He looked like a man whose brain had suddenly been asked to hold too many impossible things at once.
His janitor son.
The CEO of his company.
A hypercar in front of his lawn.
His “real clients” standing beside him.
The fact that the person climbing out of the passenger side was me.
Helena put the car in park and, because she had more dramatic instinct than anyone I’d ever met, took off her sunglasses slowly.
“I believe,” she said, voice dry with amusement, “this is the address of your charming family estate.”
I let out a breath that was almost a laugh and almost something darker. “You are enjoying this way too much.”
“Of course I am,” she said. “I spent three years wondering why one of the smartest men I’d ever met insisted on mopping my executive floor at midnight and secretly bailing out people who treated him like mold in the walls. Today I get answers and theater.”