The Billionaire Who Bought My Voice

chapter 5: Cracks In The Contract

"Be careful, Lyra."

Mrs. Alvarez's voice stops me in the middle of the hall.

I slowly turn around, keys already in my fingers the way I've taught myself to do. She is standing in her doorway with her watering can, which is the same yellow one she has had since before I moved in. Today, her hair is wrapped in a scarf that is too bright and floral for the dark hallway.

"Careful of what?" I ask, trying to keep my tone light.

She smiles, but her eyes don't show it. "Of the step. Maintenance never gets it right.

I look down. The tile that is loose near the stairs hasn't moved in years. We both know it. This isn't about the step.

"Thanks," I say anyway.

She nods, happy, and goes back to her plants. The talk is over. Warning given.

I keep walking, my shoulders tense.

The elevator shows me my reflection: a neutral coat, hair pulled back, and a face that looks like it could be anyone. I don't like looking in mirrors. They remember things that I don't want to.

The air outside is cooler than I thought it would be. Morning has come, and it's busy and loud. I let myself blend in with it, another body moving with purpose, another woman who is late for something that isn't real.

There are already a lot of people at the café on the corner. I order my coffee and wait by the window, looking out at the street instead of the barista. People walk by in bits and pieces: hands, coats, and reflections in glass. No one looks at me twice.

Okay.

"Lyra?"

The voice comes from behind me, soft but clear.

I don't turn right away.

Another rule is to never react too quickly. People don't have to work for the information that surprise gives them.

When I turn around, I see Marcus Reed standing there with a cup of coffee in one hand and his other hand in the pocket of a coat that looks too expensive for someone who says they are unstable as a freelancer. His hair is a little longer than I remember, and it now has gray streaks at the temples. His smile is still the same: easy, disarming, and practiced.

I say, "Marcus."

He lies, "I wasn't sure it was you." "You vanished."

"I moved," I say.

He chuckles softly. "You've always hated that word."

Yes, I did. Disappearing means you have a choice.

He asks, "Can I sit?" and points to my table.

I wait just a little too long.

He sees.

"Just for a minute," he says. "No talking about work."

We both know that's not possible.

He sits across from me and carefully puts down his cup, as if he's afraid of spilling something important. I can see the lines around his eyes up close. He has gotten better at hiding how tired he is. We used to give each other sources, favors, and half-truths. We used to have faith in each other.

Used to is doing a lot of work.

He asks, "How have you been?"

I say, "Fine."

He lifts an eyebrow. "That's a bad answer."

"It's a true one."

He looks at me closely, even though he sounds casual. "Are you still writing?"

I shake my head. "Not anymore."

A flash of something—maybe guilt or regret—crosses his face. "That's a loss."

"I say that some losses are planned."

He smiles at that, but it goes away quickly. "People still ask about you."

"I don't think so."

"They do," he says. "Especially now."

I get stiff. "Now?"

He looks around, then leans in closer and speaks more softly. "Blackthorne."

The name is like a live wire between us.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I say.

"Come on, Lyra," he whispers. "Your last story is gone. His empire keeps getting bigger. And all of a sudden, you're off the grid. People make connections.

"I don't," I say. "It's better for you."

He breathes out and runs a hand through his hair. "Hey. I didn't come here to trap you.

I say, "You came here because you wanted something."

A beat.

He says, "Maybe." "Or maybe I wanted to let you know."

I hold my cup tighter. "About what?"

He thinks for a second, then takes his phone out of his pocket. He doesn't let me see the screen. He just keeps it on the table with his fingers on it.

"Your name came up," he says softly. "In a place it hasn't been in a long time."

My heart is racing. "Where?"

"I don't know," he says. "Not yet."

I lean back and make myself breathe more slowly. "Then you shouldn't have said anything."

"Maybe," he says. "But I owed you."

"For what?"

He looks me in the eye. "For not fighting harder when they buried your story."

The noise from the café gets louder all of a sudden. Cups make noise. Someone is laughing. Life goes on.

"You made your choices," I say.

"So did you," he says softly in response. "But that doesn't mean the fallout stopped."

The barista calls out my order. I stand up right away, thankful for the break.

I say, "Take care, Marcus."

He looks at me like he wants to say more, but he's weighing the risk of it. He just nods in the end.

He says, "You too, Lyra." "Watch out."

That word again.

Without looking back, I leave the café.

The walk home seems to take longer. Every face looks a little too interested, and every glance that passes by is a little too slow. I tell myself that this is paranoia, not my gut feeling. There is a difference. I learned it the hard way.

I see Mr. Ikenna from two buildings away at the corner. He's leaning against a lamppost and looking at his phone. When he sees me, he looks up.

"Ah, journalist," he says with a smile. "Long time."

"Not anymore," I say without thinking.

He laughs. "Once a journalist, always a journalist."

I keep going. He walks up next to me without being asked.

He asks, "Did you hear the news?"

"I hear all sorts of things," I say.

"Blackthorne gave money for another wing of the hospital," he says. "Big man."

I agree with you. "Very big."

"You used to write about people like him," he says, looking at me. "Why stop?"

I stop walking.

He stops too, shocked.

"Because writing has effects," I say calmly.

He puts his hands up. "Just asking."

"Don't," I say.

He must hear something in my voice, because he nods and backs off, mumbling apologies.

My nerves are raw by the time I get to my building. I go up the stairs instead of taking the elevator, moving quickly and quietly.

I lock the door to my apartment and lean against it with my eyes closed.

I tell myself that I'm overreacting.

Next, I see that the chair next to my table has been moved.

A little bit. Different angle than when I left it.

I look at the counter. The envelope is still there, right where I left it.

Relief comes quickly and then goes away just as quickly.

Because something else has come up.

There is a small white card on the table next to the envelope.

There is no envelope. No reason.

I pick it up with shaky hands.

Four words are printed neatly on the front:

They are keeping an eye on your circle.

I turn it over.

A time. A place to live.

And underneath it, in a handwriting that makes my stomach drop—

Come by yourself.