Chapter Forty-Four
After two long hours of death-defying speed down the highway, our car finally pulls into a reserved parking space outside a towering, triangular edifice in Philadelphia. The blue and white of the sky reflects in its glassy facade, the unrelenting glare of the sun ricocheting right off its edges.
Our driver gets out and rounds the vehicle to open the door for Mel and me to exit. I tighten my grip on the straps of my duffel, clamber out, and breathe in the city.
It’s nine in the morning on a Monday. Traffic is thick, workers are bustling. The air isn’t as cool here, the sun hotter than in New York. I’m numb to all of it.
I have been for the past two days, having put a bullet through the marrow of my emotions. It’s easier this way. Apathy is peace of mind.
Melanie comes up beside me. “Philadelphia, huh?”
We’re meeting Markus. While he’s known us for years, we don’t know him. We don’t know where he’s from or his story. Or where he lives and works.
He always found us. If he needed us, wherever in the world we were, he would find us. Therefore, we were expecting him to come to us for the box. Imagine our surprise when a town car arrived at our flat to fetch us this morning. And now we’re in Philadelphia.
I’ve no reason to be nervous or skeptical. Markus always comes through. He saves our arses when we get in trouble, and he always keeps his promises. We’ve grown to trust him—a man we don’t know.
The driver, a mute bulk of a man with an egg-shaped head, walks ahead of us to the building’s entrance, expecting us to follow.
From his pocket he produces a small, round object that resembles a casino chip and waves it at the center of the closed double doors. There’s a ding, and the doors ease open.
Once we’re over the threshold, he backs out again, and the doors silently and swiftly seal us in.
A wide metal detector stands about six feet from the threshold, before another set of sealed doors. No getting inside the building without walking through it.
With my duffel bag in hand, I take the six steps to the metal detector. It gives off a long, annoying sound—presumably an alarm set off by the music box. In which case Markus will have to come out here himself, because I don’t intend on leaving it in anyone else’s hand. But then the noise stops, and a disembodied voice begins to…read me?
“Name: Timberly Zendra Day. Age: 22. Date of Birth: January 14, 1993. Place of Birth: Gloucestershire, England. Eye Color: Gray. Distinguishing Marks: Mole on neck. Birthmark on wrist. Cheek Dimples. Siblings: Two. Parents: Deceased. Status: Graduate of Stanford University with master’s degrees in engineering, architecture, chemistry, and biochemistry, and a Ph.D. in science and technology. Relationship Status: Single. Criminal Records: None. Visitor Timberly Zendra Day is cleared as safe. No threats detected. Access granted.”
On another loud, obnoxious sound, the doors slide open.
Well, that’s…something.
I walk in.
The doors quickly close again as Melanie steps up. I watch her through the clear glass. From her expression, I can tell she’s being read, but I can’t hear anything on this side.
“Whoa,” she whispers once the doors slide open and let her in, her wide eyes darting around.
Whoa, indeed.
We’re standing in a very sterile, very futuristic building. The ceilings are high, and what isn’t made of glass is white or steel.
A giant marble sculpture of a roaring lion stands off to one side, every detail sculpted to perfection. An all-glass tube in the middle of the building disappears through the ceiling. A white, circular desk sits opposite the lion, with two quasi-identical blondes dressed in white business suits behind it.
“Feels like I’ve stepped into the future,” Melanie mutters.
Too bad I’m too numb to appreciate it.
I amble over to the front desk with the perfect blondes. “Good morning, Miss…” I lean in, trying to read the name on her badge. Except it’s not a name. It reads R0XT42. O-kay then. “Miss Rox.”
“Good morning, Miss Day,” Rox replies with an automatic smile. Her gaze shifts to where Melanie is now petting the marble lion. “Miss Tahira. One moment, please.”
Her fingers swipe this way and that on a touch-screen monitor, then she places two badges on the counter, sliding them across to me. Each says Visitor, with unique codes beneath.
