The days blur together after that. Missions, debriefs, and endless paperwork pile up, leaving me too busy to dwell on Noel Wolfe—or Cross, thankfully. Day's reminder about her maternity leave lingers in the back of my mind, but I shove it aside. There's too much else to deal with, and I try to ignore how it's starting to feel like I'm being distracted from The Numbered.

If so, it's funny they think that would work.

Even with my schedule packed, I've still managed to squeeze in research—late nights at my desk, stealing moments between missions, piecing together fragments of information like a puzzle missing half its pieces. No big breakthroughs yet, but enough to keep the trail warm. Patterns in their heists, connections between their aliases and possible identities, hints that they might be working with someone on the inside, though it's far too flaky for me to say that with any real confidence.

Then, there's Noel Wolfe.

He's everything I hate about this place. A symbol of order so calculated it feels rehearsed. Everything from his tie to his fucking smile is a reminder of who wins in this world: the ones who play it clean. At least, on the surface.

When I started digging into him, I didn't expect to find much. The guy's practically a poster child for the HSA—wealthy, well-connected, and clean as it gets. A corporate golden boy. Or so it seemed.

Turns out, there's plenty to uncover if you know where to look. Noel Wolfe, the son of John Wolfe, inherited the Wolfe Hero Support Association's empire after his father's retirement. Except, their relationship wasn't exactly picture-perfect. Noel's academic history paints the picture of perfection: top of his class, degrees in psychology and business, every accolade you can imagine. Dig deeper than the surface, though, and you find cracks.

Rumors of a strained relationship with his father. A period of time in his late teens to early twenties where he completely disappeared from the public eye. No explanation, no records—just a void, and when he came back? It was like he'd been scrubbed clean. Every photo, every interview, perfectly curated. Almost like someone wanted to erase whatever happened during those missing years.

The more I look at him, the less he feels like the spotless executive everyone thinks he is, and the way he gets under my skin? That's not just his smirk or his goddamn ego. It's deliberate. Calculated.

I know it is.

Yet, here I am, heading to a gala where I'll be expected to smile and nod while Wolfe stands front and center, soaking up praise for whatever initiative he's pushing now.

"Harlan!" Lacy's voice cuts through my thoughts, sharp and impatient.

I glance at the door, half expecting her to barge in, but she doesn't. Instead, her silhouette lingers just beyond the frame.

"Yeah?" I call back, knotting my tie with more force than necessary.

"Are you dressed yet?" Her tone is quieter than usual, but there's a clear undercurrent of irritation.

"Almost," I mutter, tugging the tie tighter as I catch my reflection in the mirror. My jacket's still on the hanger, my hair's a mess, and I look more like I'm going to a funeral than a gala. Fitting, really.

The door slides open, and Lacy steps inside without waiting for permission. She's already dressed in a fitted magenta gown that would probably stop traffic, her makeup flawless, hair styled effortlessly. She's got that air about her—poised and polished—but the way she fidgets with her clutch gives her away.

"You're still a mess," she says flatly, taking one look at my half-dressed state.

"I'm working on it," I reply, glancing at her in the mirror.

She sighs, leaning against the doorframe. "What's this one even for again? Another vanity project?"

"Basically," I say, grabbing my jacket. "They're calling it the 'Hero Support Annual Review Gala.' It's supposed to celebrate the HSA's advancements and partnerships over the last year. But really, it's just an excuse to pat themselves on the back and show off."

"Of course it is," she replies, her tone dry, "and we're going because...?"

"Because it's mandatory," I remind her, slipping on my jacket. "Wolfe wants all the big names there. That includes us, and I already get in enough shit. We can't miss it."

She folds her arms, her fingers brushing against the straps of her dress. "You know I don't mind showing up when it's actually for something important, but these events? It's just the same people congratulating each other over nothing."

I shrug, checking my reflection in the mirror. "That's politics. And PR. At least Day will be there."

She hums, pushing off the doorframe to grab the tie I abandoned earlier. "Let me do it before you strangle yourself."

She steps closer, taking the tie from my hands with a quiet efficiency. Then, a moment later, "what about her husband?"

"Not sure," I reply, wondering why that matters. I guess he is kind of boring, though, and I don't like the way he talks to Day sometimes. Not exactly the life of the party. Every time I talk to him the conversation dies as soon as I stop trying. Which, I usually don't even start trying, so that's pretty fast.

Lacy's fingers move deftly, looping and knotting the fabric with a practiced ease that reminds me how much of her life has been spent dealing with appearances. Her hands linger for a moment, smoothing the tie against my chest as she steps back.

"There," she says softly, folding her arms again. "You don't look like a total disaster."

I glance in the mirror. The suit's sharp, the tie's straight, and my hair's been tamed just enough to pass for respectable. Still feels wrong, like I'm walking into someone else's life instead of my own, but I'm used to it at this point.

"You look fine too," I say, grabbing my keys from the dresser.

She raises an eyebrow. "Fine?"

"Great," I amend. Why am I stupid? "Like someone who actually belongs at this thing."

She doesn't smile, just brushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I guess that's the point."

I grab my keys, glancing one last time in the mirror. The suit feels heavy, like armor I wasn't built to wear. Lacy, on the other hand, looks flawless as always, but there's a slight stiffness in her shoulders I can't help but notice. We both know what these events mean—exposure, expectations, and a room full of people we'd rather not be around. At least Lacy's used to it, or at the very minimum has some media training.

