Cold cash

Chapter One

The elevator smelled like money.

Not new money, either. The old kind. Leather and cedar and whatever cologne costs more than my rent. I adjusted the strap of my messenger bag and stared at the brass buttons on the elevator panel. Floor 47. Of course.

The doors opened into a hallway so quiet I could hear my own heartbeat. Or maybe that was just panic. Hard to tell the difference anymore.

"Ms. Cole?"

A woman in a black dress appeared from nowhere. No—not a black dress. A uniform. Like she worked here. Like everyone who worked here probably had a 401k and dental and a reason to get out of bed in the morning.

"That's me," I said, holding up the envelope. "Delivery for Mr.—”

"He's expecting you."

She didn't smile. She just turned and walked, and I followed like a lost puppy in secondhand boots.

The office at the end of the hall had no name on the door. Just a number. 4701. And when the assistant—Ms. Vane, her nameplate said, which felt like a warning—pushed it open, I understood why.

No name needed.

Because everyone already knew.

---

The man behind the desk did not look up.

I stood there for ten full seconds. Fifteen. Twenty. The envelope felt heavier in my hand. My boss said this was simple. Drop it off, get a signature, leave. She didn't mention the part where I'd be standing in a room that cost more than my entire neighborhood while a man in a charcoal suit ignored my existence.

"You're late."

His voice was low. Flat. Like he wasn't angry, just correcting a fact.

"Traffic," I said.

Now he looked up.

And I forgot how to breathe.

Not because he was handsome—although he was, in a sharp, annoying way. But because his eyes were the color of cold coffee and they were looking at me like I was a math problem he didn't want to solve.

"The envelope," he said. Not a question.

I walked forward. Placed it on his desk. My hand shook. Just a little.

He didn't reach for it. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and studied me. Slowly. Deliberately. Like he had all the time in the world and knew I didn't.

"You're not the usual courier."

"She quit."

"Why?"

"Does it matter?"

A pause. Then—the smallest curve of his mouth. Not a smile. Something worse. Interest.

"Tell me your name."

"Not part of the delivery."

"Tell me anyway."

I should have left. I should have turned around, walked out, and never thought about him again.

Instead, I said, "Ivy."

He repeated it. Ivy. Like he was tasting the word.

Then he picked up the envelope, slit it open with a silver letter opener that probably cost my tuition, and read whatever was inside without changing expression.

When he looked up again, his face was blank.

"This changes nothing," he said.

"I don't know what 'this' is."

"Exactly."

And for some reason—stupidity, exhaustion, desperation—I didn't leave.

I stayed.