It only took me twenty minutes to get to HGVB via subway; twenty minutes to push the unsettling encounter with Mary out of my mind. Twenty minutes to refocus on the Gables and my objective. Twenty minutes . . .

But now I’ve been cooling my heels on the marble floors of an HGVB waiting room for a little over half an hour, growing impatient again. Men like Travis Gable always make people wait, even when they don’t have to. I know that, and I’m prepared for it, except . . .

My eyes slide over to where the elevators are as I shift uncomfortably in my sleek black leather chair. Lander could walk through at any moment. I neglected to tell him that I’d be working with Travis, not Jessica, today. I had my reasons. But if Lander walks in, it won’t look good. He’s infatuated with me perhaps, but I now know that he’s not falling in love with me.

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.