He left at two in the morning.
Not because they were done — they weren't done, there was so much more to go through — but because he needed air and she needed him out of her apartment before the careful professional distance she'd maintained all evening developed any cracks he could see.
"I'll be in touch tomorrow," he said at the door.
"Don't tell Victoria anything," she said.
"I'm not an idiot, Elara."
She almost said *you were,* but that was unfair, and she was trying to be fair. "I know. I'm sorry."
He paused in the doorway. He looked at her in the way he'd been looking at her all night — that searching thing, that reaching — and she made herself hold it steady, made herself look back without flinching.
"Did we—" He stopped. Frowned. "Was it—" He tried again and couldn't find the sentence.
"Yes," she said simply, answering the question he couldn't ask. "It was."
He nodded once, like that confirmed something. Then he left.
She closed the door.
She stood with her back against it for exactly thirty seconds.
Then she slid down it and sat on the floor of her hallway and pressed her palms flat against the cool wood and breathed.
— ✶ —
The next morning, Mara called at seven-forty-five.
"Why does Reid Enterprises' overnight server log show an external access from your IP address?" she asked, without preamble.
"How do you know what Reid Enterprises' server log shows?"
"Because my girlfriend works in their IT security and mentioned an anomaly this morning and I recognized the IP because it's the address I send your Netflix passwords to." A pause. "Elara. What did you do?"
"Something that needed to be done."
"Does it involve Callum Reid?"
"Yes."
"Does it involve you potentially getting hurt?"
"Potentially."
"I'm coming over." The line went dead.
Mara arrived with pastries, an overnight bag, and the expression of a woman who had given up asking Elara to be careful and was now committed to being present for the fallout instead.
Elara told her everything. All of it. The drive, Garrett, the audio file, Callum in her kitchen at midnight.
Mara ate half a croissant and didn't interrupt once.
"The hospital payment," she said, when Elara finished. "Someone on staff was paid to manage Callum's — what did the memo say? Narrative."
"Extended narrative management."
"Do you know who?"
"Not yet."
Mara was quiet for a moment. "What does Callum think about all of this? About you, specifically?"
Elara looked at the table. "He feels guilty. He's angry. He's— fractured in a way I recognize because I spent six months feeling the same way."
"That's not what I asked."
Elara looked up at her.
"Elara. What does he think about *you.*"
"He doesn't remember me," she said firmly. "Whatever he feels when he looks at me, it's not memory. It's just—" She stopped.
"Just what?"
She didn't answer.
Her phone rang.
Callum.
She answered.
"I need you to come to Reid Enterprises. Right now." His voice was different — stripped back, curt, the voice he used in crisis. "Marcus Webb just tendered his resignation. Effective immediately. He's already cleaning out his office."
Elara stood up so fast her chair scraped.
"He knows," she said.
"Someone tipped him off." A pause — tight, controlled. "Victoria's not at home. Her housekeeper says she left before six this morning with two suitcases."
The room felt very still.
"Callum," Elara said carefully, "listen to me. Do not let Marcus leave that building."
"I'm already standing in his doorway," Callum said.
"And?"
A long pause.
"He's looking at me like I already know everything," Callum said. "Like he's trying to decide how much I know."
"Then let him decide."
"He just smiled, Elara."
Callum's voice went very flat. "He just smiled at me."