SIGNALS AND SURVEILLANCE
891 Words
The rain had stopped, but the storm was just beginning.
Zara sat cross-legged on her bed, a ratty Ankara bonnet tugged over her curls and a laptop warming her thighs. Her fingers danced across the keys, opening an encrypted archive labeled: Coded Ops, Dormant Leads. She hadn’t touched the folder in months, not since London had become her new hiding place.
But that name, Project Sleet, wasn’t just some cocktail-party buzzword. It had been buried inside a classified whistleblower file she’d received while investigating ThorneTech’s offshore shell companies two years ago. She’d flagged it as too dangerous to pursue at the time, but now?
Now it was back. And it was sitting pretty in the middle of Adrian Thorne’s company.
“Project Sleet… what are you really?” she murmured.
She leaned closer, scrolling through snippets: Black Ice Holdings, ArcticFront Technologies, suspicious data mapping to both Nigerian oil accounts and a now-defunct cybersecurity firm in Estonia.
Her heart ticked faster.
Just then, a sharp knock came at her door. She slammed the laptop shut and slid it under the pillow, grabbing a throw blanket with forced laziness.
“Yes?” she called out.
The door creaked open, and Adrian appeared, his usual immaculate expression wearing a faint frown. “You’re using the secure Wi-Fi again.”
Zara blinked. “You’re monitoring my internet? Bit obsessive, no?”
“It’s my house,” he said, walking in without invitation, holding a tablet that displayed an IP log. “And your devices triggered a security flag. Multiple encrypted pings in the last hour.”
She stood. “I was Googling how to make British food. Forgive me for trying to bridge cultures.”
He held up the tablet. “Then why does your screen say ‘admin dashboard’ and feature a blinking cursor over the words ‘upload evidence’?”
Zara sucked her teeth. “Do you interrogate all your staff this way, or am I just special?”
He stepped closer. “You’re not just staff.”
For a heartbeat, the room narrowed, the air thickened.
Then she scoffed. “Because I’m Nigerian?”
“Because you’re suspicious.”
“Because you’re paranoid.”
“Because you’re hiding something.”
They stood close enough to feel the tension crackle like static. Zara’s breath hitched, not from fear, but something hotter, more reckless.
Then,
“Darling?” a voice called from downstairs.
Zara stepped back.
Adrian blinked like he’d come out of a trance.
“Who is that?” Zara asked.
“Grandmother’s latest idea of assistance.”
---
Beatrice arrived with a smile too polite to be honest.
She had honey-blonde hair twisted into a perfect chignon, a pearl-studded tablet case, and a crisp accent straight from a finishing school catalogue. “Lady Millicent thought you could use help adjusting,” she said, flashing dimples.
Zara’s smile was tight. “Adjusting to what exactly? I mop, not curtsy.”
Beatrice laughed like she’d rehearsed it. “Oh, I’m here to help with etiquette, wardrobe… maybe even posture.”
Zara’s brow twitched. “You planning to train me, or taxidermy me?”
Adrian choked on a laugh. Beatrice smiled thinner.
---
The rest of the day passed in subtle warfare.
Beatrice insisted Zara “practice” tea etiquette using Adrian’s heirloom china. Zara slurped deliberately and asked if the spoons were dishwasher safe.
Beatrice suggested wardrobe updates. Zara pulled on her shortest shorts and a sweatshirt reading: Yoruba Women Don’t Stress.
Adrian noticed. He didn’t comment. Not directly.
“You’re… unusually casual today,” he said, lingering in the hallway.
Zara popped a strawberry in her mouth. “I dress for performance, not approval.”
Beatrice stood behind him, beaming. “Zara’s learning so quickly.”
Zara turned. “Bless your heart, Beatrice. I’m amazed your heels don’t buckle under all that condescension.”
Adrian coughed. “Right. Well. I’ll be in the library.”
---
That night, the house was quiet.
Zara padded softly into Adrian’s private library, wearing socks and resolve. She had to dig further into Project Sleet before someone else did first.
She clicked on the database.
Then, footsteps.
She ducked behind a bookcase as Adrian entered. He looked tired, unshaven, still maddeningly handsome. He didn’t see her.
Zara inched out, only for them to reach for the same book at the same moment.
Their fingers touched. Both froze.
Adrian looked up. “Zara?”
She started to lie. Something stopped her.
“Just… couldn’t sleep,” she said. Her voice was softer than intended.
Adrian looked at her, really looked, and for a terrifying second the air shifted again.
He stepped forward.
She didn’t move.
“Mr. Thorne?” Beatrice’s voice sliced through the air like a blade.
Zara jumped back. “Library tour’s over,” she muttered, brushing past.
Beatrice watched her with narrowed eyes.
---
Later that night,
Zara sat in the dark, her fingers flying over the keyboard. She composed an anonymous email with encrypted files attached:
Project Sleet connected to offshore laundering. Cross-reference ArcticFront. Source unknown. Proceed carefully.
She hit send.
Across the hall, Adrian quietly placed a micro surveillance bug in the corridor wall, his expression unreadable.
He stared at the blinking light, jaw tense.
Was he protecting himself, or watching her?
Outside, thunder cracked again.
Inside, the storm was just getting started.
- Writer
