She looked well.
That was the thing Victoria kept coming back to in the photographs and it was worse in person. She looked genuinely well. Not performing wellness, not the careful presentation of a woman who was managing....actually well. The colour in her face. The ease of how she stood. The laugh that had co out of her a minute ago with no effort at all.
She’d been poisoned six weeks ago.
Victoria thought about that.
She thought about the hospital reports she’d found through channels she wasn’t going to examine too closely. Critical condition. Organ stress. A woman who had apparently identified the compound that was killing her from mory while she was barely conscious and had talked the dical team through the treatnt.
Of course she had.
Victoria picked up her coffee.
She looked at Aria’s left hand.
The ring caught the light when Aria moved her phone. Just briefly. Just a flash of it.....single stone, oval, the kind of ring that didn’t need to be loud because it was certain of itself.
Victoria looked at it for a long mont.
She thought about three years of being positioned and presented and prepared. Every event. Every introduction. Every carefully arranged encounter with Damien Blackwood that had produced nothing except the gradual humiliating understanding that she could be in the sa room as that man for a decade and never be what he was looking for.
She thought about what he’d been looking for.
Apparently it was a woman who broke into his estate with a fake na and stole from him.
Apparently that was what did it.
She set her coffee down.
Across the street Aria put her phone in her pocket and looked up and for one lurching second Victoria thought she was looking directly at the coffee shop window. Directly at her.
She didn’t move.
Aria wasn’t looking at her. She was looking at the car that had pulled up.....a dark car, a driver Victoria recognised from the photographs as part of Blackwood’s security rotation. She watched Aria say sothing to the driver and get in.
The car pulled away.
Victoria watched move drive away.
She sat there after it had turned the corner and disappeared. Sat with her coffee going cold and the coffee shop doing its ordinary afternoon business around her and the staff entrance across the street closing again and everything returning to normal like nothing had happened.
She thought about what she’d expected to feel.
She’d had this mont in her head for months. The first ti she saw Aria Chen in person since the warehouse. She’d thought it would clarify sothing. Sharpen sothing. Burn away whatever complicated residue had built up over eight months of sitting in a Sydney apartnt doing physiotherapy exercises and reading articles about a woman who kept surviving.
It had clarified sothing.
Just not what she’d expected.
Aria Chen was not what Victoria had spent three years telling herself she was. She wasn’t a nobody. Wasn’t a fraud who’d gotten lucky. Wasn’t soone who had taken sothing that didn’t belong to her through manipulation and deception.
She was....Victoria made herself look at it directly, the way she’d made herself look at difficult things in the long months of recovery...she was soone. A real and specific soone with a laugh that ca easily and a ring on her hand and a car that arrived for her because soone wanted her safe.
That was worse, sohow, than the alternative.
If Aria had been nothing, the taking would have been random. aningless.
But she was sothing.
Which ant Damien had chosen.
Victoria picked up her cup. Put it down again without drinking.
She thought about her father. Sowhere in Damien’s custody, which she was now certain of in a way she hadn’t let herself be certain of before. Three weeks of unanswered calls. The silence that had a specific texture to it.....not the silence of a man being careful, but the silence of a man who no longer had access to a phone.
She’d known for weeks.
She’d kept calling anyway.
She signalled for the bill.
The barista brought it over and smiled at her and said see you tomorrow in the easy way of soone who expected to, and Victoria smiled back and paid in cash and stood up and put her coat on.
She walked to the door.
She stopped with her hand on it.
She turned and looked at the window table one more ti. The view it gave her. The staff entrance across the street, closed now, ordinary.
She turned back and pushed the door open and walked out into the afternoon.
Eleven blocks back to the hotel.
She walked them the sa way she always did....different route each ti, the pattern of unpredictability that had beco instinct over eight months of being careful. She moved through the city and let it move around her and thought about what she’d seen.
The laugh. The ring. The ease of her.
The plan hadn’t changed.
She wasn’t going to hurt Aria Chen. She’d ant that from the beginning .....not because she was above it, not because she’d had so moral awakening in a Sydney apartnt. But because hurting her physically hadn’t worked twice and because there were things you could take from a person that lasted longer than pain.
Reputation.
Standing.
The career that person had built from nothing, that they’d sacrificed everything for, that they believed was theirs regardless of everything else.
She was going to take that.
Not with rage. Not with noise. With the specific, docunted, completely accurate truth about who Aria Chen had been before Damien Blackwood put his grandmother’s ring on her finger.
She turned the last corner.
The hotel was ahead.
She thought about the dical board. About the journalist she’d been in careful, anonymous contact with for three weeks.....a woman with a reputation for public interest stories, for exposing fraud in professional institutions, for asking the kind of questions that didn’t go away once they’d been asked.
She thought about the file she’d been building. Aria’s history. The hacking. The corporate espionage. The false identity she’d used to infiltrate a private estate. The dical licence obtained by a woman who had spent years operating outside the law.
All of it true.
Every word.
That was the part Victoria found clarifying.
She wasn’t lying. She wasn’t fabricating. She was simply making sure that the truth.....the full truth, not the version Damien Blackwood’s money and lawyers had kept quiet.....beca available to the people who had a right to know it.
The journalist’s na was Claire rcer.
Victoria had a eting with her tomorrow.
Not in person. Not yet. Through the encrypted channel they’d been using, the one that didn’t leave prints, the one that had been established carefully over three weeks of slow and deliberate contact.
Tomorrow she was going to give Claire rcer the first piece.
Just the first one.
Enough to open the door.
The rest would follow when the ti was right.
She went into the hotel.
Nodded to the front desk.
Took the lift to the ninth floor.
Went into her room and set her bag down and stood at the window for a mont, looking at the city. Midtown at dusk, the light going orange and flat, the streets below doing what streets did.
She thought about the laugh.
She thought about the ring.
She thought about a table in a coffee shop and forty feet of street and Aria Chen not knowing she’d been sitting there.
She thought about tomorrow.
And she opened her laptop.
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