Chapter Text
The penthouse office overlooking Manhattan's skyline was a monument to precision. Every surface gleamed with the kind of sterile perfection that spoke of money and control, from the glass desk that reflected nothing but clean lines to the minimalist furniture arranged with mathematical exactness. Eve Warren stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows, her silhouette sharp against the afternoon light, watching the city sprawl beneath her like a chessboard waiting for the next move.
She wore ice blue today: a silk blouse that caught the light just so, paired with charcoal trousers that hugged her frame without a wrinkle out of place. The gold bracelet on her wrist was her only concession to warmth, a thin band that caught the light when she moved. Everything about Eve Warren was calculated, from the way she held her shoulders to the precise shade of nude lipstick that made her appear approachable without being inviting.
The nasal filters she wore were nearly invisible, high-tech inserts that fit snugly inside her nostrils, filtering out the pheromone pollution of Manhattan while allowing normal breathing. Eight million people breathing out their desires, fears, and desperate longings created a psychic smog that would overwhelm anyone with her particular gift. But here, forty-seven floors above the chaos, with pharmaceutical-grade filters and a state-of-the-art air purification system, Eve could think clearly.
She could reduce human connection to what it really was: chemistry, compatibility metrics, and carefully orchestrated theater.
The intercom buzzed, a soft electronic purr that barely disturbed the silence. "Ms. Warren, your three o'clock is here."
Eve didn't turn from the window. "Send them in."
The door opened with a whisper, and she heard the nervous shuffle of expensive shoes on marble. She let them wait thirty seconds, forty-five, before turning with the kind of smile that never reached her eyes but conveyed exactly the right amount of professional warmth.
"Mr. Castellano," she said, extending a hand that he took with the desperate gratitude of a drowning man. "Please, sit."
Antonio Castellano was Vought's latest acquisition, a telekinetic with the unfortunate combination of devastating power and the emotional intelligence of a golden retriever. His publicist had described him as "challenging," which in Eve's experience meant he'd already burned through three potential romantic interests and at least one restraining order.
She could detect the chemical symphony of his anxiety: sharp and metallic, tinged with the particular desperation that came from someone who'd confused fame with love and found both equally hollow.
"I appreciate you taking the time," he began, his accent thick with nerves and what sounded like New Jersey. "I know you're selective about clients."
Eve settled into her chair with fluid grace, her hands folded precisely in her lap. She'd already reviewed his file: twenty-six years old, powers manifested at fourteen during a high school football game where he'd accidentally launched the opposing team's quarterback through the goal posts. Recruited by Vought at seventeen, fast-tracked through their development program, and now dealing with the particular isolation that came with being able to move objects with his mind but completely unable to move people with his personality.
"I am," she said simply. "Tell me what you're looking for."
"Someone real," he said immediately, leaning forward with an intensity that made the coffee cup on her desk rattle slightly. "Not another actress or model who just wants the publicity. Someone who gets it, you know? The pressure, the expectations."
Eve's expression didn't change, but she catalogued the information with the precision of a computer. The pheromones told a different story than his words. Beneath the earnestness was a cocktail of lust, insecurity, and the particular brand of narcissism that came with sudden fame. He didn't want someone real. He wanted someone who would make him feel real.
"And what are you offering in return?" she asked.
The question seemed to catch him off guard. "I mean, I'm Antonio Castellano. I'm in the Seven now, I've got the movie deal..."
"Those are credentials," Eve interrupted smoothly. "I asked what you're offering. Emotional availability? Fidelity? The ability to prioritize a relationship over your career? Because I don't arrange transactions, Mr. Castellano. I create partnerships. And partnerships require investment from both parties."
He blinked, the coffee cup rattling more insistently now. "I... yeah, of course. All of that."
The lie was so obvious she could taste it. Bitter and sharp, like burnt coffee mixed with copper. Eve made a note on the tablet beside her, her movements economical and precise. "I'll need to review your psychological profile, your schedule for the next six months, and your financial disclosure statements. My fee is two hundred thousand for the initial consultation and matching process, with an additional fifty thousand for each introduction. If you find a suitable long-term partner through my services, there's a success fee of half a million."
His eyes widened. "That's..."
