I shut the file without reading on. It’s harder than I imagine, still I manage it with as much indifference as I can muster. “Not interested.”

I slide the folder across the desk to where Celia has perched herself. My pulse quickens as my fingers let go of Alayna’s profile. I’m itching to scrutinize it with an obsessive pull that I haven’t felt in years. Jordan will find the same information, I remind myself. I can wait. Patience has always been one of my most admirable traits.

Celia takes the folder into her hands. I try not to focus on it any longer, but my eyes flit to it more than once.

She stands. “I guess I was wrong then.” Her tone says she doesn’t believe that for a minute. “I’ll have to keep this little prize for myself. You really are out of the game, aren’t you?”

Celia’s almost as good at manipulating as I am. It is both a blessing and a curse that I know her as well as I do—I can predict every move before she makes it. Unfortunately, she can also predict mine. She’s the greatest chess opponent I’ve ever had.

I try to discern her next move now, or, rather, the move she predicts I’ll make. She’s letting me off too easy, which means she’s not really letting me off at all. She wants me to ask her what she means to do with Alayna, and since that’s what she wants, it’s the one question I can’t ask. Yet it’s the one burning at me most.

On top of what I know she wants me to do, I have my own agenda: Whatever she has planned, I have to stop her. It’s not an altruistic motive—it goes back to the not wanting to share. I don’t want Celia to do anything to Alayna Withers because I want her all to myself. What I want her for has yet to be determined. I don’t have any urge to play the woman. But I yearn to connect with her in some way and whatever that way is, it’s not to include Celia.

So I have my work cut out for me in how I respond to my old friend. Terminate her plans without seeming to care what they are. I sit back in my chair and meet her eyes. “I’m out of the game, Celia. You know this. When will you accept that?”

I’m practiced in remaining aloof even when high stakes are on the line. I’ve often wondered if I could pass a polygraph test without being completely honest. I don’t intend to ever be in the position to find out, but it is a curiosity of mine.

Celia laughs. “I’ll never accept it, Hudson. I’d have to believe that people could change, and I don’t believe that. Not fundamentally. Sooner or later you’ll realize that it’s killing you. You thrive on your experiments. They gave you reason to live. What else could replace that?”

I’ve asked myself that same question since I left the game. I’ve searched for replacements in the best and worst of places—work, exercise, sex, alcohol. Nothing has yet to satisfy me in the way that I need, but I’m not ready to give up looking.

I won’t share that with Celia. “Life replaces it, Ceeley. Sooner or later you grow up. Even the people with enough money not to. Even us.”

“Huh. You sound even more like Alayna Withers than I thought.”

Here’s where I slip. I make my grand mistake and I know it before I start speaking and yet I can’t stop myself. “What do you mean?”

Celia’s eyes light up and I understand exactly why. Just like that, I’ve shown my interest. I’m exposed and there’s nothing I can do to take it back. She’s won. I try to convince myself it’s a small victory, but without being aware of exactly where my disclosure will take me, I already know that it’s not small at all.

“If you’d read the file,” she says calmly, “you’d know.”

So I’m stuck. Either I prod her to tell me or I ask for the file back. Both will expose my intrigue further.

Or I could ask her to leave. If I do, I’ll have to let it all go. Forget my own agenda. Forget the woman with the brown eyes and the hold she has on me.

That hold, though, is unyielding. I can’t let Alayna Withers go just yet. And if I usher Celia out, I will lose my chance to be privy to her plans. I’ve lost no matter what. Now I have to regain ground, take control of the situation.

I rise and head toward the elevator that goes only to my private loft, offering Celia a one-word directive as I do. “Upstairs.” I don’t look to see if she follows me. I know she will and sure enough, she slips in beside me just before the doors close.

“Just like old times,” she mutters under her breath.

I swallow my disgust. It feels directed at her, but it’s actually for me. It sickens me that I’m here again, that we’re sneaking away to discuss matters that have nothing to do with business. As we arrive at the loft, I attempt to stifle the notion that this simple action means that I’m conceding to anything. “This is an inappropriate conversation for my office. That’s all.”

My attempt was futile.

“Exactly,” she gloats. “Like all the conversations we’ve had here in the past.”

I can taste the disgust again at the back of my throat, its bitter flavor very real in my mouth. Though the loft had been everything from a fuck pad to a place to crash after a long day at work, it was always first and foremost our place—mine and Celia’s. Early in our gaming days, it had become our headquarters. We planned and schemed here. Used it as my address to keep our subjects from invading my personal space.

This isn’t the same. I brought Celia up here to give her the impression she was winning. To lower her guard. It was my play. Only, the memories throw me off-kilter as well. I’m prepared for that. Sometimes you have to lose a pawn to save your king.

I head to the refrigerator. Without asking, I pull out a bottle of water knowing it’s Celia’s beverage of choice. I hand it to her and head to the bar to fix my own drink. This encounter requires Scotch. It’s fortunate my schedule is free for the rest of the day. I quickly down two fingers of amber liquid and turn back to my guest. “Let me have it.”

She sits on the couch. “The file or the story?”

“The file.” I’m not interested in her story. It will be twisted to her liking. I take the file from her outstretched hand. She expects me to sit next to her. I take the armchair instead.

