I saw her the second I turned onto Fifth, standing at the foot of a flat-fronted onyx building.

There was no way to miss her.

She wore white again, stark against the glossy black wall she stood before. This time, she’d donned a tailored dress, the sleeves capping her shoulders and the hem brushing the top of her shins. Her profile was elongated, straight out of a fashion illustration from the fifties—hip cocked, chin high, that vivid red hair swept into a bun at the nape of her swan neck. With the phone pressed to her ear, her lips alternated between clipped words and a thin line, a slash of red against creamy skin.

Lila Parker was unhappy. I wondered if she existed in any other state.

Subsequently, I wondered if anyone had ever tried to make her happy.

With the hitch of my leather messenger bag, I picked up my pace just as she met my gaze. She stilled to unnerving stone as I approached. My brows notched—I’d dressed up as she’d asked, or implied. I’d worn a pair of navy slacks, for God’s sake, and ironed my pale blue button-down. I couldn’t be bothered with a tie, and I’d rolled the sleeves, unable to stomach the confines at my wrists. But I’d ironed. And if this wasn’t good enough for her, I didn’t know what was.

If I was to be the representative of Longbourne, I was going to show up for it in full.

Lila blinked, a flash of dark lashes and cool eyes, ending her call before I reached her. She frowned.

“You’re early.”

I gave her a look. “Sorry to disappoint.”

A huff through her nose, the arch of one auburn brow. “Come on. This way.”

She clipped her way into the Skylight building, and I followed. A tendril of hair licked the back of her neck. The impulse to reach out and tuck it into place curled my fingers in anticipation.

I shoved my hand in my pocket to curb the thought.

Lila reached for the brass handle of the massive door, long fingers wrapping around it to pull. I extended a hand to help, but it opened with more ease than a door of that size should have, so instead, I grabbed the edge to hold it open.

“Thank you,” she said brusquely.

As we walked through the entry—a marble, mirrored French affair—I wondered over the suspicions of Lila Parker. What did she expect that left her so wary? She seemed to be waiting for something to go wrong, and I mused as to whether the cause was getting burned badly enough to scar or if she just harbored a compulsion to fix things. Lila was the type to thrive under pressure like a coal turned to diamond. That was where she shone—in bringing order to chaos. The act hardened her, sharpening her to a fine edge.