Page 4 of Broken Doll

"Ms. James," he says, his voice smooth, pleasant. "I appreciate you agreeing to this meeting."

"What time is it?" I asked, bypassing the fake pleasantries. I'm not about to pretend I wasn't plucked from the street and stuffed into a van like a Christmas turkey stolen from the yard. "Where the fuck am I?"

The man's lips twitch, the ghost of a smile. "Fair enough." He paused to look at his watch, answering, "It's 7 a.m. and where you are, is someplace safe for our negotiations."

7 a.m.?Holy fuck, I'd just slept away hours of my life thanks to the little cocktail jabbed into my neck. "Negotiations? The fuck you talking about. I'm not negotiating shit with you unless it involves an Uber, an apology, and a fat wad of cash in my pocket for my trouble."

He leans casually against the hard steel wall. "I'd like to offer you a job."

I blink.

A laugh claws its way up my throat, sharp and bitter. "A job?"

"Yes."

"Does it come with benefits? Health insurance? A 401K?"

Another faint smile. "The compensation is generous."

I stare at him, searching for the catch. "And what exactly is the job? Because I'm guessing it's not in customer service."

He finally meets my eyes. Holds them. "You're correct."

I wait, but he doesn't elaborate.

I exhale sharply, shifting my stance. "Look, Suit, I don't know what kind of operation you're running here, but if you dragged me out of my club for a fucking recruitment meeting, you're gonna have to do better than cryptic one-liners and a smug smile like you're offering me a golden goose."

This time, the smile does reach his eyes. "I like you."

I roll mine. "Great. We besties now? You gonna braid my hair?"

He ignores that. "We've been watching you for some time, Ms. James. You have… a particular skill set. One we believe would be valuable to us."

I fold my arms. "And who exactly is 'us'?"

"That's not important right now."

I let out a slow, disbelieving laugh. "So let me get this straight. You abduct me, lock me in a glorified freezer with nothing more than a prison bed, and now you're giving me themystery box treatment? No name, no details, just a vague-ass offer?"

His expression doesn't change. "You enjoy danger."

I go still.

"You seek it out," he continues, his voice steady, dissecting. "You take risks others wouldn't. You put yourself in situations where control is an illusion, where the wrong move could end badly. And yet—you always land on your feet. From what I can tell, you're a cat with nine lives. And that's useful to me."

I don't say anything.

Because fuck. He's right.

He pushes off the wall, squaring his shoulders as he fixes his stare on me. "What I'm offering is simple. A way to use that talent. A way to turn those impulses into something more."

"And what kind of job would that be?" I ask with suspicion.

A pause. Then, with the same calm precision, he says?—

"You'd be using your body, Ms. James. The way you already do. But instead of chasing meaningless pleasure—you'll be chasing intel."

A chill snakes down my spine.

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