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During orientation, I had learned that the Executive Briefing was where Blackwood Hall’s most serious operational matters were discussed and resolved. Being asked to attend one was out of the ordinary. That left me about an hour to prepare. I opened the Aurora incident folder and gathered the documentation Marcus had requested. The records from the attempted logins were already there. I printed last night’s email and added it to the folder in case anyone wanted a hard copy.

I made a separate list of everyone who had knowledge of the method referenced in the email. Priya. Mateo. The postdocs assigned to the current trials. Myself. I hesitated before adding Julian. He had only learned about the sample-processing method yesterday morning, and nothing about our conversation had given me reason for concern. Still, I felt that Security would need all the relevant information to investigate properly. I added his name.

Alexander would most likely be in attendance. I looked down at the inside of my wrist, then back at the message, preventing the thought from taking me any further.

* * *

The Executive Conference Room was on the tenth floor of the Research Pavilion, toward the north side of the building.

I had not had the chance to visit this side of the building before. The corridor leading to it was quieter than the research areas. It was modern, with wooden floors and furniture that was neutral in tone. The conference room itself was long and formal, its windows overlooking the gardens and Manhattan beyond. A polished table ran the length of it, already mostly occupied.

I recognized a few of the people already seated around the table. The Board’s Lead Trustee sat near the head. A woman from Legal introduced herself with a precise and unhurried confidence. Marcus acknowledged me with a brief nod. The remaining seats were occupied by representatives from Finance, Research, and External Affairs.

I was, as far as I could tell, the only working researcher in the room. The chair at the head of the table was empty. Someone offered me a cup of coffee. I accepted it, grateful that it gave me something to do with my hands as I took in my surroundings. The conversations around me were low and professional. I exchanged a few words with the Director of Research, who was seated to my left.

At eleven o’clock precisely, the door opened. Alexander Blackwood entered.

He moved through the room with confident authority, exchanging a few words with the Lead Trustee before acknowledging Legal with a brief nod. He took the seat at the head of the table. Then he opened the folder in front of him and spoke.

“Good morning, everyone. I would like to open this meeting with the security matter before proceeding to the financial review.”

I stopped hearing him. I knew that voice. Not from the meetings we had attended or the afternoon he walked me through Blackwood Hall. I knew it from a different context entirely. From marble and chandeliers and rain beyond a roofline.

I couldn’t move. Alexander was speaking about the morning’s agenda and the order in which the briefing would proceed. Around me, people were taking notes, following along as the meeting moved forward.

I was sitting very still and doing none of those things. The voice was unmistakable now that I was listening for it. It wasn’t identical. The masquerade belonged to candlelight and music; this room belonged to daylight and polished wood. The cadence was the same, but here his voice was professional and decisive, not intimate and restrained.

I looked at his hands. The pen was resting between his fingers, the same fingers that grazed my skin as he removed my glove. When he set it down, it was deliberate and unhurried, precisely the way he had moved with me.

I did not need more data. The masked man was Alexander.

And then, all at once, the realization arrived. It had been his lips against my wrist. His hand at the small of my back, holding me close to his body. It had been Alexander who remembered rain beneath glass, who had drawn me to the edge of a kiss and then stepped back. Every unaccountable thing about that evening reorganized itself around a single fact. It. Was. Him.

Alexander was still speaking. “Dr. Rossi.”

I looked up. The others around the table were looking at me. I had missed the question. Alexander waited without any visible impatience.

“Forgive me,” I said. “Could you please repeat the question?”

“I asked whether the documentation you provided to Security included the access logs from the previous network incidents.”

“Network incidents? I was only aware of the attempted logins,” I said.

“Understood. Then the documentation you provided is complete for the activity previously reported by you.”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, Dr. Rossi.” He moved on to the next item.

“Mr. Barrett, have there been any developments regarding last night’s phishing email?”

Marcus opened the folder in front of him. “We are currently investigating the origin of the email requesting confidential information about a method used by the Project Aurora team. Dr. Rossi, who has knowledge of the method referenced in the email?”

“Priya Shah, Mateo Valdez, the postdocs assigned to the current trials, Dr. Julian Mercer, and myself.”

Alexander’s pen stopped. “What access does Dr. Mercer have to Aurora?”

“He doesn’t have system access. We discussed a sample-processing method and outlined a collaboration.”