CHAPTER 4
329 Words
The email arrived at 6:14 a.m., before Elliot had even finished his coffee, subject line dressed up in the kind of restrained elegance that always meant money.
You are cordially invited: The Thorne Foundation Annual Gala, benefiting children's literacy initiatives across the city.
Elliot almost laughed into his cup. Marcus Thorne, funding children's literacy. The audacity of these men never stopped finding new shapes.
He scrolled down. Formal dress. Press in attendance — a line that made something in his chest go quiet and alert at the same time, the way it always did lately. Public events made him nervous in a way private ones didn't; too many eyes, too many cameras, too many chances for Julian Cross to exist in a photograph next to men who'd very much prefer he didn't.
His phone buzzed before he'd finished reading. Reyes.
Saw the invite come through the shared inbox. You're going. This is the first time we get eyes on all four of them in one public room. Don't waste it.
I know how to work a room, Reyes.
I know you do. I'm more worried about who else is going to be in it.
Elliot frowned at that, thumb hovering, and then Reyes sent one more line, almost an afterthought, the kind of detail buried at the bottom of a briefing that Elliot would only understand the weight of hours later.
Press list came through. A journalist named Maya Odein confirmed for the Foundation gala. Independent, investigative background. Word is she's been asking about Thorne's foundation finances for weeks. Watch her. Watch yourself more.
Elliot read the name twice. Meant nothing to him. And yet something about the sentence — asking too many questions, dressed up in different words — sat wrong in his stomach in a way he couldn't immediately name.
He set the phone down, finished his coffee gone cold, and went to find a suit.
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