"Sonderism. It's the realization that every person you pass has a life as complex as your own. Dreams, fears, ambitions. The woman who makes your coffee? She's writing a novel. The doorman? Three kids in college. Everyone's the star of their own movie, everyone thinks they matter." Xavier adjusted his platinum cufflinks, watching floor numbers tick upward in the mirrored elevator. "But here's the truth – they don't. Not to me."
The voice in his earpiece sighed. "Are you monologuing again? Christ, X, focus on the job."
"Darling, I invented focus." Xavier ran a hand through his snow-white hair, styling it to perfect dishevelment. His purple eyes caught the light as he smiled at his reflection. "Besides, what's the point of being this sexy if I can't admire it occasionally?"
"The point is getting the keycard, scanning it, and getting out. Not philosophizing about random strangers."
"Mila, you wound me. I'm establishing my mindset." Xavier straightened his black silk tie. "Avery Hemmingway wouldn't rush. Avery Hemmingway savors."
"Avery Hemmingway isn't real, and you have fifteen minutes before security changes shifts."
Xavier chuckled. "Avery's real to Mrs. Takeda. Very real. Especially after our third meeting when I—"
"Details I don't need." Mila's voice sharpened. "Just remember, this is supposed to be simple. Get the card, scan it, return it. No complications."
"When have I ever complicated things?"
"Last month. The ambassador's daughter."
"She complicated things. I merely adapted."
"The casino job."
"Creative improvisation."
"Prague."
Xavier winced. "We swore to never talk about Prauge."
"Just... stick to the plan. Her husband's collection isn't worth dying over."
The elevator slowed. Xavier rolled his shoulders, shedding his true self. When the doors opened, Avery Hemmingway would step out – cultured art dealer, passionate lover, and walking masterpiece of deception.
"I never die, Mila. I make dramatic exits."
***
Three weeks earlier, Xavier had been eating chocolate gelato in a café when the job offer came.
"Takeda Hiroaki," his broker had said, sliding a file across the table. "Japanese businessman. Art collector. Rumored ties to several criminal enterprises across Asia."
Xavier had licked his spoon clean before opening the file. "I'm listening."
"He's acquired something that doesn't belong to him. Client wants it back."
"And what is 'it' exactly?"
"A key. Crystal embedded. Supposedly opens something valuable."
Xavier flipped through photos of a severe-looking man with cold eyes and a much younger woman with sad ones. "The wife looks interesting."
"Don't even think about it. This is retrieval only. Get in, get the key, get out."
Xavier had smiled, already thinking about it. "Of course. Simple."
***
Now, as the elevator doors opened to the penthouse floor, Xavier became Avery completely. His posture shifted subtly – shoulders back, chin slightly raised, steps measured and purposeful. The hallway was adorned with original artwork worth millions.
He pressed his earpiece. "I'm going silent. See you on the other side."
"Xavier, wait—"
He removed the device, slipping it into his pocket as he approached the door. Three gentle knocks, the rhythm they'd established. He could already map the room in his mind – the layout memorized from blueprints, the security system he'd need to avoid, the safe behind the Monet reproduction.
The door opened, and there she stood.
Aiko Takeda wore a silk kimono that clung to her curves, her dark hair cascading over one shoulder. Her eyes – deep brown edged with gold – widened with pleasure at the sight of him.
"Avery," she breathed.
Xavier took her hand, bringing it to his lips. "I've thought of nothing but you since Tuesday."
A blush colored her cheeks. "My husband's collection—"
"Can wait." Xavier stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "I'd rather discuss the most exquisite piece in this penthouse."
"The Degas?"
"You."
Her laugh was genuine but nervous – the laugh of a woman unaccustomed to such direct attention. Xavier had cataloged her responses over their previous meetings: the way she touched her collarbone when flattered, how her eyes darted away when pleased, the slight tremble in her fingers when he stood too close.
He removed his suit jacket, draping it carefully over a chair. The penthouse was a museum of wealth – marble floors, crystal chandeliers, artwork that belonged in galleries rather than private collections. But Xavier's focus remained on Aiko, the most valuable asset in the room.
"Perhaps we should discuss business first," she suggested, though her eyes betrayed her thoughts.
Xavier moved closer, just inside her personal space. "Art is pleasure, not business. Your husband collects beautiful things..." He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "As do I, in my way."
Her breath caught. "Avery, I—"
"Tell me to leave, and I will." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Tell me to stay, and make me the happiest man in Manhattan."
The hesitation lasted three seconds. He counted them, watching the conflict play across her features – desire versus duty, loneliness versus loyalty.
"Would you like some tea?" she asked instead of answering.
Xavier smiled. "I would love some tea."
The tea went cold as they talked. Xavier guided the conversation masterfully, asking questions that made her feel seen, understood. He learned that she had been a dancer before marriage, that she missed Tokyo's cherry blossoms, that her husband's business trips grew longer each year.
"You're easy to talk to," she said, her posture relaxed now. "Most people see the penthouse, the name, the clothes."
"I see you," Xavier replied, meaning it for once. "The penthouse is just a box. Expensive, but empty."
She looked away. "Like me."
"No." He touched her chin, turning her face back to his. "Never empty. Perhaps lonely. There's a difference."
