Within These Walls

Chapter Two : The Mask and the Mirror

Nova Starling Quinn

The park bench is hard, but it keeps me alert. I watch Marcus Thorne’s sedan disappear into the dark mouth of the underground garage. I check my watch. It is 8:45 AM. I have exactly fifteen minutes to get to my own office. People think my life is all shadows and secret files, but the best way to hide a lie is to wrap it in a very boring truth.

I stand up, smoothing my black trousers. I am tall, and as I walk through the streets of Brickell, I can feel eyes on me. I ignore them. I walk into a sleek, glass-fronted building four blocks away from Thorne’s. The sign on the door reads: Quinn Digital Solutions.

"Morning, Nova," Sarah, my receptionist, says without looking up from her screen. She’s twenty-two, loves iced lattes, and thinks I spend my days fixing software bugs for law firms.

"Morning, Sarah. Any calls?" I ask. I keep my voice professional and flat.

"Just the usual. A guy from a logistics company in Doral needs a security audit. I put the file on your desk."

I nod and walk into my private office. I shut the door and lock it. I don't turn on the overhead lights; I prefer the glow of my three monitors. For the next six hours, I am a tech consultant. I run code, I patch vulnerabilities for small businesses, and I pay my taxes. This job is the wall I built. It provides the clean money I use to buy my gear and pay for my loft.

By 2:00 PM, my back is stiff. I’ve spent the last hour "auditing" the Thorne Legal Group’s server from the inside. I’m not looking for bank accounts yet. I’m looking for his calendar.

I find it buried under a layer of encryption that would stop a normal IT guy, but it doesn't stop me. I click into the entry for tonight.

> 7:00 PM: The Emerald Gala. Grand Ballroom, InterContinental.

My heart gives a single, heavy thud. Thorne won't be in his office tonight. He’ll be at the gala, drinking expensive champagne and pretending his hands aren't covered in soot.

I lean back in my chair, staring at the screen. The gala is high-security. They check invitations at the door. There are cameras everywhere. But if Thorne is at the gala, his office will be empty. The security guards at his building will be relaxed. The cleaning crew leaves at 8:00 PM.

I have a choice. I can try to find a way into that gala to see who Thorne is meeting, or I can use the empty building to finally get my hands on his physical files. I touch the cross tattoo on my cheek. My skin feels hot.

I pick up my phone and call a contact I haven't used in months.

"I need a ticket to the Emerald Gala," I say when he picks up. "And I need a gown that makes me look like I belong there, but hides enough gear to get me into a server room."

"Short notice, Nova," the voice on the other end says. "That's going to cost you."

"Send me the invoice," I reply. I hang up.

I look at the silver key on my desk. Tonight, I’m going to be in the same room as the man who stole my future. I need to stay calm. I need to be a shadow. But as I think about Thorne’s face, my fingers curl into a fist so tight my nails dig into my palms.

I'm not just going to watch him tonight. I'm going to start the fire that burns his world down.

Nova is now committed to the gala. She has a day to prepare her "mask"—the gown, the gear, and the story she’ll tell if she’s caught.

Nova Starling Quinn

I stare at the digital invitation I just intercepted. My eyes narrow.

> “Strictly Black Tie. Couples Only. No Individual Entry.”

>

I let out a sharp breath and lean back, my chair creaking. I don't do dates. I don't do "plus-ones." Having another person standing next to me is just a liability—a witness I don't need. But the InterContinental is like a fortress tonight. If I try to slip in through the service entrance, I risk being flagged by the biometric scanners before I even get near Thorne. I need a front-door entrance. I need a shield.

I pick up my phone and dial the one person who knows how to navigate the social minefields of Miami without asking too many questions.

"Lena," I say as soon as she picks up. "I need a favor. A big one."

"Nova? You sound... intense. Even for you," Lena’s voice is light, but she’s sharp. She’s the only person who has ever seen me cry, though it was years ago and I’ve tried to make her forget it.

"I need a date for the Emerald Gala tonight," I state. I don't sugarcoat it. "It’s couples only. I have the gown, I have the gear, but I don't have the man. He needs to be tall, he needs to look like he belongs in a tuxedo, and most importantly, he needs to be someone who won't talk to me."

There is a long silence on the other end. I can hear her typing.

"Funny you should ask," Lena finally says, her voice dropping an octave. "I actually know someone. He’s... well, he’s perfect for you, Nova. He’s a professional. Very quiet. Extremely tall. He’s been looking for a way into that gala for his own reasons, but his usual circles are a bit too 'stiff' for him to find a last-minute partner."

"Is he a civilian?" I ask, my grip tightening on the phone.

"Let's just say he understands the importance of discretion. He’s a friend of a friend. His name is Dante. I’ll send him your address for the pickup at 7:00 PM. Don't be rude, Nova. Try to pretend you’re a human being for four hours."

"I'm always a human being, Lena," I say, though I know it's a lie. "Just tell him to be on time and stay out of my way."

I hang up and look at the time. I have five hours.

I spend the afternoon prepping. I don't eat lunch; my stomach is too tight with anticipation. Instead, I drink another espresso and start the process of becoming "Nova Starling Quinn, the socialite."

I take a long, hot shower, scrubbing my skin until it glows. I use a heavy, musk-scented lotion—nothing floral, nothing sweet. I want to smell like shadows and expensive wood. I blow-dry my hair until it’s a straight, black curtain of silk, the blonde highlights gleaming like polished brass.

Then, I pull out the gown. It’s midnight blue, almost black, with a slit that goes all the way up my thigh—perfect for the knife strapped to my garter. The back is completely open, showing the dragon ink that curls down my spine. I look at myself in the full-length mirror. I am tall, I am dark, and I look like a predator disguised as a prize.

My heart starts a slow, heavy thud against my ribs. I don’t know this 'Dante.' I don't like the idea of a stranger seeing me like this. But if he gets me past that front door, he’s worth the risk.

I check my hidden earpiece and my small clutch bag, which holds a slim hacking device instead of lipstick. I stand by the window and watch the sun start to dip below the Miami skyline, turning the clouds the color of a fresh bruise.

At 6:58 PM, a sleek, black SUV pulls up to the curb outside my loft. My breath hitches in my throat. This is it.

"Let's go to work," I whisper to the empty room.

I grab my wrap, check the silver key in my velvet pouch one last time, and head downstairs to meet a man I’ve never seen, but whose life is already tangled with mine in ways I can't yet feel.

Nova is heading down to the car, unaware that the "quiet professional" in the driver's seat is the same detective who wants Thorne dead just as much as she does.