front, groping, kneading through the silk. The invasion was comprehensive, vulgar. A part of her, a detached, horrified part, noted his technique was practiced, assured.
And another part, a dormant, betrayed part she hated, flickered awake. The adrenaline, the danger, the sheer taboo of it—it sparked against her will. His touch was crude, but it was also devastatingly confident. As his mouth worked over her skin, a treacherous thread of heat unspooled deep within her, a physical echo to her mental revulsion. She let her head fall back against his shoulder, a moan that was now only half-feigned escaping her lips.
The zipper’s descent stopped at the small of her back, but the cold air felt like it had reached her bones. Wilson Fisk’s mouth was a wet brand against her spine, his breathing ragged and hot. One of his hands, broad and heavy, squeezed her breast through the silk, his thumb rubbing crude circles over her nipple. The other held her hip in a vise grip, grinding her against the hard, insistent proof of his arousal.
Trisha’s mind shattered into competing fragments.
One piece was pure, animal alarm, screaming to drive an elbow into his ribs, to stomp on his instep, to flee. Another was the lawyer, meticulously assessing: Assault. Criminal sexual contact. Witnesses? None. His word against mine. Reputational annihilation. And a third, darker sliver, the one she despised, pulsed in time with the rough heat of his hands. It was the part of her that had always been magnetized by danger, by confident, amoral men who took what they wanted. This was its ugliest, most visceral expression. A shameful, unwelcome curl of heat tightened low in her abdomen, a treacherous physical echo to her mental revulsion.
She let out a breathy moan, a sound that was half-genuine overwhelm, half-performance. She arched her back slightly, not in invitation, but in a frantic attempt to create an inch of space. “Wilson… the guests…” she managed, her voice strangled.
“Forget them,” he growled into her skin, his teeth grazing a vertebra. His fingers fumbled with the front clasp of her bra, his coordination compromised by greed and scotch. The silk strained.
The door to the private room swung inward with a soft click.
A young waiter in a crisp white jacket stood frozen on the threshold, a tray of empty champagne coupes held aloft. His eyes, wide as dinner plates, took in the scene: the famed philanthropist, his body wrapped around a disheveled, breathtaking woman, her dress gaping open, his hands unmistakably occupied.
The tray wavered. A glass tipped, rolled, and shattered on the parquet floor with a sound like a gunshot.
Fisk jerked upright as if electrocuted. His hands fell away. Trisha stumbled forward a step, clutching the front of her dress to her chest, the silk cold against her feverish skin. She didn’t look at the waiter. She stared at a violent red slash on the canvas beside her, her breath coming in sharp, quiet gasps.
“You idiot!” Fisk’s voice boomed, all cultured velvet stripped away, revealing the gravel beneath. His face was mottled with fury and interrupted lust. “What is the meaning of this?”
“S-sir, I’m so sorry, the dessert service… I was clearing…” the waiter stammered, backing away, his shoes crunching on glass.
“Get out!” Fisk roared, straightening his tuxedo jacket with a sharp, violent tug. He smoothed his hair, the mask of civility slamming back into place, but it was cracked. His eyes, when they flicked to Trisha, were no longer covetous but irritated, as if she were a distracting mess he now had to clean up. “My apologies, my dear. Staff these days are incompetent.”
Trisha found her voice. It emerged steady, ice over a chasm. “A fortunate interruption,” she said, her tone allowing no argument. She turned, presenting her back to him. “The zipper.”
For a suspended second, he didn’t move. She felt his gaze on her exposed skin. Then, with a grunt of frustration, he pulled the zipper up in one abrupt motion, the sound final. “Of course. Duty calls. The foundation’s work, you understand.” He was already moving toward the door, his moment of conquest spoiled, the transaction now a nuisance.
“Naturally,” she murmured.
He left without another word, his bulk filling the doorway before disappearing into the hall’s gloom. The waiter had already fled.
Alone, Trisha’s composure evaporated. Her hands trembled violently as she fumbled with her wristlet, pulling out a compact. In the mirror, she saw a stranger with smudged eyeliner and flushed cheeks. She took three deep, shuddering breaths, forcing the panic down, locking the shameful, thrilling echo of his touch in a mental box. The camera. The camera was placed. The mission was intact.
She fixed her hair, smoothed her dress, and walked out. Her legs felt hollow, but they carried her. She moved through the ballroom like a ghost, a stunning phantom no one dared approach. The gaiety around her was a muffled, grotesque parody.
Outside, the night air was a slap. She hailed a cab, gave her address, and finally let herself slump against the cold vinyl seat. She pulled out her phone. Her thumb hovered over Milo’s name. She saw his face, his sharp gray eyes, his charming, selfish smile. He had sent her in there. He had to have known.
She called.
He answered on the second ring. “Well?” His voice was light, expectant. “Do we have a window into the kingdom?”
She closed her eyes. “It’s placed. Under the plinth by the bronze atrocity in his private gallery.”
“Excellent. I saw Fisk shepherd you in. Smooth work.” There was a pause. She could almost hear the smirk. “You okay? He looked… enthusiastic.”
The casual question, the knowing tone, ignited something in her. “Enthusiastic?” Her laugh was short, brittle. “He unzipped me, Milo. He had his hands all over me. He would have fucked me against the sculpture if a waiter hadn’t walked in.”
The line was silent for a beat too long. When he spoke again, the playful edge was gone, replaced by a flat, analytical calm. “But he didn’t. And you got the job done. That’s what matters.”
The cab crossed the bridge, the city lights shimmering on the black water. Trisha watched them blur. “You knew that would happen.”
“I knew he was a pig with poor boundaries. I didn’t know he’d try to take a full-course meal in the coat room.” His sigh was audible, a sound of mild inconvenience. “Look, it’s disgusting. It’s also actionable. It gives us leverage. Another card to play. You’re safe. The asset is in place. That’s a win.”
A win. She felt nauseous. The cool, pragmatic dissection of her violation was somehow more chilling than Fisk’s hot, grasping hands. And yet, a part of her—the lawyer, the strategist—nodded in grim agreement. It was a win. A costly one.