Chapter five
Vane
I watch the way her pupils dilate when I say the word. Hunt.
Sloane thinks she is a soldier because she can handle a sixteen-hour workday and a cold desk. She thinks she has mastered herself because she doesn't cry when I tighten my grip. But she doesn't understand the difference between endurance and survival. I haven't even begun to look for her breaking point.
The office is a game of intellect. The Monolith... this is a game of instinct.
I watch her hair fall. It changes her. Without the tight, corporate bun, she looks younger, softer, and infinitely more breakable. The salt air is already working on her, stripping away the Manhattan polish and leaving behind something raw. Something I want to ruin.
"You have ten minutes to get a head start in the gardens," I tell her, my voice dropping to a low, jagged rasp. "If I find you before dawn, the penalty is a forfeiture of your weekend rest. You will spend forty-eight hours on the floor by my side, awake while I sleep, working while I rest. You will be my shadow, Sloane. Nothing more."
I watch her throat move as she swallows. The fear is there, but so is the calculation.
"And if I stay hidden?" she asks. Her voice is small, but there is a flicker of defiance behind it. That's the spark I'm paying for. That's the spark I intend to smother.
"If you stay hidden... I might let you sleep in a bed instead of on the floor. I might even forget the intake penalty from Tuesday."
I step closer, my thumb dragging across her lower lip, feeling the frantic heat of her breath. She is terrified. And she is electrified. I can feel the tension vibrating through her, the silent war between the part of her that wants to run and the part that wants to stay and see how far I'll go.
"And if I don't want to play?" she whispers.
I lean down, my mouth inches from hers. I want her to smell the salt and the scotch on my breath. I want her to feel the weight of the cage. "Then the contract is breached, Sloane. And your mother loses her room at the clinic by Monday. I'll have her transferred to a state facility before the markets open. Choose."
The look in her eyes—the sudden, sharp flash of pure, unadulterated hatred—is the most honest thing she has ever given me. It's intoxicating. It's better than any profit margin I've ever seen.
"Go," I command.
She doesn't wait for the ten minutes. She turns and bolts through the glass doors, disappearing into the dark, salt-heavy air of the gardens.
I check my watch. 9:45PM.
I walk to the sideboard and pour myself a glass of vintage Scotch. The amber liquid catches the moonlight, glowing like an eye. I'm not in a hurry. The gardens are three acres of manicured hedges, hidden alcoves, and steep cliffs overlooking the Atlantic. There is nowhere for her to go but into the dark.
I want to see her run until her lungs burn. I want her hiding in the shadows of the hedges, praying I don't hear the frantic thud of her heart. I want to find her just at the moment she finally thinks she's safe.
Because the real "Audit" isn't about the numbers. It's about the fact that I am the only person who truly sees the woman behind the mask, and she is the only person who isn't afraid to look back into the mouth of the beast.
I drain the glass, the burn of the alcohol matching the fire in my blood. I give her nine minutes.
Then, I step out into the night.