Chapter 7

Lucy's POV

I'm deep in the zone—the kind of hyperfocus that only comes when I'm translating psychological theory into design language—when a familiar voice shatters my concentration.

"Lucy. We need to talk."

My fingers freeze on the tablet. I don't need to look up to know who it is. Quinn's voice has that particular blend of entitlement and forced casualness that used to make me feel safe, back when I was stupid enough to believe his lies.

I take measured breaths before I raise my head. He's standing at the edge of my desk, hands in the pockets of an expensive suit I don't recognize, looking like he belongs here. Like he has the right to just walk into my workplace and demand my attention.

"How did you get past security?" My voice comes out flat, professional. I'm proud of that.

"I told them I was here to see you. Old friend from Columbia." He flashes that smile—the one that used to make my stomach flip, before I learned it was the same smile he gave Diana when he was sleeping with both of us. "Can we grab coffee? There's a place across the street—"

"No."

The word lands between us like a physical barrier. Quinn's smile falters for just a second before he recalibrates, switching to the wounded puppy expression.

"Lucy, come on. I know you're angry, but we can't just—"

"We can. We are." I save my work and meet his eyes. "You made your choice when you chose Diana's investment fund over five years of us. I made mine when I blocked your number. There's nothing left to discuss."

"That's not fair. You don't understand the pressure I was under"

"So you decided to sleep with my best friend?" I keep my voice low. "That's not pressure, Quinn. That's character."

"That's not how it happened—"

"That's exactly how it happened. Quinn." My hands are shaking now, but I keep my voice steady. "I saw it by my eyes"

He has the decency to look uncomfortable. "I was going to tell you about Diana. I just—the timing was complicated."

"The timing was calculated." I sling my bag over my shoulder. "You needed her money more than you needed my conscience. I get it. Capitalism rewards sociopaths. But don't come to my office and pretend you're here to make amends."

"Lucy, wait. Please." His hand catches my elbow, and I freeze. Not because I'm scared—though there's a flicker of that, muscle memory from the last time we argued and he grabbed my wrist hard enough to leave marks—but because I can feel someone watching us.

I turn my head slowly and see Ethan standing twenty feet away, half-hidden behind a support column. He's not moving. Not speaking. Just watching with an expression I can't quite read—something between cold fury and absolute stillness, like a predator deciding whether to strike.

Quinn follows my gaze and drops my arm immediately. "Is that—holy shit, is that Ethan Reid?"

"Let go of me," I say quietly.

"I wasn't—I didn't mean—" Quinn's stammering now, his earlier confidence evaporating. "Lucy, I just need five minutes. Please. It's about your mother."

The words hit like a physical blow. I stop breathing for a second. My mother.

Quinn sees the opening and presses. "I found something. In the old case files. Something that doesn't add up. But I can't—I need your help to make sense of it. Please, Lucy. I know you hate me, and you have every right to, but this is bigger than us. This is about clearing her name."

I want to tell him to go to hell. I want to believe he's lying, manipulating me the way he always did. But there's something in his voice—a desperate sincerity I haven't heard since we were twenty-two and still believed we could change the world together.

"What did you find?" My voice sounds strange, distant.

"Not here." He glances at Ethan, who still hasn't moved. "Can we—is there somewhere private we can talk?"

This is a trap. He's using your mother to manipulate you. Walk away.

But what if he's not? What if there really is evidence that could prove my mother wasn't the monster they made her out to be? What if I walk away and lose the only chance I'll ever have to clear her name?

I'm still frozen in indecision when Ethan starts walking toward us. Not rushing. Not aggressive. Just moving with that same controlled precision that makes my nervous system light up with contradictory signals—danger and safety and run and stay all at once.

Quinn sees him coming and takes a step back. "I should—I'll just—"

"Mr. Matthews." Ethan's voice is perfectly neutral, but there's something underneath it that makes the temperature in the room drop five degrees. "I don't believe you have an appointment."

"I—no, sir. I was just—Lucy and I are old friends from Columbia, and I—"

"Ms. Lowe and I were in the middle of a conversation." Ethan's eyes don't leave Quinn's face. "About a work matter. So unless you have business with Aegis, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

It's not a request. Quinn knows it. I know it. The security guard who's suddenly appeared by the elevator knows it.

Quinn looks at me, desperate. "Lucy, please. Just five minutes. I'll wait outside. Or we can meet somewhere else. Anywhere you want. Just—please don't shut me out. Not about this."

I should say no. I should let Ethan's security escort him out and never think about him again. But the truth of my mother is standing between us, and I can't walk away from even the smallest possibility of solve.

"Tomorrow," I hear myself say. "Noon. The Starbucks on 42nd. You have ten minutes to tell me what you found. And if you're lying—if this is another manipulation—I will destroy you, Quinn. Professionally and personally. Do you understand?"

He nods, relief flooding his face. "Thank you. Thank you, Lucy. I won't—I promise this is real. I'll bring the files. You'll see."

Ethan makes a small gesture, and the security guard steps forward. "Sir, if you'll come with me."

Quinn goes without protest, throwing one last look over his shoulder. "Tomorrow. I won't let you down."

The elevator doors close behind him, and suddenly it's just me and Ethan in the empty design floor, the silence stretching between us like a live wire.

"Are you okay?" His voice is different now—softer, but with an edge of something I can't identify.

"I'm fine." The automatic response. The lie I've been telling since my mother's mugshot appeared on the front page of the Times.

"Lucy." Just my name, but the way he says it makes my throat tight. "You don't have to meet him. Whatever he claims to have found—I can have my legal team investigate."

"I owe my mother everything." The words come out sharper than I intend. "If there's even a chance he's telling the truth—"

"Then I'm coming with you."

"What? No. Absolutely not."

"I'm not asking permission, Lucy." His voice is calm, reasonable, which somehow makes it more infuriating. "If you insist on meeting him, I will be there. You don't have to acknowledge my presence. But I will be in that Starbucks, and if he so much as raises his voice at you, I will remove him."

I should argue. Should tell him this isn't his decision to make. But the truth is, I'm terrified of facing Quinn alone, and having Ethan there—even at a distance—makes the prospect slightly less unbearable.

"Fine," I say finally. "But you stay at a different table."

"Agreed."