The lobby of Howell Capital is a cathedral of marble and silence at six in the morning.
My heels echo against the floor as I cross toward the security desk. The duffel bag hangs heavy from my shoulder, its strap digging into my collarbone with every step, and I shift it higher as I approach the desk.
Trevis, the night security officer, looks up from his coffee and does a double-take. His gray eyebrows rise toward his receding hairline, and I watch him take in the full picture.
The oversized bag, the fitted dress, the hour that no executive assistant has any business keeping.
"Mrs. Palmer." He sets down his mug and straightens in his chair. "You're here early. The building doesn't officially open for another two hours, you know that, right?"
"I am aware, Trevis." I offer him my most convincing smile. "I have some files to organize before the morning rush, and I work better when the floor is quiet. You know how it is with new jobs, always trying to make a good impression on the boss."
His eyes drop to the duffel bag, then back to my face.
The question sits there between us, unspoken but obvious.
"Gym clothes," I say before he can ask. "I joined that fitness center on Fifth Street and I keep forgetting to bring my gear, so I figured I would just leave it at the office. That way I have no excuse to skip my workouts after work, you know."
Trevis nods slowly, but his expression suggests he is not entirely convinced by my explanation. "That's a lot of gym clothes, Mrs. Palmer. You planning to move in there?"
"I like options." I keep my voice light, casual, like a woman who has nothing to hide. "You never know if you are in the mood for yoga or weights until you get there. And I absolutely refuse to be the woman who shows up to spin class in running shorts. Fashion crimes should be punishable by law, Trevis."
He chuckles, a low rumble that echoes in the empty lobby, and I think I have gotten away with it. Then his gaze shifts to my throat, and his expression changes entirely.
The humor drains from his face. Something careful and knowing replaces it.
"Mrs. Palmer." His voice drops low, gentle in a way that makes my chest tighten. "You might want to do something about your neck before anyone else gets here."
The heat rushes to my cheeks before I can stop it. I lift my hand instinctively to my collar, pressing the fabric against my throat as if that will undo what he has already seen.
"Thank you, Trevis." The words come out quiet. "I appreciate you looking out for me."
He nods once, decisive and without judgment, and gestures toward the elevator bank. "Go on, then."
I scan my card at the turnstile and walk toward the elevators with my spine straight and my chin level, even though every part of me wants to crumble.
The elevator doors close behind me, sealing me inside a box of chrome and glass, and I finally allow myself to look.
The reflection that stares back at me is a stranger with hollow eyes and dark fingerprints blooming across her throat. Four distinct marks on one side, a thumb impression on the other.
I press the button for the executive floor.
The office is empty when I arrive, just as I hoped. I cross to my desk and shove the duffel bag into the space beneath, pushing it back until the shadows swallow it completely.
Then I gather my makeup bag and lock myself in the bathroom.
The process takes longer than usual. Layer upon layer of concealer, foundation, setting powder. I blend and buff and build until the fingerprints disappear beneath a mask of flawless skin.
When I am finished, I look almost normal.
I pull out my phone and scroll to my mother's contact before I can talk myself out of it. The line rings six times before she picks up, her voice rough with sleep and surprise.
"Aubrey? Baby girl, do you have any idea what time it is?"
"I know, Mama." I lean against the bathroom counter and stare at my reflection. "I am sorry for calling so early. I just wanted to hear your voice."
There is a pause on the other end, and it tells me she is sitting up in bed and reaching for the lamp on her nightstand.
"You wanted to hear my voice at six in the morning on a Friday? That is not suspicious at all, sweetheart."
"I have been meaning to call for weeks, really." The guilt presses against my ribs. "New work has been crazy, and I kept telling myself I would do it tomorrow, and then tomorrow became next week, and here we are."
"Here we are," she echoes, and I can hear the weight of everything we have not said to each other sitting in that phrase. "So. How is the new job treating you? You getting along with your boss?"
"The job is good. Challenging, but good." I twist the faucet on and off, giving my hands a task to focus on. "Actually, that is part of why I am calling. I was thinking about coming to visit you this weekend, if you are not too busy."
The line goes quiet except for the distant hum of her refrigerator and the tick of the kitchen clock I grew up falling asleep to. Somehow those familiar sounds make the space between her question and my answer feel wider than the miles separating us.
"Aubrey Marie Novak." My mother's voice sharpens, and the use of my maiden name sends a tremor through my chest. "What happened?"
"Nothing happened, Mama. I just miss you, that is all."
"You are calling me before dawn asking to come home, but nothing happened." Her tone carries skepticism. "You want to try that again, baby girl?"
I press my palm against my abdomen, feeling the slight curve that has started to form there. The truth sits on my tongue—the pregnancy, the divorce, the man whose hands left marks on my throat—but I cannot make myself say the words.
"I promise I am okay." I hear myself say it. "I have just been thinking a lot lately about family and where I come from, and I realized I have not seen you in months. Can a daughter not want to visit her mother without there being some big dramatic reason behind it?"
My mother sighs, long and slow, and I can picture her pinching the bridge of her nose. The way she always does when she knows I am hiding the real story from her.
"You can visit whenever you want, sweetheart. You know that. My door is always open for you."
"Thank you, Mama."
"But Aubrey?" She pauses, and when she speaks again, her voice is softer. "Whatever it is you are not telling me, I will be here when you are ready to say it out loud. You hear me? I will be waiting right here."
The call ends, and I stand alone in the bathroom with the echo of her words hanging in the air.
I will be waiting.
The face in the mirror looks back at me—bruises hidden, makeup flawless, every crack papered over with concealer. Behind that face, a plan is taking shape.
Yesterday I had courage. Yesterday I believed, for one reckless moment, that I deserved the kind of rescue Finn was offering. But the night gave me time to think, and the thinking led me back to the truth I have always known.
My place is nowhere near Finn Howell.
The kiss was a mistake. A beautiful mistake that I will carry with me for the rest of my life, but a mistake nonetheless.
He has Gwen with her diamond ring and her runway cheekbones and her effortless claim on his future. And I have a duffel bag under my desk and a baby growing inside me that belongs to a man I am running from.
He regrets it too. I am certain of that.
The past should stay in the past.
I straighten my collar one final time, hiding every trace of Daniel's hands, and step out of the bathroom to find Finn and tell him I quit.