Chapter 16 · The Hold That Won't Open

The wheel stops turning and the door doesn't swing so much as exhale, and it isn't Halloran standing in the gap. It's Priya Shah, trustee counsel for the bondholders, phone already up, screen already lit, and she says, "Well. This is cozy," before either of us can pull apart.

Torin doesn't let go of my wrist. If anything his grip tightens, thumb sliding flat over my pulse like he's counting it, like he wants a number he can use later. "You don't have building access after six," he says. Flat. Not a question.

"I have a key someone photographed and posted an hour ago." Priya turns the phone so we both can see it. "Recognize this?"

It's the appendix. Page four, the residency clause, my signature under Torin's, a phone-camera glare washing out one corner. Underneath it, a caption from a hockey blog nobody with real money should be reading: *Barn owner's marriage of convenience —