Page 5 of Broken Doll

He watches me, unreadable. "Sex is power. A tool. One that can open doors, loosen tongues, break down defenses. You've already proven you know how to use it."

I swallow. My pulse hammers against my ribs.

"You'd be trained, of course," he continues. "Taught how to read people. How to extract information without them ever realizing. How to control a room with a look, a word, a touch."

I lick my lips, my mouth dry. A forbidden tingle starts at the base of my spine. The allure of such an offer is hard to shut down.

"And in return?" I ask, boldly lifting my chin.

His smile is slow. Icy.

"In return, you'll be given more money than you know what to do with." A pause. "And a life that will never, ever be boring again."

The room feels smaller. The cold biting deeper.

"But you also can't tell anyone what you're doing."

I rub my arms, but it doesn't help. It's not just the temperature. It's the walls pressing in, the silence wrapping around me like a weighted shroud. Like the moment before a freefall—the second your stomach drops, but your feet haven't left the edge yet.

"What if…it slips?" I ask.

He doesn't answer, just stares. The answer is pretty plain — if I spill the beans, he'll spill my blood.

Talk about high stakes for keeping your mouth shut.

It's absurd. Unbelievable. Insane.

"And how exactly am I supposed to pull this off without anyone noticing? Obviously, you know I'm married. Don't you think my husband will notice if I'm off being a secret sex spy?"

"Let's be honest, Landry…you're a shitty wife. I doubt he'll notice but I think you've gotten pretty good at telling a lie. However, if it would be easier, we could arrange for your husband to have an accident, freeing you up entirely."

I stared. Such a casual offer of murder. I should be horrified. But I'm not. If anything, I'm thrilled at the power. Who the fuck are these people?

But I don't want to be responsible for Isaac's death. I cast a bored look the man's way. "Don't be dramatic. I can handle Isaac. I was just curious as to what you would say."

He inclined his head. "Good."

A job offer wrapped in steel walls and veiled threats. A career change that comes with blood money and no way out.

"So, am I supposed to just take your word for this job offer or do I get something in writing? A girl's gotta protect herself."

"Of course," he said, pulling a folded piece of paper from his interior jacket pocket. He hands me the paper. It's a short and simple contract with space for my signature.

Then, with perfect timing, the door scrapes open again.

And I'm introduced to the devil himself.

He doesn't look like Satan. No horns, no pitchfork, no sulfur stench. But the way the air changes when he walks in—like every molecule suddenly stands at attention—tells me everything I need to know.

This is the man they were talking about in the car.Killion.

The first thing I notice is that he's older than Suit Guy—late forties maybe—with silver-flecked stubble and eyes so cold they could freeze vodka.

The second thing I notice is how he carries himself. Not like a soldier, not like a spy, but like a man who's seen the darkest corners of the world and decided to make himself at home there.

"This her?" His voice is unexpected. Smooth, with a slight accent I can't place. European, maybe.

Suit Guy nods. "Landry James. As discussed."

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