London · Chelsea
10 February 2025 · 09:00
Eva sat on the edge of the hotel bed, a phone pressed to her ear. The curtains were drawn tight; only the bedside lamp cut through the dimness. She wore yesterday’s shirt, her hair unwashed, her lips dry and slightly cracked—just enough to make her voice sound like she had been crying.
The phone rang three times. Then it was answered.
“Eva.” Caroline’s voice was calm, as if she had been expecting the call.
“I’m ready to take assignments again,” Eva said, her voice perfectly hoarse. “But I have one condition.”
Silence. Then the faint sound of typing. It stopped.
“My Eva,” Caroline said at last, amusement threading softly through her tone, “What condition?”
“I choose my own clients.”
Another pause. Eva could almost picture Caroline’s express
