The air in the Brooklyn morning was thick with the scent of saltwater and ozone, a premonition of the storm that was brewing over the East River. I hadn't slept more than two hours. My skin felt tight, my eyes burning with the ghost of the Dubai video that had played on a loop in my mind all night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Reid—younger, desperate, and trapped—leaning over a blueprint with Julianne Vane. I saw the way her hands moved over his, a partnership built on a debt I was still paying.
