Zeke left the conservatory, the quiet menace of the penthouse giving way to the controlled chaos of the executive hallway. He made a quick call, his voice clipped.
"Get Mister Sim a comfortable room and put him to work. I want a full report on everything he knows by dawn."
He ended the call, the cool efficiency of the order settling around him like a second skin. As he turned a corner, a sudden collision broke his focus. A splash of cold liquid—water, by the feel of it—soaked through his shirt sleeve. Instinctive irritation flared.
"Can't you watch where you're going?" he snapped, his voice sharp in the sterile hallway.
He looked down, ready to freeze an underling with a glare, and stopped.
It was her. The same pole dancer from the casino floor. Up close, she was even more striking, her eyes wide not with the practiced allure of the Grotto, but with genuine, startled fear. She clutched an empty crystal tumbler, her knuckles white.
"I'm so sorry, Mister Black. Very sorry," she stammered, her voice softer than he expected. She bit her full lower lip, a gesture that seemed to hold back a wave of panic. A shimmer of unshed tears glossed her eyes.
He couldn't lie. The fierce, out-of-place beauty he'd seen from a distance was now a scared, vulnerable mess right in front of him. And there was something undeniably… captivating about it. A scared mouse who'd just run headlong into a wolf.
His anger dissipated, replaced by a cold, curious scrutiny. He pulled a monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket, not to dab his own sleeve, but to offer it to her.
"The glass isn't the problem," he said, his voice lowered, losing its edge but gaining a new, quiet intensity. "The problem is you're somewhere you're clearly not supposed to be. Employees don't wander this hall. So tell me," he continued, his gaze locking onto hers, "what is a scared little dancer doing in the executive wing.
"Executive wing? Oh no, I must have entered the wrong floor," the timid girl answered, her voice barely a whisper. "I was sent to bring water to the... to the 24th floor. I think I must have pressed the penthouse button by mistake. I'm so, so sorry."
Her eyes widened further as she looked at his sleeve. "Oh, Mister Black, your coat is completely wet. You should go and change in the restroom," she said, suddenly urgent, her previous fear now channeled into flustered concern. She gently, but insistently, urged him toward the door of a nearby private washroom. "I'll go look for a change of clothes for you!"
Before Zeke could even answer—before he could question why a dancer would be fetching water for the corporate floors, or how she knew this private hallway had a restroom—she had already spun around and dashed toward the stairwell, presumably toward the 24th floor.
He stood there for a moment, the chill of the water seeping into his skin, but his mind was elsewhere. The scare was gone from her eyes too quickly, replaced by a performative urgency. Her story was just a little too clumsy, her escape just a little too fast.
A scared mouse, he thought again, but now the thought had sharpened into a point. Or a very clever cat.
Instead of heading into the restroom immediately, he pulled out his phone, his eyes still on the empty stairwell door.
"Security," he said quietly when the line connected. "A female performer, dark hair, in a silver gown. She just left the penthouse executive hall. Find out who she is, what she was really doing here, and where she goes. Don't let her see you."
He ended the call and finally pushed open the restroom door. The encounter had lasted less than a minute, but the game had just gotten another, much more interesting, player.
As Jenny exited the penthouse, her heart hammered against her ribs. The polished doors of the private elevator slid shut behind her, sealing her away from Zeke Black's penetrating gaze. The cool, composed mask she had worn in front of him melted instantly, replaced by raw, urgent panic.
She quickly pressed the button for the 24th floor, her mind racing. A change of clothes. I need to find a change of clothes for Mr. Black before he gets angry. The thought repeated like a mantra, sharp and clear above the static of her fear. She couldn't afford to make him more suspicious than she already had.
Her reflection in the elevator's brass panel showed a woman on the edge—flushed, wide-eyed, but with a determined set to her jaw. The performance wasn't over. It had simply moved to a new stage, and the stakes had just skyrocketed.
When the doors opened onto the 24th floor—a plush, silent corridor of executive suites—she stepped out with purpose. Her earlier disorientation was gone, her steps quick and sure as she moved toward the staff supply room she knew was there. She had studied the building's layout for weeks, memorizing every service entrance and hallway.
He's watching, she thought, feeling the weight of unseen eyes. They all are. But right now, her only role was that of a clumsy, apologetic employee, scrambling to fix a mistake. She had to play the part perfectly. Everything depended on it.