Chapter 2 — Smoke and Mirrors
Voss Dynamics didn't blink.
By noon, the exchange had our filings; by two, the press office had our lines; by three-fifteen, the mayor handed Adrian a glass plaque for "STEM contributions" in front of a wall of cameras.
I stood three steps behind him in a black dress that looked like I had nothing to hide and nothing left to lose. Evelyn stood to my left, cool as a metronome. Adrian spoke like he audited oxygen: precise, spare, leaving no excess for anyone to twist.
A reporter yelled over the applause. "Mr. Voss, comment on a leaked compliance memo tying your biotech pilot to vendor fraud?"
There it was—right on schedule.
Adrian didn't glance at me. "We don't comment on forged documents," he said. "We file." He stepped back. "Ms. Shao."
Evelyn took the mic, voice a velvet knife. "Shae & Co. has been removed from all engagements effective noon. Notices are filed with the exchange. We'll be seeking sanctions for malicious interference. To the anonymous sender: see you Thursday."
A ripple rolled through the press pool. Someone caught my face in the shot—calm, a little bored, like the storm we'd planned was just weather.
We left to a clatter of questions and cameras. In the corridor's hush, Adrian finally looked at me.
"You anticipated the timing," he said. Not a question.
"You anticipated everything else," I said. "Division of labor."
Evelyn's phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen and smiled without showing teeth. "Gala tonight?"
"Mm," I said. "Time to take kindness to the cleaners."
---
The charity gala glowed like a chandelier pretending to be a constellation. Lin Group logos floated on frosted glass; donors drifted from praise to praise. Vivian shone in ice-blue silk, the kind that photographs as benevolence. Casper was cut to perfection and hollow as a flute.
"Mia," Vivian said, air-kissing. "You look… improved."
"I've been sleeping," I said. "How's your conscience?"
"Light," she said.
"Good. You'll need it to float."
We were on schedule. Casper would brag to Hermes about "Thursday at three" over a drink; Vivian would pull an "urgent audit" on stage to embarrass me into silence; and I would let them think I hadn't seen the wire tucked under the podium.
I took the stage when the bidding ended, talking about the clinic's new wing, the children whose hearts ticked like metronomes in the dark. I thanked donors by name. I thanked my father last. I did not look at Vivian when I thanked her most of all.
Then I turned a page.
The first slide bloomed behind me: a neat, damning Shae & Co. invoice—misdated by thirty-one days. The second slide: the shell routing that made a small loss look like a wound. The third: a text from Hermes confirming a delivery window—Thursday 3:00 p.m.—requesting "sentiment manipulation favors."
The room made a sound like glass remembering it can break.
"I know fiscal housekeeping is dull," I said. "But cleaning up in private is better than bleeding out in public. So we invited help."
The side doors opened. Three regulators and two reporters stepped in behind Evelyn, who moved like the tide: inevitable, no hurry. My father's jaw tightened—the old tell. Casper's smile snapped like sugar.
Vivian didn't blink. She never wasted motion. "These slides could be—misunderstood," she said gently.
"Then let's understand them," I said.
A regulator took the mic. "Ms. Lin, why prepare this in advance?"
"Because the people trying to hurt Voss planned to practice on children first," I said. "I thought they should fail both times."
Cameras ticked. Words flew. Adrian appeared at the edge of the stage without ceremony, gravity in human form. He didn't touch me. He didn't need to.
"Ms. Lin," he said, voice for the nearest recorder. "Adequate work."
I almost laughed. Evelyn's mouth bent, the smallest dishonest smile.
Casper reached for my elbow. Adrian's presence turned his hand into air. Vivian turned her head slightly, catching the reflection of her own face on ten different surfaces, calculating which one the crowd would believe.
My phone vibrated on the podium.
Unknown: Your timing is cute. Thursday 3 p.m. Still on. Try not to trip the CEO before then.
I lifted my eyes to the back of the hall where a server with a silver tray watched us the way a person watches a fuse. I snapped a photo of the tray—shallow, mirrored—just long enough for the lens to catch the server's cuff where a tiny Hermes wing was stitched into the hem.
I looked back at the reporters. "We'll release our internal findings at noon tomorrow," I said. "Names included. Consider this an invitation to pack light for Thursday."
Vivian finally moved—just her lashes, a breath of shadow. "Mia, darling, you're overtired. Why don't we speak to the board privately?"
"I already have," I said. "They prefer not to be indicted in a pack."
A murmur rolled, quick and mean. Casper's phone lit up—HERMES calling—then went dark when he didn't answer. The regulators spread through the room like stains. Donors suddenly remembered they'd left ovens on at home.
I stepped away from the podium. Adrian fell in beside me without signaling, as if we had practiced it for years. We hadn't. It just fit.
"Tomorrow," he said under the noise, "we discuss your source."
"Good," I said. "I've been waiting to tell you everything except the part that gets you killed."
---
At midnight the archives smelled like paper and electricity. We didn't go to a chapel. We went to Floor 57. Two security officers stood like statues; Evelyn signed like a surgeon.
The vows were names and dates and signatures. No flowers, no kiss, no pretending this was anything but a tool we sharpened together.
"Quarterly renewal," he said.
"Agreed."
"Four people know."
"Agreed."
"Protection clauses—"
"Aggressive," I finished. "Yes."
He turned the ring once in his fingers before sliding it onto mine. It was a plain band, heavy as a door key.
"Congratulations," Evelyn said dryly. "May your enemies die tired."
The elevator doors closed on the secret wedding and opened on a city that still owed us blood.
My phone rang as we stepped into the night. Not a text. A call. Unknown. The kind of number that forgets it exists when you try to call back.
I answered. "You're late."
A man's voice, smiling with his teeth covered. "Thursday at three," he said. "The rooftop has such a view. Let's not make the same mistake twice."
The line clicked dead.
"Who?" Adrian asked.
"Hermes," I said. "He wants an audience."
Evelyn's eyes sharpened. "Then let's give him one."
The calendar invite landed in all three of our inboxes at the same time—subject line blank, location a single word: AGAIN—and a time stamp: Thu 3:00 p.m., Read Receipts: Disabled.