Blind Devotion

Chapter 2

The safety pin breaks at 1:47pm.

I'm standing outside 432 Park Avenue, trying to keep my blazer closed over the gap in my pants, when the pin just—snaps. The small metal piece falls somewhere into the sidewalk grate and I'm left holding my waistband together with my hand inside my blazer pocket like that's normal. Like I meant to stand this way.

The building is glass and steel and absolutely nothing I belong near.

A woman walks past in heels that probably cost more than my rent. Was my rent. She doesn't look at me. No one does. I'm good at being invisible now.

1:48pm.

I should go in. I should turn around and walk away. Both options feel equally impossible.

The doorman is watching me. Not obviously. But I can feel it. He knows I don't belong here. Probably thinks I'm lost. Or casing the place. Or—

I walk toward the entrance before I can think about it more.

"Good afternoon." His voice is polite. Careful. "Can I help you?"

"I have a meeting. Sixty-eighth floor."

"Name?"

"Vivienne Cross."

He checks his tablet. Takes longer than it should. I can feel sweat starting between my shoulder blades even though it's not warm. The blazer is wool. Too heavy for September but it's the only one I have that still looks professional.

Looked professional. Past tense. The button is hanging by a thread and I didn't have time to fix it and—

"Ms. Cross. Yes. You can go right up."

The relief makes my knees weak.

The elevator is mirrors and soft lighting. I don't look at my reflection. I looked before I left. That was enough.

The button I didn't fix is visible now. Hanging. I tuck it inside the blazer and press my arm against my side to hold it there.

Sixty-eighth floor.

The elevator moves so smoothly I barely feel it. Just the pressure in my ears. The quiet mechanical hum.

I count my breaths. In for four. Out for four. It's something I learned after the trial. When the panic attacks started. When standing in the courthouse bathroom trying to remember how to breathe became normal.

The doors open.

There's no lobby. Just a single door. Black. Unmarked except for a small brass plate that says "Private."

I stand there.

My phone says 1:58pm.

I should knock. I should leave. I should—

The door opens.

A woman. Mid-thirties maybe. Dark hair pulled back. Dressed like she just stepped out of a magazine but somehow not cold about it. Her smile reaches her eyes.

"Vivienne."

Not a question. She knows who I am.

I nod. Don't trust my voice.

"Alexis Rivera. Come in. Please."

Rivera. The name catches somewhere in my memory but I can't place it. Can't think past the fact that I'm here and this is happening and—

The space inside is not what I expected. Warm. Wood floors. Real art on the walls. Floor-to-ceiling windows showing the entire city spread out like something from a dream.

"Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?"

"I'm fine."

I'm not fine. I'm holding my blazer closed with one hand and my other hand is shaking and I walked forty-three minutes to get here because I couldn't afford the subway and my feet hurt and I don't know what I'm doing here.

Alexis is looking at me. Really looking. Not the way the doorman did—careful and assessing. Different. Like she's trying to tell me something without saying it.

"I know this is strange," she says. "The text. The lack of information. I'm sorry about that."

"Do I—" My voice comes out rough. I clear my throat. "Do I know you?"

Something flickers across her face. "We've never met. But I know who you are. What happened to you."

My stomach drops. "I don't—"

"I worked at Castellane. Five years ago. I left before—before everything. But I heard what they did. What he did."

The room tilts slightly. I lock my knees.

"I don't understand."

"You wouldn't remember me. I was in a different department. Kept my head down. But I watched you work. Watched you build strategies that should have made you partner by now." She pauses. "I know what you lost wasn't your fault."

The words hit wrong. Too kind. I don't know what to do with kind.

"Why am I here?"

"Because you need help. And because my employer needs someone with your particular skills." She glances toward the door on the left. "He's very specific about who he works with. I wouldn't have reached out if I didn't believe this could benefit both of you."

"What kind of help?"

"The kind that comes with a salary. Housing. Legal resources to fight back against people who've buried you."

It sounds impossible. Sounds like the kind of thing that doesn't happen to people like me.

"What does he want in return?"

Alexis's expression shifts. Careful again. "That's something he'll need to explain himself. But Vivienne—" She steps closer. Lowers her voice like someone might overhear. "I wouldn't have brought you here if I thought he'd hurt you. I know how that sounds. I know you have no reason to trust me. But I need you to hear that."

Before I can respond, the door on the left opens.

"Alexis." A man's voice. Quiet. The kind that doesn't need to be loud. "Is she here?"

