Chapter 30

Killian didn’t slow when he entered the Annex.

He didn’t look around either. He already knew the layout, the lighting, the way the space swallowed sound. He crossed the lobby and stopped at the desk, pulling the folder from under his arm.

“Contract,” he said.

The receptionist took it without comment.

She didn’t open it right away. She checked his name on the screen first. That pause irritated him more than it should have.

Then she opened the folder.

Page by page.

Not reading.

Verifying.

Signatures. Initials. Boxes filled.

She closed it.

“The program remains suspended for two days,” she said.

Killian frowned. “We signed it.”

“Yes.”

“So we’re cleared.”

“No.”

He leaned his weight onto the counter. “You told us yesterday the suspension was temporary.”

“And it remains so,” she replied calmly. “Pending evaluation.”

“Evaluation of what?” he pressed. “They asked for a contract. We gave them one.”

“They asked for a framework,” she corrected. “The team determines suitability.”

Killian’s jaw tightened. “And until they decide?”

“You wait.”

The word landed harder than expected.

“For two days,” she added. “Possibly longer.”

Killian laughed under his breath. “You realize the entire point of this was to keep them out of it.”

“The point,” she said evenly, “is to ensure compliance without intervention. That requires approval.”

Approval.

“So this,” Killian said, tapping the counter once, “was never about letting us decide.”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “It was about seeing how you would decide.”

A beat.

“And if they don’t like it?” he asked.

She smiled then — not warm, not kind. Administrative.

“Then the terms will be revised.”

Killian straightened.

“By them?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Silence stretched.

“And we’ll be informed?” he said.

“Of the outcome,” she replied. “Not the discussion.”

She slid the folder out of sight.

“You’ll receive notice,” she finished. “You may go.”

Killian stood there for half a second too long.

Then he turned and walked out.

Outside, the night hit him harder than before — louder, messier, uncontrolled. He unlocked his car and sat inside without starting it, staring through the windshield.

Two days.

Two days where Theodore would be waiting.

Two days where Killian could do nothing.

For the first time since this started, it was clear:

He wasn’t in charge of the timeline.

He wasn’t in charge of the rules.

He wasn’t even in charge of the role he’d agreed to play.

He started the engine and pulled away.

Killian pulled into traffic without thinking.

Red lights. Green lights. Turns he could’ve taken blindfolded. The city slid past him in fragments — storefront glass, brake lights, faces he didn’t register. His hands stayed steady on the wheel even while his thoughts refused to line up.

Two days.

It wasn’t the wait that bothered him. It was the loss of momentum. Things were supposed to move once ink hit paper. That was how it worked in his world. Decisions were made. Consequences followed. Clean.

Instead, the system had paused him. Put him in a holding pattern like he was no more important than the man he was supposed to control.

He exhaled sharply and rolled his neck once, irritation settling into something denser.

Theodore would be wondering.

Overthinking.

Replaying every word.

Killian almost smiled at that — almost.

He checked the time, then the road ahead. The distance to home meant nothing right now. What mattered was that tomorrow had vanished, and Theodore needed to hear it from him — not from silence, not from the system.

Killian reached for his phone, thumb hovering for a beat.

Then he called.

Theodore answered after the second ring. “Yes?”

“We’re not starting tomorrow,” Killian said.

No buildup. No softening.

A pause. “What?”

“The team’s holding the contract,” Killian continued, eyes on the road. “Two days. Review period.”

“That’s not what they said yesterday,” Theodore replied immediately. “They said once it was signed—”

“I know what they said,” Killian cut in, irritated. “I was standing there too.”

Silence on the line. Then, more carefully, “So the sessions are suspended.”

“The Annex sessions,” Killian corrected. “Everything else stays where it is.”

Theodore frowned, even if Killian couldn’t see it. “Meaning?”

“Meaning you don’t show up tomorrow,” Killian said. “You don’t get instructions. You don’t get cameras. But you don’t suddenly forget why we’re here either.”

“That’s a very convenient gray area,” Theodore said dryly.

Killian huffed a laugh. “Welcome to the program.”

A beat.

“So why call me?” Theodore asked. “If nothing happens.”

Killian changed lanes, then answered honestly. “Because tomorrow was supposed to start. And now it won’t. I’m not letting you find that out by showing up and looking stupid.”

“I wouldn’t have—”

“Don’t,” Killian said, not harsh, just decisive. “You would have.”

Another pause.

“What do they want from us in the meantime?” Theodore asked.

“Nothing,” Killian replied. “That’s the problem.”

Theodore exhaled slowly. “So we wait.”

“Yes,” Killian said. Then added, almost casually, “And you stay reachable.”

Theodore caught the shift. “Reachable how?”

“Phone on,” Killian said. “No disappearing. If they push an update, I don’t want to chase you down.”

“That’s reasonable,” Theodore said, after a moment.

Killian smiled faintly. “Good. Then this won’t be complicated.”

They drove in silence for a few seconds, connected only by the open line.

“I’ll let you know when they respond,” Killian said.

“And until then?” Theodore asked.

Killian didn’t hesitate. “You behave like tomorrow still matters.”

Theodore absorbed that. “Alright.”

Killian ended the call.

He didn’t feel triumphant.

Just adjusted — like a plan that had shifted, not broken.

Two days.

Enough time for the team to decide.

Enough time for everything else to settle into place whether either of them liked it or not.

Killian got home just after eight.

The house was quiet in the way expensive places always were—thick walls, muted light, nothing out of place. He kicked the door shut behind him already shedding the evening like it was something optional.

Upstairs, his room waited exactly as he’d left it.

He dropped his keys onto the dresser, shrugged out of his jacket, and hung it carefully—habit, not respect. The mirror caught him in fragments as he moved: rolled sleeves, watch glinting at his wrist, the faint line of a smile he hadn’t earned but wore anyway.

He showered fast.

Not to relax. To reset.

Steam fogged the glass while he scrubbed the day off his skin—coffee, city air, the Annex’s sterile calm. By the time he stepped out, the irritation had smoothed itself into something sharper. Focused. Controlled.

He dressed with intention.

Black trousers, tailored enough to look effortless. A dark shirt, open at the collar, fabric soft against his skin. He checked the fit in the mirror, adjusted his cuffs, fastened the watch again. The version of himself looking back was familiar—polished, desirable, unbothered.

This was the Killian people expected.

He sprayed cologne once at his throat. Once at his wrist. Subtle. Expensive. The kind you noticed only when you leaned in.

His phone buzzed on the bed.

Sophia: You better actually show up this time.

He smiled, already reaching for his wallet.

Nine, he typed back. Don’t be late.

He slipped his phone into his pocket, grabbed his coat, and headed downstairs. As he locked the door behind him, the house sealed up again—quiet, obedient, waiting.

In the car, the engine purred to life. Killian pulled into traffic smoothly, confidence settling over him like a second skin.

Hotel. Drinks. Familiar hands. No explanations required.

For the next few hours, everything would be simple.