Five minutes later, her client arrived.
She was a handsome woman in her early fifties, wearing a simple but costly black dress and a string of pearls. Her hair, a glossy ash-blonde, was swept back into a French twist. She carried herself with the crisp, defensive elegance of a woman used to being admired, but also ignored.
"Veronica?" she said as she approached, her voice warm but cautious.
Marise stood, offering her hand. "Yes. You must be Mrs. Halloway."
"Please," the woman said with a small smile and took her hand. "Call me Irene."
Marise smiled back, giving enough warmth to set the tone. "Irene. It's lovely to meet you."
They sat, the clink of glasses and low voices filling the air around them. The waiter appeared and disappeared with professional silence, taking their orders—fresh seafood, crisp salads, a bottle of white wine recommended by the house.
The conversation began carefully with the usual small talk: the weather, the city, travel. Marise realized within ten minutes that Irene was lonely. Not just bored, truly aching for someone to listen without judgment.
"I’m not very good at these things," Irene confessed, swirling her wine glass. "Making conversation with strangers."
Marise smiled, setting down her fork. "You’re not speaking to a stranger. You’re speaking to someone who’s genuinely interested."
The tension in Irene's shoulders eased slightly.
From there, the conversation flowed more easily. Irene spoke about her travels—Paris, Milan, Athens—her voice lighting up when she mentioned the ruins of Delphi and the streets of Florence at night. She spoke of her husband, too, though not often, and never with anything resembling affection.
"He's a good man," she said at one point, her eyes distant. "In the ways that matter to banks."
Marise said nothing, only offered an understanding smile. It was not her place to judge. She had to be whatever Irene needed tonight, and she was feeling genuinely sorry for the woman. She knew what it was like to be lonely. Marise was thirty-five and had been alone since she was seventeen.
They dined slowly, savouring the cheese platters, grilled octopus, lamb skewers. The wine rounded Irene’s edges. Her laughter grew warmer, her glances lingered longer.
It was an uncomplicated night, easier than most Marise had endured. No awkward silences. No heavy-handed attempts at control. Irene was simply a woman who wanted to be seen.
As the plates were cleared and a third glass of wine arrived, Irene reached across the table, her fingers brushing lightly over Marise’s hand. "You know," she said, her voice dropping a little, "I have an apartment not far from here. If you’re not in a rush…"
Marise lifted her gaze, meeting Irene’s with a slow, almost regretful smile. "That’s a lovely invitation," she said warmly, turning her hand enough to squeeze Irene’s fingers gently. "But I’m afraid I have an early appointment tomorrow morning. I’d hate to be bad company for you later tonight."
Irene flushed slightly, withdrawing her hand with a soft laugh that carried no real hurt.
"You’re very polite, Veronica."
"I prefer honest," Marise said lightly. "And I hope you’ll allow me the chance to spend a little more time with you another night when I can give you my full attention."
Irene’s smile deepened, touched with something like gratitude. "That would be nice. It’s been... a long time since I enjoyed myself this much."
They finished their wine slowly, their talk winding back into lighter topics: music, art, places they both dreamed of visiting.When the check came, Irene paid it without hesitation. Outside, the night air was cool, the city lights spinning gold across the wet pavement.
Irene leaned in, brushing her lips against Marise’s cheek in a gesture that could be affection or longing, depending how one wanted to interpret it.
"Goodnight, Veronica."
"Goodnight, Irene."
Marise watched her walk away, heels clicking against the sidewalk, head held a little higher than when she’d arrived.
As she turned toward the waiting car, and slid back into the anonymity of the night, Marise allowed herself the smallest twinge of regret. She had liked Irene and the woman deserved some comfort in her life. Any other time, she would have spent the night with her. She knew how it felt not to be noticed.
But this had been a test, and she was expected to abide by the agency’s rules.
CHAPTER THREE