I open the folder again with a steady hand. Inside, I have the shakes. I have no idea how I’ll be impacted by what’s in here, but I fear I’m about to fall down the rabbit’s hole. That’s how much I’m affected by the mere idea of Alayna Withers. Settled into the leather at my back, I begin to read.

My eyes scan through the documents. There’s the usual info—copies of her credit report, her birth certificate, a death certificate for her parents. I don’t spend much time on these, only to note her age—twenty-six until November—and confirmation that she does indeed work at The Sky Launch.

Celia’s quiet at first as I read. She knows when to give me space and when to push, but she can’t help commenting when she sees that I’m looking at a copy of Alayna’s latest paystub. “She’s staying there. At that night club. Even after graduation.”

I won’t ask how she knows this. If it’s true, and I’m sure it is if Celia’s sharing it, I would have found it out too. “Why?” I ask instead.

“She wants to use her MBA to move up in management. Take over the place one day, was my impression.” Celia takes a sip of her water. “I chatted with the owner there when I inquired about doing a redesign for them.”

Celia’s worked fast. I’m impressed.

There’s more that she wants to say so I prod her. “And the owner just shared info on his employees?”

“That’s the thing. He doesn’t want to be the owner anymore. He’s selling. Asked me if I knew any buyers and highlighted a couple of his key staff to incentivize anyone with interest. I told him I might know someone.” She sits forward, excitement in her features. “There’s your in, Hudson.”

This news rouses me and I’m already looking for excuses to make the purchase. Isn’t it good business? If you can’t get the employee you want, then buy the employee’s company?

Maybe I made that rule up. But I’m a leader in innovative business practices. It could still be an acceptable principle even if I did make it up.

Still, I’m not moved to action. I don’t need Celia to pursue this route if I choose it.

I return my attention to the file.

“There’s more,” Celia taunts.

I ignore her. Then I see it, the information that Celia’s hinting at. A police record. “She’s been arrested?”

Celia scoots closer to me on the couch. “She violated a restraining order. Twice. Her brother’s a lawyer and got her record buried.”

“But you got it unburied. Let me guess—Don Timmons.” Don is a cop that Celia’s friendly with. She’s toyed with his emotions for years, fucking him simply to get information when she wants it. He’s out of her social class, something that would matter to her if she ever dated anyone seriously. But Celia doesn’t believe in romantic engagements. Not anymore. I taught her that.

She crosses a leg over the other. “Don’t look so judgmental. Don got what he wanted out of it.”

I’m not sure why I’m judging her. That behavior is well in line with things I’ve done myself time and time again. Perhaps therapy has had a positive effect on me. Not that I have suddenly developed a conscience. My contemptuous attitude is a defense mechanism—if I don’t approve of her actions, it will be less likely that I will want to adopt them for myself.

“Anyway, maybe the arrest is part of the reason she doesn’t pursue another occupation. She may not want it uncovered and she knows that any decent corporate screening process would uncover it.”

“It’s possible.” I make a mental note to get Alayna’s arrest sealed permanently. I have people more influential than Don Timmons. And I don’t have to blow them to get favors. Alayna’s too brilliant to let a jaded past keep her from her full potential.

A part of me recognizes I’m lying to myself about my reasons for caring about this woman’s future. My motivation isn’t centered around her business career or how I might tap into her intellectual skills. I can’t name the source of my motivation, though. So I cling to the lie as long as I can.

“On the other hand, the owner went on and on about Alayna’s genuine love of her job. She seems to be really passionate about it. She has a vested interest in the club.”

That reasoning resonates with me. Alayna Withers did not strike me as someone who lived in fear. Why did she get her degree in the first place? Because she wanted to make the club her own makes sense. She has drive. She has ambition. That was obvious in her presentation. My original shock at her choice of employment has been replaced with complete respect. This I can support. I want to help her reach that goal. It’s admirable.

“But the arrest isn’t the big thing.” Celia brings me back from my thoughts with an enthusiasm that threatens to be contagious. “The cause of it is. She has a mental health history.”

I turn once more to the papers in my lap and settle on the last section of documents. They consist of doctors’ records, outpatient reports, a certificate of rehabilitation completion. It only takes a few minutes for me to puzzle out her history. Alayna Withers has a compulsive disorder most likely aggravated by the death of both her parents at a young age. She specifically targets her obsessive tendencies on men and relationships, leading to socially abnormal behavior such as stalking, vandalism, and disorderly conduct. According to her rehab report, she’s been recovered for the past two years—a similar timeline to my own.

There’s a part of me that’s appalled by this information. The woman that stood in front of us at Stern was not fragile. She was confident and put together and in control. But I remember that strong sense that there was something more underneath her façade. I realize now that I had so easily recognized it because her carriage was so familiar. Strong on the outside, battling demons on the inside—she was, in so many ways, like me.

I close my eyes and massage the bridge of my nose. Is that the nature of my attraction? A kinship with this woman? I don’t believe it’s that simple, but, with this new information, I am beyond fascinated with her. I’ve often questioned if there was any recovery for someone like me. Can I really get better? Do I have any hope for a full and healthy life?

Celia was right. I want to experiment with this one more than any other she’s tempted me with in the last two years. Our objectives, though, are in opposition. I can easily guess the nature of Celia’s planned game. She wants to see if she can cause the subject to break again. See if Alayna will return to her past behaviors when pushed.