“This is yours, and this is for Miss Tahira.” Rox’s voice is smooth and crisp, but her eyes don’t meet mine, as if she’s wanting to get rid of me. “Please scan your badge to access the elevator. Once inside, you will be taken to the correct floor. Thank you. Have a nice day.”
I murmur, “Thank you.”
But before the words are out, both perfect blondes turn from me, preening and blushing, their smiles soft and seductive, their eyes dreamy.
I look to see what has them on a string and catch a glimpse of blond hair, a strong jawline, and an impressively-built male body as a man exits through the door.
“Bye, Mr—” they start to say over each other, but when the object of their attention disappears through the door, they both sigh and pout, and turn back to glare at me, since I was the reason they missed their chance to interact with Mr. Whoever.
Restraining an eye roll, I back away, calling to Melanie, “Hey, Alice in Wonderland, are you about done gawking?”
She turns from the sculpture, her mouth opening to say something to me.
I’m not interested. I thrust the visitor’s badge at her and mumble, “That’s yours,” and stalk off to the elevator—assuming this glass-tube thing is actually a lift.
As I approach, holographic images appear on the glass of the cylinder. They read:
If Employer, please enter unique PIN. If Visitor, please scan your badge.
I scan mine.
Melanie catches up with me. When nothing happens, she scans her badge, too. There’s a ping. The holographic message disappears, and the tube door retracts.
We walk in, the door closes, and with a sharp jerk, we’re whisked upward at rocketlike velocity.
In a voice oozing with annoyance, she asks, “How long do you plan on staying mad at me?”
“I’m not mad at you.”
“Oh, really?” Her tone is bathed in sarcasm. “Because the Tim I know is an incessant chatterbox, an embarrassing gawker, and an annoying question-asker. Yet, you’ve spoken to me…let’s see, almost not at all, for the past two days. You gave me the cold shoulder for the entire ride here. You walked into this dream building, and it could’ve been a public bathroom for all the excitement you’ve shown. And you expect me to believe you’re not upset with me?”
I reinforce my grip on the duffel. “I’m terribly sorry if I’ve caused you to feel neglected, mate. Why stress, though? You’ll be with your brand-new family after today.”
She clamps her jaw. “Jesus. I’ve always wanted you to loosen up, but I never expected you’d become such an irritating bitch.”
Like a punctuating period on our friendship, the lift comes to a halt, and the door retracts, disgorging us in the middle of what appears to be an office. A vast office. With more of the same glass and steel and stark white, with the city of Philadelphia wrapping around us.
There’s a massive S-shaped desk with a computer monitor atop it and a white leather chair behind it. To one side of the desk is a set of opaque glass doors, and a semicircle of six white club chairs sits five feet away on the other.
Before I can ask where Markus is, the glass doors chime and slide apart, and he walks out.
“Timberly. Melanie.” He greets us with that perennially stern expression of his as the doors close behind him.
Markus is NBA-player tall. Dauntingly tall—somewhere between six foot five and six foot seven. Although he’s not packing a whole bunch of muscle, he’s built like an athlete.
Dressed in a well-cut black suit of exquisite cloth, even in his mid-forties the man looks damn good. His dark-brown hair has just a hint of gray at the sides, and his cold blue eyes and facial structure could rival that of any GQ model.
Those long, strong legs take him to the desk, where he perches, his arms crossed over his chest. “Please, girls”—he gestures to the club chairs—“sit.”
Melanie and I move at once. Markus’s voice has that kind of impact. Downright intimidating. Every single thing he says sounds like a threat, even if he’s discussing the weather. He kind of frightens me, to be completely honest.
“Can I just say, Markus,” Melanie pipes up, “this place is a-c-e, ace.”
He blinks at her, then shifts his cool gaze to me. He uncrosses his arms and presses his palms flat to the desk, his gaze digging straight into me.
Unable to hold it, I drop mine and squirm in my seat.
What on earth did I do to deserve that kind of stare from him?