"Expensive," Eve finished. "Yes. Quality always is. My clients understand that what they're purchasing isn't just access to potential partners, but discretion, expertise, and results. I have a ninety-three percent success rate, Mr. Castellano. My matches last an average of three point seven years, with sixty-eight percent resulting in marriage or long-term cohabitation."
She stood, the movement fluid and final. "Think about it. If you decide to proceed, have your assistant contact mine to schedule the full intake appointment."
After he left, still rattling glassware in his wake, Eve returned to her position at the window. The city looked the same, but something had shifted in the quality of light. Her phone buzzed against the glass desk, and she glanced at the screen to see her sister's name.
"Tara," she answered, her voice warming by degrees that would be imperceptible to anyone who didn't know her well.
"Eve! God, I've been trying to reach you all week. How are you? Are you eating actual meals or just surviving on those protein bars again?"
Despite herself, Eve felt her mouth curve into something approaching a genuine smile. She could detect the faint chemical signature that all family carried: shared genetics creating a kind of olfactory fingerprint that even her filters couldn't entirely mask. Tara smelled like antiseptic soap and cherry chapstick, comfort food and the particular exhaustion that came from spending twelve-hour shifts caring for other people.
"I'm fine, Tara. Just busy."
"You're always busy. When's the last time you went on a date? And I don't mean those weird professional dinner things you do for work."
Eve moved away from the window, settling into her chair with the phone pressed to her ear. Through the glass walls of her office, she could see her assistant fielding calls, the controlled chaos of a business built on the most unpredictable human emotion. "I don't date."
"Everyone dates, Eve. Even workaholics need human connection."
"I have human connection. I'm talking to you right now."
Tara's laugh was warm and exasperated, the sound of someone who'd been having this conversation for years. "That's not the same thing and you know it. Look, Marcus is having his birthday party this weekend. Just a small thing at the house, nothing fancy. Come. Bring someone if you want, or don't, but just... be there? Please?"
Eve glanced at her calendar, already mentally calculating the cost of the time away from work. Family gatherings were challenging for someone with her abilities. Too many people in close proximity, all of them radiating the complex emotional chemistry that came from shared history and unresolved dynamics. "I'll try."
"That's not a yes."
"It's not a no."
"Eve."
There was something in her sister's voice. Not quite worry, but close enough to make Eve pause. She could detect a shift in Tara's chemical signature even through the phone, the particular combination of concern and frustrated affection that meant she was gearing up for one of her big sister interventions.
"What is it?"
"Nothing, I just... I miss you. We all do. And I know your work is important, but you're important too. To us."
The words settled in Eve's chest with an unfamiliar weight. She'd built her life around the principle that emotions were variables to be managed, not experienced. But sitting in her perfect office with her sister's voice in her ear, she felt something crack in the careful architecture of her control.
"I'll be there," she said finally.
"Promise?"
"Promise."
After she hung up, Eve sat in the gathering dusk of her office, watching the city lights begin to flicker on like stars. Her reflection in the window looked back at her: composed, successful, untouchable. Everything she'd worked to become since that first day at Godolkin University when she'd realized her enhanced senses weren't a gift but a burden that would forever keep her at arm's length from genuine human connection.
She could smell everyone's feelings, but she'd never learned to trust her own.
Her assistant's voice came through the intercom again. "Ms. Warren? I have Ashley Barrett from Vought on line one. She says it's urgent."
Eve straightened, her professional mask sliding back into place with practiced ease. Ashley Barrett didn't call unless something big was happening, and in the world of superhero public relations, big usually meant catastrophic.
"Put her through."
The line crackled to life, and Ashley's voice filled the office: sharp, stressed, and moving at the speed of someone perpetually on the edge of a breakdown. She could detect the chemical cocktail of Ashley's panic even through the phone. Caffeine jitters layered over bone-deep exhaustion, with an undercurrent of the particular terror that came from working too closely with people who could end your existence without effort.
"Eve, thank God. I need you. We need you. How quickly can you get to Vought Tower?"
"That depends on what you need."
"A miracle," Ashley said, and Eve could hear the sound of papers shuffling, phones ringing, the controlled chaos of crisis management. "We have a situation. A big one. And you're the only person I know who might be able to fix it."
Eve was already reaching for her coat, her movements automatic and efficient. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."
"Make it fifteen."