"You ready?" I ask, though I already know her answer. Or, her real answer.

She nods, her hand brushing against a robe hanging on the wall, which I'm sure she'd much rather be wearing, before following me out the door.

The venue looms ahead as the car slows to a stop. Except it's not a venue. It's a house. No—calling this a house feels wrong. It's a mansion. A sprawling estate that looks like it was ripped out of a magazine, all sleek lines and floor-to-ceiling windows glowing warmly in the twilight.

"Jesus," I mutter, trying to hide the annoyance already setting in. It's the home of one of the HSA higher ups, someone from a different Wolfe building, and it's ridiculous. God, I fucking hate rich people. The price of their porch statue could probably change my life.

Lacy doesn't respond, but I see her lips press into a thin line as she peers out the window. The driveway is already lined with luxury cars, and a valet approaches the second we stop, opening my door with a practiced smile.

I step out into the crisp evening air, tugging at my jacket as my boots crunch against the gravel. Lacy takes my hand as she exits, her grip steady but cold, her dress catching the glow from the lanterns lining the walkway. She glances up at the house, her expression unreadable.

"It's excessive," she murmurs under her breath.

"That's one word for it," I reply, my voice low.

The path to the front entrance is flanked by neatly trimmed hedges and perfectly manicured flowerbeds that feel more like art than landscaping. The house—or estate, really—looms above us, its modern architecture both confusing and intimidating. The massive glass double doors swing open as we approach, revealing a bustling foyer bathed in warm light.

Inside, the space is just as over-the-top as it is on the outside. The ceilings stretch impossibly high, and the walls are lined with sleek artwork that probably cost more than my yearly salary. Guests mill about, drinks in hand, their laughter and murmured conversations blending into an irritating hum. It feels less like a home and more like a museum—cold, curated, and painfully immaculate. I doubt Noel's house is any different. All these assholes are the same.

Lacy stays close to me, her arm brushing against mine as we move further inside. Her gaze flits around the room, taking in every detail with a subtle, almost clinical detachment. If she's impressed, she doesn't show it. She almost seems to be looking for something, though I have no idea what, but I am too.

I can't help but scan the room for Day, eventually spotting her in the corner. Her husband does in fact appear to be present, which is understandable. Nobody likes coming to these without a plus one. It never bothered me until I found Lacy. I don't know what I'd do without her.

A server passes by with a tray of drinks, and I grab one without even looking, needing something—anything—to occupy my hands. I take a sip as we keep walking, the sharp burn catching me off guard. It's not beer. Bourbon, maybe? Whiskey? I can't tell, and I don't care. It's strong enough, and that's all I need to know.

Then, I spot him.

Noel Wolfe. He's standing near an arched doorway leading to what looks like a larger hall, casually talking to a group of executives. Even from here, he looks completely at ease, his sharp suit and perfect posture radiating authority. His venue, his event, his rules. He doesn't have to say it—everything about this place screams control. It is a bit strange he's not holding it in his own house, though. That's what his dad always did.

His eyes catch mine across the room, and it's like he knows exactly what he's doing—unflinching, steady, daring me to look away first. My grip tightens on the glass in my hand, the burn of the bourbon suddenly not enough to distract me. Asshole.

I grip the glass in my hand a little tighter. "Great. He knows we're here."

"Of course he does," Lacy replies, her tone even, still looking distracted. She must've found what she was looking for, because her eyes seem to be drawn to a specific spot in the room. I don't care to check. Maybe they have a waterfall or something over there, she likes those.

I nod, but the weight in my chest only grows heavier as we move deeper into the house. Noel is the same as always, every time I see him—polished, untouchable, and far too composed. The crowd thickens as we reach the main hall, the sound of conversation growing louder, punctuated by the occasional clink of glass.

Lacy grabs a glass of water from a passing server, sipping it delicately. She doesn't say anything, but her grip on my arm tightens slightly, just enough to keep me grounded.

"You okay?" she asks quietly, tilting her head toward me.

I glance at her, then at the nearly empty glass in my hand. "Fine."

She doesn't question me further, but the look she gives me says she knows better. This is a lot harder without Mr. Wolfe. Without John. Hopefully Day makes her way over to us soon, and then doesn't leave the rest of the night.

As we weave through the crowd, my focus keeps drifting back to Wolfe, to the stage, to the growing weight in my chest. The lights are too bright, the voices too loud, the polished perfection of it all grating against me like sandpaper. I don't belong here. I don't want to belong here.

Yet, here I am.

The server with the drinks tray passes by again, and before I can think twice, I grab another glass. It burns just as much as the first, but the second sip goes down smoother.

"This is going to be a long night," I mutter, mostly to myself.

Lacy doesn't respond, her attention unmoving from the crowd.

I catch sight of the bar across the room—tucked neatly into the far corner, polished and fully stocked, a quiet beacon in the chaos. I drain the last of the glass, ignoring the burn as my focus drifts back to Wolfe. I find him already looking my direction, surprisingly, and for a split second I can't look away. There's something in his eyes—sharp, knowing, like he's already decided the outcome of a game I didn't agree to play. It pisses me off, but it also... No. I look away first.

This is going to be a long night—and he's going to make it even longer. For a fleeting moment, I consider how many of these mystery drinks it'll take to get through it.

More than it used to, that's for sure.