The Polyester Incident

The Temple of Dendur was a long way from the Bronx, both geographically and spiritually. Tonight, the ancient sandstone gateway, stolen from Egypt and reassembled in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, was playing host to the modern equivalent of pharaohs: New York City’s billionaire class.

Harper adjusted the strap of her clutch, feeling the uncomfortable dig of the RFID cloner concealed inside. She hated these people. She hated the way the champagne flutes chimed like tiny, crystal bells. She hated the smell of money—which, to her, smelled like expensive cologne and apathy.

But mostly, she hated the dress.

It was a emerald green knockoff she’d bought at a thrift store in Bushwick. It shimmered under the museum lights, but it scratched like steel wool against her skin.

"Target acquired," she muttered under her breath, tapping her earpiece. It was purely performative; she worked alone, but the habit kept her grounded.

Dominic Sterling stood near the reflecting pool, looking like he owned the museum, the artifacts, and possibly the concept of history itself. He was taller than the photos in *Forbes* suggested. His tuxedo was bespoke, midnight blue, and fit across broad shoulders that seemed too powerful for a boardroom. He was laughing at something a senator’s wife said, his head thrown back, exposing the sharp line of his throat.

Harper took a breath. *Just get close. Three feet. ten seconds. That’s all the cloner needs to scrape his phone.*

She grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter to use as a prop and began her approach. She moved through the crowd like a shark in a koi pond, dodging a tech mogul and a reality TV star.

She slid into Dominic’s orbit. He was flanked by security, but they were looking outward, scanning for threats with guns, not women in cheap dresses.

Harper pretended to stumble. It was a classic move, clumsy but effective. She lurched forward, aiming to brush her purse against his jacket pocket.

"Oh! I'm so sor—"

A hand shot out.

It didn't just catch her arm; it clamped onto her wrist with a speed that blurred the air. One moment she was falling; the next, she was anchored.

Harper looked up.

Dominic Sterling wasn't looking at the senator’s wife anymore. He was looking at her. His eyes were a startling, electric amber, and they held zero surprise.

"Careful," Dominic said. His voice was a rich baritone, smooth as aged whiskey. "The floor is marble. It stains easily."

He didn't let go. Instead, he pulled her upright, pulling her just close enough that her nose brushed the lapel of his jacket.

"And you're broadcasting on a 2.4 gigahertz frequency," he whispered, his lips inches from her ear. "My security team picked up your cloner the moment you walked past the coat check."

Harper froze. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum solo. *Run.*

She tried to yank her wrist back. It was like trying to pull away from a hydraulic press.

"Don't make a scene," Dominic murmured, a smile playing on his lips that didn't reach his predatory eyes. "Smile. Pretend I just told you a very witty joke."

He steered her. He didn't drag her—he was too smooth for that—but he guided her with irresistible force through the crowd, past the Temple, and out onto the private terrace overlooking Central Park.

The moment the glass doors hissed shut behind them, the gala noise faded to a dull roar. The night air was crisp, smelling of autumn leaves and exhaust fumes.

Dominic released her wrist. He leaned back against the stone railing, crossing his arms. He didn't look angry. He looked... amused.

"Harper Vance," he said. "Aliases include 'Red\_Queen', 'System\_Shock', and my personal favorite, 'Guest\_123'. You cracked the Pentagon’s HR payroll firewall when you were nineteen. Impressive."

Harper rubbed her wrist, her mind racing through exit strategies. The drop to the park was thirty feet. Doable, if she didn't mind breaking an ankle.

"I don't know who you're talking about," Harper lied, channeling her best indignant socialite. "I'm just here for the charity."

"Please," Dominic scoffed. He gestured vaguely at her outfit. "You look terrible in polyester. It screams 'undercover activist'. Next time, invest in silk. It breaths better."

Harper bristled. The insult to her hacking skills she could take. The insult to her wardrobe—which she had spent forty dollars on—was too far.

"It’s vintage," she snapped, dropping the act. "And you’re an embezzling parasite, Sterling. I know about the shell companies in the Caymans. I know about the missing forty million from the Q3 report. I was going to clone your phone, dump your emails to the Times, and watch your stock price crater."

Dominic’s grin widened. It was a dangerous expression, showing a lot of very white, very straight teeth.

"You think I stole forty million dollars?" he asked.

"The numbers don't lie. The money vanished."

"It didn't vanish. It was reallocated." Dominic pushed off the railing and took a step toward her. The air around him felt charged, heavy with static. "You're good, Harper. Better than my Chief Information Officer. Which is why I'm not going to have you arrested."

He reached into his pocket. Harper flinched, expecting a weapon.

He pulled out his phone. He tapped the screen and held it up.

It wasn't a police dialer. It was a digital contract.

"I have a mole," Dominic said, his voice losing its playful edge. "Someone inside Sterling Corp is leaking data. Not financial data. Personnel data. Locations. Schedules. Dangerous information."

"Why should I care if your corporate secrets get out?" Harper crossed her arms.

"Because if this information gets out, people die," Dominic said. The gravity in his tone stopped her. He wasn't lying. She was a human lie detector, and he was telling the truth. "I need an outsider. Someone who hates me enough to look under every rock, but loves the truth enough to report it. I need you."

"You want to hire me to hack *you*?"

"I want to pay you double whatever you think you're worth to find the leak," Dominic said. "Find the mole, Harper. Prove I'm the monster you think I am. Or prove me right."

Harper looked at the contract. Then she looked at the drop to the park. Then she looked at Dominic Sterling, who was looking at her like she was a puzzle he was dying to solve.

"Triple," Harper said. "And no polyester uniforms."

Dominic laughed. "Deal."

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