I thought asking a billionaire stranger to pretend to be my boyfriend for twenty-four hours was crazy, until he arrived at my family's wedding surrounded by three black SUVs.

She didn't sleep well.

That was expected.

What she hadn't expected was the knock at her door at seven the next morning — Mason, in a different charcoal suit, holding two paper cups of coffee from a place that was not her café.

"You didn't have to bring coffee," she said.

"I wasn't sure you'd have any."

"I work at a café.

I always have coffee."

"Then consider it a gesture." He held one out.

She took it.

They sat at her small kitchen table — her with both hands around the cup, him with the contained stillness she was starting to recognize as simply how he existed in the world.

"I need you to make a phone call," he said.

"To whom?"

"A man named Gerald Fitch.

He's a property attorney in Portland.

He handles legitimate real estate transactions and also, quietly, manages several holding accounts that Carver uses to move money."

Maya set her cup down.

"You want me to call Carver's attorney."

"I want you to call him as a potential client.

You're looking for commercial property in the Portland area.

You have a budget.

You're serious."

"Why?"

"Because Gerald Fitch keeps a physical ledger in his office.

Old habit, old school.

The digital records Diane gave the federal prosecutors were comprehensive — but there are three transactions from eighteen months ago that weren't in her files.

Transactions that link Carver directly to a port official who is currently cooperating with investigators and claiming he had no financial relationship with Carver's organization."

Maya followed the logic.

"If those three transactions exist in Fitch's ledger—"

"Then the port official is lying.

And the investigators have the wrong picture of how Carver's network actually operates."

"And if the investigators have the wrong picture—"

"Then the case they're building has a gap in it.

A gap Carver's lawyers will use."

"And Diane's testimony becomes less protected."

Mason looked at her.

"Yes."

Maya picked up her coffee again.

"So you need someone to get into Gerald Fitch's office."

"I need someone to get a meeting with Gerald Fitch.

In his office.

As a legitimate client." He paused.

"My face is known.

Anyone connected to me is known.

But a young woman from Seattle who works at a café and has no history with anyone in Portland—"

"Is invisible," Maya said.

"Is invisible," he agreed.

She thought about it.

She thought about the note.

*We know about the girl.* She thought about Diane Marsh, eleven years inside a crjminal organization, walking into a federal building alone with fourteen months of records tucked under her arm.

She thought about what Mason had said in the car.

*She won't survive it.*

"What exactly do I need to find?" she asked.

"The ledger will be in his office.

Probably in a locked drawer or a filing cabinet — Fitch is cautious but not sophisticated.

I need photographs of the three entries.

Dates: March fourth, March nineteenth, and April second, eighteen months ago.

The entries will reference a coastal logistics account."

"How do I get to the ledger if it's locked?"

Mason reached into his jacket and set a small object on the table.

A slim metal tool, no longer than a pen.

"You won't need to force anything.

The lock on Fitch's filing cabinets is a standard office model.

This opens it in under ten seconds."

Maya stared at it.

"You carry that."

"I carry several things."

"Of course you do." She picked it up.

It was lighter than she expected.

"And if Fitch notices me near his filing cabinet?"

"You dropped your earring.

You were looking for it on the floor."

"And if he doesn't believe that?"

"Then you stand up, apologize, and leave.

You don't push it.

You walk out and call me."

"And the photographs?"

"Your phone.

Close range, good light, two shots of each entry.

Thirty seconds total if you're calm."

Maya turned the tool over in her fingers.

"You've done this before."

"I've had it done before," he said.

"There's a difference."

She looked up.

"Is there?"

Something in his expression shifted — not guilt exactly, but something adjacent to it.

"I don't send people into situations I haven't assessed."

"You're sending me."

"I assessed it." He held her gaze.

"Fitch is not dangerous.

His office is on the fourth floor of a commercial building with two exits.

The meeting would be during business hours.

You would be in and out in forty minutes."

"And if something goes wrong?"

"I'll be in the building."

Maya blinked.

"You'll be in the building."

"Lobby level.

One of my men on the street.

The moment you call, we move."

She set the tool down on the table between them.

Outside her kitchen window, the morning was grey and ordinary — a bus going past, someone walking a dog, the city doing what cities do without any awareness of the conversation happening in her apartment.

"I need to know one thing," she said.

"Ask."

"Diane Marsh.

Is she safe right now, today, this morning?"

Mason's answer came without hesitation.

"Yes."

"Where is she?"

"I won't tell you that.

Not because I don't trust you.

Because the fewer people who know, the safer she is."

Maya nodded slowly.

That she understood.

"When does Fitch need to happen?"

"I can have the meeting arranged by tomorrow afternoon."

"Then arrange it," she said.

She picked up her coffee.

Mason picked up his.

For a moment they sat across from each other at her small kitchen table, two people who had been strangers forty-eight hours ago, and the morning light came through the window and made everything look almost calm.

Then Mason's phone buzzed.

He looked at it once.

His expression didn't change, but something behind his eyes went very still.

He stood up.

"What is it?" Maya asked.

He turned the phone so she could see the screen.