He frowns. “The air conditioning broke. Hottest night of the summer, too. It could be affecting the security system.”

“Possibly.”

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Someone else will deal with it.” He offers me his right arm like he’s a proper gentleman. “Would you like to accompany me to the clouds?”

“The fifth floor is open? I thought they liked to keep everyone downstairs for events.” I link arms with him, resting my fingers lightly on his wrist as he leads me to the elevators.

“Fifth, sixth, and seventh are open. There’s a super-special donor who pulled some strings and they’re sneak previewing the new cloud augmentation tonight.” We enter the elevator and at the same time as he pushes the button for the fifth floor with his left hand, I press the button that releases the clasp on the access bracelet and remove it from his right wrist.

He doesn’t notice a thing.

“That’s cool, but I love the clouds without augmentation. I don’t think they need it,” I say, pressing a gloved hand to my forehead and dabbing at the moisture forming from the sweltering night, while “accidentally” dropping my purse.

“Me, too,” he says as we both bend to retrieve my bag. “But you’ve got to see this. It’s brilliant.”

We almost knock heads and burst out laughing.

“I’ve got it.” I giggle, rubbing my head as I scoop up my purse, seamlessly hiding the bracelet inside as I drop the identical decoy-bracelet I brought with me on the floor.

“Is this yours?” I pick up the fake bracelet and offer it to him.

The elevator doors open, and he grabs at his wrist. “Oh yeah, I don’t know how it came off. I’d be in big trouble if I lost it. This grants access to every room in the building.” He fastens the decoy-bracelet in place.

“Glad I found it, then.” I smile.

We exit the elevator into the echoey warehouse that is home to Warhol’s paintings from the 1970s and are met with an oppressive wall of air that makes it hard to breathe. Much like the lobby, the only color in the space comes from the paintings lining the white walls. It is furnished with couches covered in white parachute material, but otherwise, the stark gallery is empty. Probably because it’s trying to suffocate us.

Tyson picks up two Campbell’s Soup cans from a bar as we pass it, and hands me one. The outside of the can is slippery with condensation and I resist the urge to press the icy drink to my throat.

“Thank you.” I take a micro-sip of the cocktail, relieved it tastes like sweet blackberries and basil—not tomato soup—though I don’t plan on drinking it anyway. I need to keep my wits about me.