Benedict closed the office door with his foot and set the candle box down on the floor.
Benedict: Give me your arm.
Marielle: It is a scratch. It is nothing.
He wet a clean cloth at the sink and pressed it to the cut, and his hands were careful in a way that made her eyes sting.
Marielle: He swore he would find you in an alley. He said Marrow Street, like he had already picked the spot.
Benedict: I heard him.
He crouched in front of her so their eyes were level, and he did not let go of her hands.
Marielle: He said Friday. What do I do on Friday?
Benedict: Nothing about him. On Friday you work, and the auction stays honest.
The door opened without a knock, and Priscilla came in first in her red dress, with Veronica behind her.
Priscilla: Look at this. She is holding hands with the handyman and crying about a scratch.
Veronica: You told a donor no in front of your family. You made us look cheap, Marielle.
Priscilla: I would have eaten that dinner. One dinner, one smile, and the whole auction paid for.
Priscilla: But no. She has to keep her husband warm at night.
Priscilla picked up the clipboard and let it fall, and the auction papers slid across the floor under the desk.
Priscilla: Pick it up. Pick up your zero, cousin.
Marielle bent to pick up the pages, and Priscilla pushed her shoulder with two fingers.
Her back hit the edge of the desk, and the lamp shook.
Priscilla: Look at her. Shaking like a cheap chair over some paper.
Veronica: Mark my words, Marielle. Lose this auction and your man is out of this building by morning.
Veronica: And you both lose the house, the car, and your name on that door. Say goodbye to your bed.
It was a threat said out loud in a small room, and nobody in that family would call it anything else.
Benedict stood up and stepped between them, and he picked up the pages one by one, slow, without a word.
Benedict: The door is behind you.
Priscilla: Nobody asked the tray boy for an opinion.
Benedict: I am asking once.
His voice was quiet. Priscilla looked at him, then at the door, and something in her face changed.
Priscilla: Fine. Friday, cousin. Bring a tissue.
Their heels went down the hall like small hammers, and the office went quiet again.
Marielle's hands were shaking, so Benedict took them and held them flat against his chest.
Marielle: I am so tired of being small in front of them.
Benedict: You are not small. You are the only real thing in this building.
She kissed him first, hard, because she was tired of being careful.
His hand found her waist, then her back, and pulled her in until her blouse pressed against his work shirt.
He slid his hands under the hem of her blouse, warm on her bare skin, and she made a small sound into his mouth.
Marielle: Lock the door.
Benedict: It is already locked.
He lifted her onto the edge of the desk and stood between her knees, and she hooked her foot behind his leg and pulled him closer.
Her hips moved against him, slow and certain, and his breath went rough against her ear.
Marielle: Do not stop. Not yet.
He stopped anyway, with his forehead against hers and his hands still warm at her waist, shaking a little.
Benedict: Not here. Not with your family down the hall and a fight waiting for us.
Marielle: You always stop at the worst time.
Benedict: I want to do this right. When this is over, I want one whole night and nobody at the door.
She laughed, shaky, and pressed her forehead to his shoulder.
Marielle: Then you better fix Friday.
Benedict: Friday you stand in that hall and be honest. They will have nothing to say.
Marielle: How are you always so sure?
He kissed her once more and stepped into the hall with his phone already in his hand.
Benedict: Junia. It is me. I need something quiet.
Junia: Mr. Roe. Go ahead.
Benedict: Lionel Pemberton. His charity records. Every cent, every account, ten years back.
Junia: His charity has one real donor. Him. The money goes in, and it comes back out under another name.
Benedict looked back at the office door where Marielle still stood, and his jaw went tight.
Benedict: Then we have him.