THE WOMAN IN BLACK
Sloane Whitmore did not believe in accidents.
People did.
People blamed missed flights on bad luck, broken deals on timing, ruined relationships on misunderstandings.
Sloane believed in choices.
Every action had a reason.
Every mistake had a consequence.
And every person who entered her world eventually wanted something.
Money.
Power.
Access.
Protection.
Her attention.
She had learned long ago that the last one was usually the most dangerous.
At twenty-seven, Sloane had already built an empire large enough to make governments nervous and competitors careful.
Whitmore Advanced Systems occupied the upper floors of a glass tower overlooking Manhattan, but the company was far larger than the building suggested. Aerospace. Biotechnology. Artificial intelligence. Experimental energy. Medical research. Private security technology.
The public knew about some of it.
The public knew almost nothing about the rest.
Sloane preferred it that way.
She stood before the enormous windows of her office, dressed in a black suit with no tie, one hand resting casually in her trouser pocket.
Behind her, a wall-sized screen displayed a rotating image of a spacecraft.
There was no company logo.
No government identification.
No press release.
No record of its existence.
AETHER.
The project had consumed four years of her life.
And tonight, she had a problem.
A problem involving a pharmaceutical compound.
A problem involving a research team that had failed repeatedly to solve something Sloane’s own scientists couldn’t solve.
Her chief scientific officer stood several feet behind her.
“We’ve reviewed the Meridian Consortium’s proposal.”
Sloane didn’t turn.
“And?”
“They have someone new.”
“Someone new?”
“A researcher. Young.”
Sloane’s eyes remained on the spacecraft model.
“How young?”
“Twenty-three.”
A quiet pause.
“That’s young.”
“She has an unusual research record.”
Now Sloane turned.
“Name?”
“Camila Brooks.”
The name meant nothing to her.
Yet.
Sloane picked up the tablet from her desk.
“Send me everything.”
“I already did.”
Sloane looked at him.
He swallowed.
“Of course you did.”
A faint smile touched her mouth.
Her staff had learned not to waste her time.
She opened Camila’s file.
Academic records.
Research papers.
Patents.
Failed experiments.
Successful experiments.
Recommendations.
Photographs.
Sloane scrolled slowly.
Then stopped.
One particular research paper caught her attention.
She read the first page.
Then the second.
Her expression changed.
Barely.
But her chief scientific officer noticed.
“Interesting?”
Sloane closed the file.
“Maybe.”
“Do you want her here tonight?”
Sloane looked toward the clock.
“Seven.”
“Yes.”
“Make sure she gets into the meeting.”
He nodded and left.
The door closed.
Sloane returned her attention to AETHER.
The spacecraft rotated silently above the city.
She had spent years creating something no one else knew existed.
And now a twenty-three-year-old researcher she’d never heard of might possess a piece of science she needed.
Sloane hated needing anything from anyone.
Especially a stranger.
Camila Brooks had been awake for twenty-one hours.
She considered this perfectly reasonable.
Her research supervisor did not.
“You need sleep.”
“I slept yesterday.”
“That was thirty-six hours ago.”
Camila looked up from her notes.
“That sounds dramatic.”
“It is dramatic.”
Camila smiled innocently.
Her supervisor stared at her.
“Camila.”
“I’m listening.”
“You’re presenting to Whitmore tonight.”
The smile disappeared.
“Oh.”
“Exactly.”
Camila glanced at the folder beside her.
Three years of research were inside it.
Three years of being told her theories were too unconventional.
Three years of people looking at her like she was brilliant until she disagreed with them.
Then suddenly she was difficult.
Stubborn.
Too ambitious.
Too young.
Too pretty to be taken seriously.
Camila had stopped caring.
Mostly.
She closed her notebook.
“What exactly does Sloane Whitmore want?”
Her supervisor hesitated.
“We don’t know.”
Camila frowned.
“That’s comforting.”
“She’s interested in the compound.”
Camila’s fingers tightened around her pen.
“She shouldn’t be.”
“Why?”
“Because she hasn’t earned access to it.”
Her supervisor sighed.
“That’s why you’re presenting it.”
Camila stood.
She smoothed her blouse and picked up her folder.
She looked perfectly composed.
Soft features.
Beautiful eyes.
Long dark hair falling neatly around her shoulders.
Nothing about her appearance suggested the stubbornness beneath it.
