Forever Was A Lie

Chapter 4: The Plan

Aria's POV:

I nearly tossed it.

But something told me not to.

I plugged it in.

Static at first. Then a voice.

Project Omen was not to be a defense system. It was a weapon. Go to Cassian about Incident 7A-Gray.

And then it went black.

No ID. No trace.

Nothing. Sure, please provide the text you would like me to paraphrase.

Except a new name.

7A-Gray.

I put it in my journal and marked it in red.

I didn't at the time.

But I would.

And when I did, I made Cassian Wolfe wish he had never had to bury my father.

*****

I broke out of my dreary apartment, which I had packed into a storage unit. I am a new person. I have cleaned my slate as well as my Google search history. Hello, Grace Taylor, from the age of 27, past au pair in bright Spain, put to school dealing with brats, and which I passed off with French that, although not perfect, I could use to turn a compliment into an insult. Thank you, Caffeine and Duolingo, for the breakdown.

Grace Taylor and Robert Langford are strangers. No past posts of him on her feed, no evidence of their interaction, nothing.

Aria Langford is still at large but only in the depths of my mind. Maybe Cassian’s team could dig her up, but they’ll need a damn good shovel.

Crying tots, yoga moms, and spilled juice.

She is out there in a full mask of mystery with huge sunglasses, a scarf, and that air of secrecy. Raises an eyebrow. “Last time? I saw murder in your eyes. Now you look empty.

“Perfect,” I said. “Means I’m ready.”

She put out an envelope that had a heft that went beyond paper. Inside was a reference letter which they had doctored to a perfect extent and which bore the stamp of some real Barcelona daycare.

She grins a little and sips her coffee. “Told ya about a girl and the director." That one still owes me big. “Shrug. This is the last time I’m saving you. You’re walking into the freakin’ lion’s den, you know.

That’s about what I was thinking; as for Sunday brunch with the angels, not that I’m hoping for that.

She didn’t dilly-dally to argue the point. "I went through my things and produced a black notebook which was thin and worn. “ My record book. From when I ran my little home. Disregard what is in black; the red are your signs.

No cameras in her bedroom. In the rest of the home, they are installed. Also mirrors.

Whoa. My gut dropped.

“Wait, mirrors? Seriously?”

She confirmed it, a grim note to her voice. “Cassian has issues with blind spots. In the bathroom he has heat sensors installed in. Not cameras per se, but he still knows when you go and what you do.

I was stunned. How did you manage to get there?

“I didn’t,” she said. “I escaped.”

The next step was contact.

Cassian didn’t publicize job openings. His team came from word of mouth and from my hand-picked recommendations. I did put one together myself.

I created a profile, Grace Taylor, discreet and experienced, which also includes a recommendation by Nina Griggs.

I sent it through Cassian’s executive assistant via an anonymous delivery service. No resume. Just a note:.

In your most private of matters. I am the one that does not ask.

Two days passed. Then three.

On the 4th of April, we got a message on the new phone, which was registered to Grace’s alias.

Do you have your passport with you? At 11 a.m. Wednesday, report to the Albrecht Building, 2nd floor.

No name. No signature.

I burned the phone after reading.

The Albrecht Building had a scent of polished wood and steel.

I went to the 27th floor by elevator, my hands steady and my nerves in check behind a mask of calm. The doors open to a hall of marble and a woman there.

She sized me up. In my mid-30s, military-bearing, eyes that saw right through you. I am Sabine. This is your pre-screen.

No handshake.

Just motioned for me to follow.

We went into a glass conference room. In it were two men, one tablet, and a single black chair.

They didn’t introduce themselves.

Instead, that is a report of a scenario that goes like this. The child locks herself in the bathroom. She is nonresponsive. There is a sound of a thud. Go.

I rang once, giving out her name. If there is no answer, in with the skeleton key from my pocket, which I have had for this issue, or if I break in. Check for head injury and spinal damage. Keep her still. Call for medical help. Report to the principal.

Sabine turned her head a little. The man with the tablet hit something.

Another question. Another answer.

They didn’t want warmth - they wanted control.

They wanted someone who wouldn’t crumble.

Perfect. Sure, please provide the text you would like me to paraphrase.

In an unexpected turn of the interview.

Sabine took me into a room, which was a play area.

Inside sat a girl.

She has Cassian’s bone structure, which is all she has. At six or seven years old, perhaps she was small. She had large gray eyes, which were very old. Also, she didn’t speak, just looked at me.

This was the daughter.

And the test.

I was quiet as I sat opposite her.

Instead, I took up a puzzle and began to solve it piece by piece. After 5 minutes, I looked up.

She saw. She tilted her head. Curious.

I slid the puzzle toward her.

Her tiny fingers moved at first slowly. Then quickly.

We finished it together.

She didn’t speak a word, just that ghost of a smile, which didn’t last. As if she were trying to be polite.

I went to leave, and Sabine gave me that look—raised eyebrows, mouth twitching—like she was tuned into the world’s weirdest sitcom.

She has never smiled at a stranger; in fact, what kind of message is that?

Maybe I am not a stranger, I said. Well, kind of cryptic. Whatever.

Sabine? I didn’t even ask what you meant. As I thought.

*****

Fast forward 3 hours; it is early in the morning when the doorbell rings, a courier drops off my package, very professional, acting like I run a small info shop out of my home, and he is just a regular delivery man.

Pop it open, and inside:

"You've been selected. Report to 31 Halberd Place. Sunday, 7 a.m. Wear black. No jewelry." That was all. It didn't even have a signature or a fancy wax seal that somehow just makes it feel proper.

Saturday night, I was staring at myself in the cracked mirror of this rental flat that smelled of burnt toast and wet dogs. Aria Langford? She's gone, dead, and buried with Dad. Ashes to ashes.

Grace Taylor's on call now. Calm, obedient, boring almost. Shrinking into the wallpaper, safe and invisible.

But underneath? I was like a blade. Tough and hard, ready for whatever was coming next, and believe me, it wasn't childcare.

The real play? It wasn't about Cassian Wolfe's daughter. The job was to use her. Use her to slice into Cassian. Split him down the middle and expose the secrets.

But first, I had to meet with someone who could answer my never-ending questions.