Zane
The data on the screen was absolute. If I did not sign the acquisition papers for the Bank of Westminster by four o'clock, the market would open on Monday with a bloodbath. My father had spent forty years building the Solarin name into a pillar of global finance, and I had spent the last ten ensuring that pillar was made of reinforced steel.
"The Americans are getting restless, Zane," Femi said. His voice came through the car speakers, polished and persistent. "They want to see the contract signed before the weekend closes. If we delay, they will think the rumors about the union strikes are affecting your confidence."
"My confidence is not the issue, Femi, the issue is that Bond Street has become a parking lot. Tell them I will be at the office in fifteen minutes."
I leaned my head back against the leather headrest. I did not like delays. I did not like the unpredictable nature of this city. Most of all, I did not like the feeling that the world was waiting for me to make a mistake.
Then, the world turned neon.
There was a heavy, wet sound. A thud that vibrated through the roof of the car. For a split second, my mind went to the security threats I had received earlier in the month. I thought of an attack.
Then the pink liquid began to pour.
It was a shade of pink so bright it felt like a physical insult. It flooded the windshield, obscuring the world in a thick, viscous sheet of color. It surged through the open sunroof, splashing against the mahogany dashboard and drenching the seat beside me. I felt the cold, chemical weight of it hit my face. It slid down my jaw and soaked into the collar of my custom made shirt.
I sat in the sudden, silent ruin of my interior. The scent of acrylic and turpentine filled the cabin, sharp and overwhelming.
"Sir," Samuel whispered from the front seat. He looked at me in the rearview mirror, his face pale with shock. "I... I am so sorry. I did not see it coming."
I did not answer. I pushed the door open. The heavy metal glided wide, and I stepped out into the damp Mayfair air.
I could feel the eyes of the public before I even wiped the paint from my eyelashes. I did not need a mirror to know I looked like a joke. The man who was currently holding the British economy in his hands was covered in the color of a bubblegum nightmare.
Then I saw her.
She was standing at the base of the scaffolding, her boots planted on the wet sidewalk. She looked like a storm that had taken human form. Her hair was a wild, dark nest of curls, and her eyes were a bright, defiant blue that seemed to glow against the grey sky. She was covered in paint, her overalls a map of past projects.
She did not look like she belonged in Mayfair. She looked like a jolt of raw, unrefined energy.
"I am so, so sorry!" she blurted out. Her accent was sharp and unmistakable. New York. Queens, if I had to guess. "I am a New Yorker, I swear I am usually more coordinated than this! The wind just caught the tarp!"
She rushed toward me. Before I could move, she pulled a filthy rag from her pocket and reached for my chest. She smeared a fresh, wet streak of pink directly across my lapel.
I caught her wrist.
Her skin was warm, a startling contrast to the freezing drizzle. She smelled like coconut oil and chemicals. For a heartbeat, I forgot the cameras. I forgot the merger. I forgot the ruined car. I only felt the frantic pulse beneath her thumb.
"Do. Not. Touch. Me," I said.
My voice was low, vibrating with a coldness I usually reserved for enemies. I let go of her hand as if it were a live wire.
Around us, the crowd was growing. I saw the flashes of the phones. I knew exactly what was happening. The Shadow of the City was currently being dismantled on social media. By the time I reached the office, my board of directors would be in a state of panic. The Americans would see a man who could not even control a street corner, let alone a multi billion pound infrastructure.
I looked at the girl. She was staring at me, her lip trembling, but she did not look away. She had a grit to her, a stubbornness that was entirely too familiar.
My PR team had been begging me for a way to look less like a corporate machine. They wanted a story that would distract the press from the brutal layoffs the Westminster merger would cause. They wanted a human element.
I looked at the pink paint on my hands. Then I looked at the chaotic American artist standing in the rain.
"Samuel," I said. I did not turn my head. "Get her information. All of it."
"What?" she gasped. Her eyes went even wider. "Wait, you are not going to arrest me, are you? I have a visa! I am a legal resident!"
"I am not going to arrest you," I said. I stepped back into the ruined car, the pink paint beginning to tighten on my skin. "I am going to make you an offer. And considering you just cost me a million pound reputation, you are not in a position to say no."