I smile inwardly. It’s ridiculous that something like that would bother me. It’s only important because it means my value to him is tenuous. That being the case, I need to ensure that at the very least he sees me as a reliable informant.

The only reason his feelings for me matter is because of how they affect my plans. That’s it. That has to be it.

My mind travels back to last night—the drawing, the confrontation, the sex, the words of appeasement afterward. My own feelings for Lander are as mercurial as a tropical climate. One moment it’s sunny, the next stormy . . . and you never know exactly when the hurricane is going to hit.

Of course, that’s my own fault. Years ago I used to imagine what it would be like to be with Lander in his penthouse. I imagined standing next to him at the bar. (I always knew he’d have a well-stocked, elegant little bar.) I imagined him slipping his arms around me as I reached for a traditional corkscrew, something simple with a polished wood handle that would feel smooth and right against my palm. I imagined kissing his cheek as he leered at me. I imagined that his face would be flush with drink. I imagined the crude insults he would frame as compliments while his hands roamed over me, squeezing and pinching.

I imagined taking the corkscrew and sinking the long helix into his throat.

I imagined the blood. The way he would clutch at his neck uselessly.

His pain.

Him dying.

I haven’t played that particular game of pretend for quite some time. Those were the clumsy imaginings of a simple and resentful girl, one who indulged in gruesome fantasies rather than pursue any real course of action. Justice had seemed like too grand a concept, completely out of my reach. Back then I didn’t bother to think about what I was or wasn’t capable of.

And I didn’t actually know what Lander was like. We had never spoken. I had stalked him online and in person. But that doesn’t tell you what it’s like to be around someone in the flesh, interacting with him. I had imagined that he would be condescending and crude, not challenging and passionate.

Back then I had never felt the warmth of his smile.

Back then it was all fantasy.

Now I have a plan. And now I have the maturity to know that I can cause more pain with a kiss than I can with a blade.

But still . . . The fantasies of killing him weren’t that long ago.

I glance again at the elevators as people wander in and out. It’s a thin crowd; this isn’t a high-traffic floor. It’s a place for the elite. The people who step out of the elevators are dressed in a way that subtly advertises their power and success. Five-hundred-dollar ties peek out from beneath wool crepe suits. Delicate heels skinned in various reptile patterns click carefully across the marble. These are the people who get to gamble with the economies of nations. Fortunately Lander’s not among them at the moment.