No, he said it isn’t. The elevator descended one floor. A soft chime sounded. The doors stayed closed. Immani folded her arms over herself. Then give me the rest. Marcus studied her face for a moment, taking in the exhaustion there, the swelling around her eyes, the way she was forcing herself to remain upright through sheer will.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and even. Your sister’s name crossed my desk months ago. Immani frowned. What does that mean? It means Kesha has been involved in financial activity that drew attention. At first, it was just numbers, irregular patterns, small decisions that didn’t make sense on paper unless they served another purpose. Then, I started looking closer.
He paused. That’s how I learned about her and eventually about you. The elevator doors opened into the lobby, but neither of them stepped out immediately. Ammani stared at him. You investigated my sister. I investigated a pattern he corrected. She happened to be in the middle of it. Something cold moved through Ammani’s chest and me.
Marcus held her gaze. You were never the target. She searched his face for mockery, manipulation, anything that would help her place him safely in a category she understood. She found none of it. That unsettled her more than charm ever could have. They stepped out into the lobby. Near the front entrance, a middle-aged janitor was slowly pushing a cleaning cart across the polished floor, her silver braids wrapped into a neat bun under a dark scarf.
She glanced up when she saw Marcus, then stopped so suddenly that one of the spray bottles on the cart tipped and rolled softly against a stack of folded towels. Mr. She began, then caught herself. Marcus’ eyes shifted to her for half a second. It was a small look, barely anything, but it was enough. The woman straightened at once, visibly flustered. “Sorry,” she said quickly.
I mean, good evening. Immi noticed. Marcus inclined his head politely and kept walking. But now her mind was working fast, pulling at details, arranging them into uneasy possibilities. The janitor had known him. Not casually, not the way hotel staff recognize regular guests. There had been difference in that pause, recognition, instinct.
As they reached the valet area, another man approached briskly from the far side of the driveway. He was dressed in a dark overcoat carrying a tablet, the posture of someone used to managing serious things quickly. He slowed when he saw Immani, then looked to Marcus. Sir, he said, lowering his voice, but not enough. The board is ready whenever you are.
Immani went completely still. Marcus’s expression hardened very slightly. Not now, Ellis. The man immediately inclined his head. Understood. He stepped back. The night air felt suddenly colder against Emani’s skin. She turned toward Marcus with her eyes narrowed, not angry exactly, but sharply, intensely awake. The bored Marcus said nothing.
“Who are you?” He looked at her for a long moment, then toward the street beyond the hotel awning, where Atlanta traffic moved in streams of red and white light beneath the dark sky. When he looked back at her, something in his expression had changed, not softened, clarified. I’m the man who can end what your sister started, he said.
But only if you stop asking the wrong question. Immani’s breath caught. Then what’s the right question? He stepped closer, not enough to crowd her, just enough that she had to choose whether to hold his gaze or look away. She held it. “The right question,” he said quietly, “is whether you’re willing to let the truth come out, even if it changes everything.
” Her heart pounded, her thoughts raced. Nothing about this man fit the life he appeared to be living. Not the calm, not the people around him, not the way strangers almost called him something they shouldn’t. Not the way an assistant had appeared out of nowhere speaking of a board as if Marcus were expected at the head of it. And beneath all of that, there was something even harder to ignore.
He had never once pied her, never once tried to buy her trust with softness. He spoke to her like she was already standing at the edge of a decision that mattered. From the corner of the valet area, the janitor woman, Miss Loretta, according to the brass name tag on her uniform, was still watching. Her lined face held the strained look of someone carrying information too heavy to keep much longer.
At last, she pushed her cart a little closer, lowered her voice, and addressed Immani directly. baby,” she said carefully, her eyes flicking once toward Marcus and back. “That man is not who you think he is.” Marcus closed his eyes for the briefest second, as if he had known this moment would come, and simply hoped for a few more hours before it did.
