The first time our eyes meet, I am ready for it.
Tracking her in my peripheral vision all evening, the way she moves, the way she listens, the careful grace of a woman performing a role with absolute precision, I am ready for the moment her gaze comes directly to mine.
Marco Reyes is polite, professional, and attentive to the host, appropriate with the woman at his side. Nothing more.
She looks away.
The second time is different.
Clemente’s phone buzzes against the table. He glances at it, says something brief in Spanish that carries the clipped authority of a man who expects to be obeyed without explanation. He then excuses himself, stands, and leaves the room with the unhurried certainty of someone who never questioned whether the world would wait for him.
It would.
It always does.
The servant has stepped out.
And then it is just the two of us.
The ocean moves beyond the open doors.
The candles burn.
Riley reaches for her wine glass, lifts it, takes a slow sip, and looks at me.
I stare back.
Marco Reyes—calm and neutral. The polite interest of a dinner guest, making conversation while his host stepped away.
She holds my gaze.
Something moves in her expression, the focused quality of a woman trying to place something she can’t quite reach. Like a word on the tip of the tongue. Like a face seen somewhere once, a long time ago, in a completely different life.
Everything stays locked.
Her eyes move over my face.
The beard. The dark contacts. The shirt. The watch on my wrist, Bureau issue, the crown flush against the case, already running, already recording everything that has been said at this table tonight.
She is almost there.
Watching it happen, the slow gathering of recognition, piece by piece, like a photograph developing in a darkroom, the image emerging from nothing into something undeniable.
Her eyes widen.
Just slightly.
Just for a fraction of a second.
The involuntary physical response of a body that has understood something before the mind has caught up with it.
And then Clemente walks back into the room.
Riley looks down at her wine glass.
Clears her throat.
Takes another sip.
