"Of course, sir." She eyes the blood on my dress with concern but asks no questions.
I should run. Should demand answers, call the police, scream. Instead, I follow Gage mechanically up the stairs, down a hallway lined with what appear to be original works of art, and into a suite that's larger than my entire apartment.
"The bathroom is through there," he says, gesturing to a door. "Everything you need should be provided. Mrs. Henderson will bring you something to change into."
I stand motionless in the center of the room, unable to process simple instructions. Gage sighs, then gently guides me to sit on the edge of the bed.
"The man who attacked you," he says, crouching to meet my eyes, "was a common criminal. His death, while regrettable, was necessary to ensure your safety. My men were following protocol."
Protocol. As if murder is just another item on a corporate checklist.
I find my voice, though it sounds distant even to my own ears. "You had me followed."
"Yes." No denial, no excuses. "For your protection."
"The black SUV. The business cards. The text messages." My voice strengthens as anger begins to cut through the shock. "That was all you?"
"My organization, yes."
My hands clench into fists. "Why? What do you want from me?"
He stands, creating distance between us. "That's a longer conversation, one we'll have when you're more... composed." He moves toward the door. "Get cleaned up. Rest. We'll talk in the morning."
"No!" I find myself on my feet, trembling with anger rather than fear now. "You don't get to decide when we talk. You've had me stalked for weeks. A man just died in front of me. I want answers now."
Gage studies me, his expression unreadable. "Very well. Clean up first. I'll wait."
Before I can argue further, there's a knock at the door. Mrs. Henderson enters with a tray of tea and what looks like brandy, followed by another woman carrying folded clothing.
"These should fit," Mrs. Henderson says, setting the clothing on the bed. "The bathroom has everything else you might need. Ring if you require anything more."
They withdraw silently, leaving me alone with Gage again. He pours a measure of amber liquid into a crystal glass and offers it to me.
"It will help with the shock," he says when I don't take it.
I finally accept the glass, downing the liquid in one burning swallow. The heat spreads through my chest, dulling the edge of my panic.
"Shower," Gage says. "Change. Then we'll talk."
I know I should continue demanding answers, but the blood on my skin has begun to itch, a constant reminder of death. I take the clothing and retreat to the bathroom, locking the door behind me.
The bathroom is lavish—white marble, brushed gold fixtures, a shower large enough for four people. I strip off my ruined dress, dropping it to the floor in a heap of silk and blood. The hot water stings my skin, but I welcome the pain, scrubbing until no trace of the evening's horror remains.
When I finally emerge, wrapped in a plush robe provided, the clothing Mrs. Henderson brought waits on the counter—simple black pants, a soft cashmere sweater, and underwear that somehow fits perfectly. I dress quickly, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. I don't want to see the haunted look in my eyes.
Gage waits in the sitting area of the suite, standing at the window overlooking manicured grounds illuminated by security lighting. He turns when I enter, his gaze assessing but not intrusive.
"Better?" he asks.
"No." I remain standing, arms crossed protectively over my chest. "Nothing about this situation is 'better.'"
He gestures to an armchair. "Please, sit."
"I'll stand."
A slight smile touches his lips, almost admiring. "As you wish." He pours more brandy into my empty glass and extends it.
This time I accept it without hesitation, taking a smaller sip than before. The warmth steadies me, allows me to focus.
