Maya glanced up at holiday, then at hunter, then back at the page.
Her eyes stayed locked on the page like if she stared long enough, the words would rearrange themselves into something less insane.
They didn’t.
Clause Seventeen.
Her grip tightened slightly around the pen in her hand.
“What is this?” she asked again, quieter this time—but sharper.
Holiday didn’t answer immediately.
That alone told Maya everything she needed to know.
The silence wasn’t confusion, it wasn’t hesitation either. It was calculation.
Holiday closed the portfolio slowly, far too calmly for someone who had just watched a deal tilt off balance. Then she placed it back on the bed like she was deciding where to bury a body.
Maya didn’t blink.
“I asked you a question,” she said again, quieter now—but sharper
