“She said you think your sharp edges keep you safe,” Lena admitted.
For a moment, Graham looked stunned. Then he let out a short laugh, surprised by himself.
“My mother would say that,” he murmured.
His mother signed brightly, leaning forward:
You two should talk more. My son works too much and meets too few interesting people.
Lena hesitated, then translated.
“She thinks you should meet more interesting people.”
Graham’s gaze returned to Lena with an intensity that made her want to step back and also, terrifyingly, stay.
“And what do you think?” he asked softly. “Am I meeting interesting people?”
The question carried a crack of vulnerability under the polish. Lena felt it. She hated that she did.
“I think,” she said carefully, “you’re used to meeting people who want something from you.”
Graham’s expression held, steady as stone.
“And you don’t?” he asked.
Lena’s throat tightened. She didn’t want his money. She didn’t want his company. She didn’t want his attention.
She wanted her life to stay invisible.
“I want you to let me do my job,” she said quietly. “Before Marcy decides I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”
His gaze flicked toward the service station where Marcy hovered, clearly calculating how expensive a scene could get. Graham stepped back, but his eyes didn’t release Lena.
“This conversation isn’t over,” he said.
“It is if I walk away.”
He smiled, just barely. “You can walk. I’ll still be curious.”
That was the problem. Curiosity was a blade, too, if you pressed hard enough.
When Lena returned to her section, her hands were steady again, but her chest felt like a room someone had left a candle burning in.
At the end of the night, Marcy slid an envelope toward her with a look that was half impressed, half warning.
“Table twelve left you this,” she said.
Lena opened it and stared.
Two hundred dollars.
Her stomach dropped.
“That’s… too much,” she whispered.
Marcy snorted. “Rich people don’t tip like that unless they plan to come back for more than the salmon.”
Lena’s skin prickled. “It’s not like that.”
Marcy’s eyes softened just a fraction. “Honey, I’ve been doing this twenty years. It’s always like that with men like him.” She leaned closer. “Be careful. Billionaires don’t lose. They just… acquire.”
On the subway ride back to Queens, Lena watched her own reflection in the dark window, her face split by flashing tunnel lights. She looked like a tired waitress with a bun too tight and a purse too cheap.
And yet under her mattress, in a lockbox, sat a degree from Columbia, professional licenses, and documents that proved she had once built something brilliant enough to be stolen.
She climbed three flights of stairs, unlocked her studio, and stood still in the quiet, listening.
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