Her eyes met his, vulnerability plain on her face. "How do you understand so well?"
Because I know exactly what you need to hear.
"Because I see past surfaces," he said instead. "It's why I love art. The story beneath the image."
He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes until the shift change. He needed that keycard.
"Your husband's private collection," he began, "you mentioned he keeps it secured?"
"Yes." She stood, moving to a small lacquered box on the mantel. "He's very protective of his treasures."
She removed a sleek card from the box. "This accesses his private gallery. Would you like to see it? While he's away?"
Xavier's pulse quickened. Too easy. "I would be honored."
She held the card, hesitating. "He would be furious if he knew."
Xavier stepped closer. "Some beautiful things deserve to be appreciated, not locked away."
He wasn't talking about art. Neither was she.
The card remained between them, a bridge and a barrier. Xavier needed thirty seconds with it – long enough for the scanner in his pocket to copy its data. He needed a distraction.
So he kissed her.
Her surprise melted quickly into response, the keycard forgotten as her arms wound around his neck. Xavier deepened the kiss, one hand sliding to her waist while the other carefully took the card from her loosened grip.
Three seconds to slip it into his pocket.
Five seconds for the scanner to activate.
Twenty seconds to copy.
Two seconds to return it.
He counted while he kissed her, his mind split between pleasure and purpose. When he reached thirty, he broke away, breathing hard.
"I've wanted to do that since we met," he said, and that wasn't entirely a lie.
She touched her lips, eyes wide. "I shouldn't have—"
"Don't." He placed the card back in her hand, closing her fingers around it. "No regrets. Life's too short for regrets."
The scanner in his pocket vibrated once – confirmation of success. Mission complete. He should leave now, make his exit, deliver the data, and collect his payment.
Instead, he kissed her again and slowly unraveled her kimono.
Her kimono hit the marble revealing pearlescent skin glowing under recessed lighting. Xavier's fingers traced the dragon tattoo winding from Aiko's left hip to ribcage—ink still raised and tender from recent needling. "Fresh art," he murmured against her throat, tasting jasmine and nervous sweat.
"I—ah!—had it done last week," she gasped as his teeth found the sensitive juncture of neck and shoulder. Her fingers twisted in his snow-white hair, equal parts pull and plea. "Hiroaki thinks it's temporary henna."
Schlick.
The sound of his belt unfastening echoed in the silent penthouse. Xavier's shirt joined the growing pool of fabric, revealing hard planes of muscle earned through a lifetime of surviving beautiful mistakes. Aiko's nails raked down his torso, catching on the scar bisecting his ribs—a souvenir from Jakarta that still ached in humid weather.
"Does your husband," Xavier breathed between hot, open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone, "know how you whimper?" His hands molded her thighs, thumbs pressing into soft flesh until she arched against him. "How you shake?"
The elevator dinged down the hall.
Aiko froze. "That's—hnn!—the service elevator."
"Not ours." Xavier nipped her earlobe, steering them toward the leather sectional. "Private code, remember?" His tongue swirled around the shell of her ear. "Though maybe we should test the housekeeping staff's discretion."
She laughed, the sound fracturing into a sharp gasp as he lifted her onto the couch. Moonlight through floor-to-ceiling windows painted her in silver—raven hair fanned across cushions, tattooed torso heaving, crimson lace panties glistening. Xavier knelt between her legs, mouth trailing fire up inner thighs.
"Wait—" Her protest dissolved into a choked moan as his tongue found her through damp silk. Schlurp. The obscene wetness echoed off marble floors. Her hips jerked. "Avery, someone might—ohgod!"
He peeled the lace aside with teeth. "Let them hear." Schlup. Schluck. The sounds grew louder, wetter, her thighs trembling against his temples. "Let all of Manhattan know how you taste."
Ding.
The main elevator this time. Xavier's head snapped up. Aiko's eyes widened—identical calculations flashing through both minds.
"Impossible," she breathed. "He's in—"
"Fuck." Xavier lunged for his pants, extracting a ceramic blade from the hidden seam. Aiko scrambled for her kimono, fingers fumbling obi ties.
Footsteps approached—polished Oxfords on hardwood. Four pairs. Five.
"Cherry blossom?" Takeda's voice slithered through the penthouse. "I brought you a gift from Singapore."
Xavier pressed Aiko against the sectional's backrest, their bodies hidden from the foyer's sightline. His mouth crushed hers, swallowing panicked breaths.
"Play along," he mouthed against her lips.
Her nod was barely perceptible. Xavier's free hand slipped between her thighs, fingers working in cruel contrast to their dire circumstances. Aiko's muffled whimper vibrated against his tongue.
"Hiroaki," she called out, voice miraculously steady. "I'm—nngh!—resting in the lounge."
Xavier's teeth closed on her lower lip, punishment and promise. His fingers curled deeper.
"You sound strained, my flower." Closer now. Ice clinking in a crystal tumbler. "Are you unwell?"
"Just a headache." Her breath hitched as Xavier added a second finger. "I'll join you shortly."
Takeda's laugh froze the room. "But I have your surprise here. And I wish to meet this special guest of yours"
Well… I'm cooked.