People often mistook beauty for softness.
Camila had learned to let them.
It was useful.
She checked herself once in the mirror.
“You look exhausted,” her supervisor said.
“I look expensive.”
“You look exhausted.”
“Same thing after enough money.”
Her supervisor laughed.
Camila grabbed her bag.
“Let’s go.”
By seven o’clock, the Whitmore building had become unnervingly quiet.
Camila stepped through the revolving doors and immediately regretted wearing heels.
The lobby was enormous.
Marble floors.
Black stone walls.
Massive abstract sculptures.
Security guards dressed like they belonged to a private military.
Everyone moved with purpose.
Camila checked her watch.
Seven-oh-three.
“Perfect.”
She adjusted the folder under her arm.
Then someone slammed into her shoulder.
Her folder flew open.
Papers scattered across the marble.
Camila froze.
For one second, nobody moved.
Then she looked toward the man who had bumped her.
He didn’t even stop.
Camila stared after him.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
She dropped to her knees.
One paper slid beneath a nearby table.
Another landed near the elevator.
She grabbed the closest pages first.
Then reached for the one beneath the table.
Another hand got there before hers.
Camila looked up.
And forgot what she was about to say.
The woman standing above her wore black.
Not fashionable black.
Not I’m attending a formal event black.
Black like a uniform.
A fitted jacket.
Dark trousers.
Black boots.
No unnecessary jewelry.
Short hair.
Sharp features.
Calm eyes.
She looked like she belonged nowhere and everywhere at the same time.
Camila stared.
The woman looked down at the paper.
Then at Camila.
“You dropped this.”
Her voice was low.
Controlled.
Camila held out her hand.
“Thanks.”
The woman didn’t give it to her.
Instead, she glanced at the page.
Camila’s eyebrows pulled together.
“Are you reading my research?”
The woman looked at her.
“I can read.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Something almost amused appeared in the woman’s eyes.
“Then ask a better question.”
Camila stared.
Oh.
She didn’t like her.
Not even a little.
“Give me the paper.”
The woman finally handed it over.
Their fingers brushed.
Camila felt a strange little jolt.
She immediately ignored it.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
The woman started walking away.
Camila watched her for a moment.
Then noticed something.
The woman had bent the corner of her paper.
“Hey.”
The woman stopped.
Camila stood.
“You bent it.”
The woman glanced over her shoulder.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
“You dropped it.”
“Because someone walked into me.”
“And somehow that’s my fault?”
“You were holding it.”
The woman turned around fully.
For the first time, Camila noticed how tall she really was.
The woman looked at the paper.
Then at Camila.
“You’re arguing with me over a corner.”
“It was my research.”
“And now it’s still your research.”
Camila narrowed her eyes.
“You’re annoying.”
The woman’s mouth curved slightly.
“And you’re interesting.”
Camila’s heart gave one stupid, traitorous beat.
She hated that.
She hated it immediately.
“You don’t know me.”
“I know you’re willing to argue with a stranger in the middle of a corporate lobby.”
“Maybe I don’t like strangers.”
“Then we’re off to a poor start.”
Camila folded her arms.
“Do you always talk to people like this?”
“Only when they keep talking to me.”
Camila opened her mouth.
Closed it.
The woman walked away.
Camila watched her go.
There was something irritating about her.
Something strangely magnetic.
Something Camila absolutely did not have time to think about.
She gathered the remaining papers.
Then entered the conference room.
And stopped.
The woman from the lobby was sitting at the head of the table.
Camila’s stomach dropped.
The room suddenly felt much smaller.
Someone beside Camila whispered,
“Ms. Brooks, that’s Sloane Whitmore.”
Camila slowly looked back at the woman.
Sloane’s gaze met hers.
A slow, knowing smile appeared.
“Ms. Brooks.”
Camila tightened her grip on her folder.
“Ms. Whitmore.”
Sloane glanced at the folder.
Then at Camila.
“I hope the paper survived.”
Camila’s eyes narrowed.
“The corner didn’t.”
A few people around the table went silent.
Sloane leaned back in her chair.
For the first time that evening, she looked genuinely entertained.
“Sit down, Ms. Brooks.”
Camila held her gaze.
“Gladly.”
She took the seat directly opposite her.
Neither woman looked away.
And neither of them knew it yet—
but this was the beginning of the worst kind of trouble.
The kind neither of them would be able to walk away from.