"Yes."

"Good."

He appears in the doorway. Early thirties. Dark suit that probably costs more than I made in six months. Hair that's slightly too long to be corporate standard. Strong features. The kind of face that would be handsome if it wasn't so—

Cold. That's the word. Cold and controlled and absolutely unreadable.

He's looking past my shoulder. Through me. At something I can't see.

"Thank you, Alexis. That'll be all."

It's a dismissal. Gentle but firm. Alexis nods and heads toward a different door. Throws me one last look before she disappears. I can't read it.

The man—Alexis's employer, I assume—moves into the room with absolute certainty. Not cautious. Not feeling his way forward. He just knows. Knows exactly where the chair is. Where the coffee table ends. Where I'm standing.

"Vivienne Cross." He says my name like he's testing it. "Please. Sit."

I don't move.

He tilts his head slightly. "You're still by the door. Considering leaving."

"How did you—"

"Your breathing changed. You shifted your weight." He moves to one of the chairs. Sits. Perfect posture. Hands folded in his lap. "I can hear these things. Among others."

Oh.

He's blind.

I should have realized sooner. The way he moved. The way he's looking through me instead of at me.

"I'm not—I wasn't—"

"You were absolutely considering leaving. It's fine. Most people do when they first meet me." Something that might be amusement crosses his face. "Sit. Please. I promise the furniture is comfortable."

I sit. Perch, really. On the edge of the chair across from him.

"Do you know who I am?"

"No."

"Dominic Ashford."

He waits. Like the name should mean something. It doesn't. Or maybe it does and I'm too far removed from the world where names like that matter.

"I'm sorry, I don't—"

"It's fine. I prefer it, actually. People who know who I am usually want something from me." He leans back slightly. Still perfectly composed. "You're nervous."

It's not a question.

"I don't know why I'm here."

"Because Alexis thinks I can help you. And because I think you might be able to help me."

"With what?"

"Let's start with what I know about you. Then we'll discuss what I need."

My hands are clenched in my lap. I force them open.

"Alexis said you worked at Castellane."

"I didn't. But I know what happened there. I know about Dorian Castellane's accusations. The embezzlement charges. The sealed settlement that wasn't actually a settlement because you couldn't afford to fight him."

Each word is a small cut.

"I know he's still ensuring you can't work. That every application you submit is met with a phone call from his office. That your reputation is being systematically destroyed even though you've already lost everything."

"Stop."

"I also know—"

"Stop." My voice breaks. "Why are you doing this? What do you want?"

Dominic is quiet for a long moment. His head is tilted like he's listening to something I can't hear. Reading something in my voice I didn't mean to give away.

"I want to offer you an opportunity. An unusual one. But first I need to know if you're strong enough to hear it."

"Strong enough."

"You've been through a great deal. Some people break. Others learn to adapt."

"Which one do you think I am?"

His mouth curves. Not quite a smile. "I think you walked forty-three minutes to get here instead of asking for subway fare. I think you're wearing a blazer with a broken zipper and a loose button you tried to hide. I think you're terrified right now but you haven't left." He pauses. "I think you're a survivor. The question is whether you're tired of surviving."

My throat is tight. "What are you offering?"

"Come back tomorrow. Ten a.m. I'll explain everything then."

"Why not now?"

"Because I need you to think about whether you truly want your life to change. Whether you're ready for what that might cost you." He stands. The conversation is over. "Tomorrow, Vivienne. If you don't show, I'll understand."

I stand too. Unsteady.

"How do I know this isn't—"

"Another setup? You don't." He's already turning toward the door he came from. "But you'll come anyway. Because right now, I'm the only option you have that isn't a pink eviction notice."

He's gone before I can respond.

Alexis reappears. Guides me to the elevator. Presses the button for me.

"He's not what he seems," she says quietly.

"What does that mean?"

"It means he's better than he looks. And worse than he sounds." The elevator dings. "Come back tomorrow, Vivienne. Please."

The doors close.

I'm alone with my reflection again. Still holding my blazer closed. Still broken.

But.

Tomorrow.

Ten a.m.

I don't know what he wants. Don't know if I should trust him or Alexis or any of this.

Outside, the doorman nods as I pass. The same woman in expensive heels walks by going the opposite direction.

I have seventy-two hours.

Less now.

And a man who knows too much offering me something he won't name.

I should run.

I'm going back tomorrow.