I worked as hard as I did to ensure that the world Alisha inherited was as soft as the one I lived in. I wanted her to have the freedom to be whatever she wanted, shielded by the name I helped strengthen every day at Lincoln Willow.
This tranquility was my fuel. It made me feel grounded, purposeful. It was the reason I could handle the "bad boy" reputation the tabloids loved to pin on me. I could dance on the edge of the social scene, I could command the attention of every woman in a room, and I could play the rogue because I knew exactly where home was.
But that "Good morning" from the garage had breached the perimeter. The gnawing was back, sharper now. It felt like a crack in the foundation of the very garden I stood in.
The peace was shattered by a voice that sounded like gravel in a blender.
"Amir! I told them I'd find the big shark lurking in the shallows today!"
I didn't need to turn around to know it was Marcus Thorne. Marcus was a man who had made a few hundred million in tech logistics and had spent every waking second since then trying to convince the world it was a few billion.
He looked up to me with a nauseating mix of envy and desperation, always trying to bridge the gap between "rich" and "dynastic."
I straightened my custom made suit, my face settling into a mask of bored indifference. "Marcus. I wasn't aware you had business at Lincoln Willow today."
"Oh, just moving some assets around," Marcus said, stepping into my personal space, his suit a shade of blue that was just a bit too loud, his watch a diamond-encrusted monstrosity that screamed for attention.
"You know how it is, Amir. When you're at our level, the paperwork never stops. Though, I must say, the service here is slipping."
He gestured vaguely back toward the lobby, his face reddening with a performative sort of anger.
"I came here to prove a point to my board, show them I'm rubbing shoulders with the best," Marcus continued, his chest puffing out.
"But I just had a run-in with one of the staff members out there. Total incompetence. She failed to align all the documents. Some girl acting like she didn't know the caliber of the client before her.
I told her, 'Sweetheart, I could buy this entire floor just to fire you,' and she just stared at me. No apology. No fear. Just... nothing. It's a disgrace to the firm, Amir. You really should keep a tighter leash on the help."
I looked at him, my eyes cold. I had no patience for men who used their wealth as a cudgel against those they deemed "lesser."
It was a sign of insecurity—the one thing a Lahman never possessed.
"The staff at Lincoln Willow are vetted for their expertise, Marcus, not their ability to stroke your ego," I said, my voice like a blade of ice.
Marcus blinked, his bravado faltering for a microsecond before he let out a forced, boisterous laugh. "Always the defender of the downtrodden! That's that Lahman class, right? But seriously, she was useless. A total waste of space. I'm thinking of putting in a formal word with the partners. I won't have my time wasted by a nobody."
Behind him, Henderson, one of the junior partners who clearly had the misfortune of being Marcus's handler for the day, was hovering nervously.
"Mr. Thorne, please," Henderson coaxed, his voice tight with anxiety. "We have the documents ready in the conference room. I'm sure it was just a misunderstanding. Mr. Lahman is very busy..."
"I'm not finished, Humpton or whatever you're called!" Marcus snapped, turning back to me, desperate to find a crack in my composure. He wanted to find a way to make me look incompetent, to suggest that because I allowed such "low-quality" staff to roam the halls, I was losing my grip.
"You're too soft, Amir. That's your problem. You like the lifestyle too much. You forget that people like her are just gears in the machine. If a gear sticks, you replace it."
I didn't respond. I simply stared at him, my silence more deafening than any retort. I was waiting for him to leave, for the air to be clear of his cheap cologne and louder insecurities.
Marcus stepped closer, intending to clap me on the shoulder in a show of false camaraderie. As he moved, the air around him shifted.
And then I smelled it.
Underneath the heavy, spicy musk of his expensive cologne was a lingering note. Rain. Warm pavement. Something ancient and defiant.
The scent wasn't on Marcus. He had carried it with him. He had been in her space. He had been the one shouting at the woman who had said "Good morning" to me in the garage.
My heart didn't just gnaw; it stopped.
"What did you say her name was?" I asked. My voice was low, dangerous.
Marcus laughed, thinking he'd finally piqued my interest. "I didn't ask! Like I said, she's a nobody. But I saw her badge when she was walking away. Longman. Something like that. Tiana Longman."
The name hit me like a physical blow to the solar plexus.
Tiana Longman.