Between Melanie and me, I’m definitely his least favorite. He tells me I talk too much and ask too many questions. Nothing new there. As a result, she’s the one who usually discusses tasks and transactions with him. Hardly ever does he spares me much attention in person. Let alone this much.
“How are you doing, Timberly?”
I look up quickly, my lips parting. I glance over at Melanie, and she shrugs as if to say, “Hell if I know. You should know what you did.”
Glancing back to Markus, I stutter out, “I-I’m doing f-fine, thank you.”
“You are, huh?” Those icy eyes continue to freeze me.
What’s that supposed to mean?
But before I can gather my courage and ask, he straightens and claps his hands together. “So, let me see it.”
It takes me a quick minute to snap out of it. “Oh, right.” I unzip the duffel and remove the two towels at the top that I stuffed in for cushioning. Then, gingerly, I lift out the music box and set it on the weird-looking coffee table in front of us.
“One golden, Marie Antoinette music box,” I say. “Order complete.”
His gaze flicks to the box for a brief second, then settles on me again. “How did you get it?”
Um. Okay. That’s a strange question, isn’t it? “We stole it.”
“Yes. But how?”
Now I’m getting irritated. And I don’t get irritated. Not at Markus. “It doesn’t really matter how we got, does it? What matters is that we did. You asked us for the box, and we got you the box.”
He narrows his eyes and opens his mouth—to scold me no doubt—but Melanie jumps in, “We were living in the house long enough to take the place apart piece by piece each day, until we found it.”
“That’s how it happened?” he asks her, though his eyes remain locked on me. “You took the house apart, little by little, until you found it?”
“Yes.”
“Jaxon King’s house?”
There’s challenge in Melanie’s voice when she repeats, “Yes.”
And I love her in that moment. We may be at war as friends, but we’re still a team.
I don’t know why it matters so much how we got the box. The fact is, we got it.
“A little impossible to believe,” he says with a disbelieving snort. “But if you say so.” He lowers into the club chair at the end, across from me, and nods at the box. “So, open it.”
“Open it?”
“Yes. Open it.”
Melanie and I exchange glances, and both, as a team, reply, “There’s no key.”
“No key?” Markus asks in disbelief. “You stole the box and left the key? You might as well have found the key and left the box. As long as you have the key, the box will find you.”
“No. There was no key.” I pause, wondering if I should continue on with this lie. “I don’t think Jaxon ever had the key.”
Challenge skates over the ice of his eyes. “On what basis is this belief founded, Miss Day?”
Why is he being such a bloody wanker today? What’s his deal?
“Because he kept the box. He’s been holding on to it for nearly a year and a half now. Why would he hold on to it for so long if he had the key, too?”
Too late, I realize my mistake.
Touching the tips of his fingers together, Markus leans back in his chair and gives me a smirk. “And how, exactly, do you know the length of time he’s had the box for?”
Crap.
“Okay, we’re out of here.” Melanie jerks up to her feet. “You know what, Markus? Keep the damn box. I don’t know what’s crawled up your arse today, but it’s obvious you don’t want to follow through on our deal. We’re not desperate enough to put up with this shite. If you want the bloody key, go find it yourself.”
I’m on my feet before she’s even through with the first sentence, leaving my duffel sitting on the floor.
He doesn’t stop us as we march to the lift.
As I scan my card, I hear a chime. Behind me.
“Timber.”
The tube door retracts.
I don’t go in. Because the voice I just heard is not Markus’s. And it’s not Melanie’s.
It’s a voice that brings both pain and joy to my soul. A voice that both warms and freezes my heart.
A voice I have no business hearing right now.
I don’t want to believe it’s real, so I tell myself I’m imagining things and take a step into the lift.
“Timber.”
The voice comes at me again. No emotion. Just a command.
There’s no denying it this time—the voice is real. All too real.
In slow motion, I turn. In disbelief, I look past a perplexed Melanie and an unreadable Markus.
And I see him.
My soul mate.
My nemesis.
Jaxon King.