The line went dead, and Eve stood in her empty office, the city sprawling beneath her like a promise or a threat. She'd built her career on understanding the mathematics of human connection, on reducing the messy complexity of love to clean, manageable variables. But as she gathered her things and prepared to step back into the world of superheroes and their impossible problems, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was about to encounter an equation she'd never solved before.
One that involved the most dangerous man in America and his broken son, both of whom would smell like secrets she wasn't sure she wanted to uncover.
---
The black car that collected Eve from her office moved through Manhattan traffic with the efficiency of official business, cutting through the urban maze toward Vought Tower. She used the twenty-minute drive to review what she knew about the current state of Vought's flagship hero, though the information was frustratingly incomplete.
Homelander's public image had taken significant damage over the past year. The leaked footage of his more volatile moments, combined with Starlight's very public departure from The Seven, had created a narrative problem that even Vought's considerable spin machine was struggling to manage. Add to that the existence of his son, a child with potentially world-ending powers who'd been hidden from the public until recently, and the situation became exponentially more complex.
But Eve had built her career on solving impossible problems. Rich, powerful, complicated people paid her enormous sums to make their messy lives look like fairy tales. This would be no different.
Vought Tower rose from the Manhattan skyline like a gleaming spear of corporate ambition, its glass facade reflecting the late afternoon sun in brilliant fragments. Eve had been here before, countless meetings with publicists and executives, carefully orchestrated encounters designed to manage the love lives of America's most powerful and unstable individuals. But as she stepped from the car, she felt the familiar tingle of anticipation that came with a truly challenging assignment.
The lobby was a cathedral of marble and chrome, designed to inspire awe and submission in equal measure. Tourists clustered around displays showcasing The Seven's greatest hits, their faces lit with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious experiences. Eve moved through them with practiced efficiency, her heels clicking against the polished floor in a steady rhythm.
The emotional atmosphere was overwhelming. Hundreds of employees packed into close quarters, all of them radiating anxiety, ambition, and barely controlled desperation. The air itself felt thick with secrets and suppressed terror.
Ashley Barrett was waiting by the executive elevators, her reddish-blonde hair pulled back in a style that suggested she'd been running her hands through it. She wore the kind of smile that didn't quite hide the panic in her eyes, and when she spotted Eve, her relief was almost palpable. A chemical signature like fresh rain after a drought.
"Eve, thank you for coming so quickly." Ashley's handshake was firm but brief, her attention already fracturing toward the dozen other crises that undoubtedly demanded her attention. "We need to talk before you meet him."
The elevator rose through the building's heart with silent efficiency, carrying them past floors of cubicles and conference rooms where the business of heroism was conducted with spreadsheets and focus groups. Ashley spoke in rapid, clipped sentences, her words tumbling over each other in her haste to convey the essential information.
"The situation is delicate," she began, her fingers drumming against her tablet in a rhythm that spoke of too much caffeine and too little sleep. "Public perception has been... challenging since the events of last year. Starlight's departure, the leaked footage, Ryan's..." She paused, seeming to search for the right euphemism. "Ryan's integration challenges. We need to rehabilitate Homelander's image, make him seem more relatable, more human. The focus groups are responding well to the idea of him as a family man, but there's a problem."
Eve listened with the focused attention of a surgeon receiving pre-operative briefings. She'd read the reports, seen the footage that Vought's damage control team had tried so desperately to suppress. The world had gotten a glimpse behind the perfect facade, and what they'd seen had been enough to send approval ratings into free fall.
"Ryan?" she said.
Ashley grimaced.
"The boy is... complicated. Powerful, unpredictable, and frankly, difficult to manage. Homelander thinks what Ryan needs is a maternal influence. Someone stable, nurturing, who can help ground him and provide the kind of wholesome family image that tests well with Middle America."
Eve processed this information with the clinical detachment of a surgeon reviewing a particularly complex case. "America's sweetheart needs a sweetheart," she said, her voice carrying no trace of judgment. "And maybe a, you know... mother figure. For Ryan."
Ashley nodded frantically. "Exactly. The polling data shows—"
"I charge double for white nationalist psychotics with god complexes," Eve interrupted smoothly. "Plus hazard pay."
Ashley's laugh was sharp and nervous. "He's not... I mean, that's not how we're positioning..."
"How you position him doesn't change what he is," Eve said smoothly. "But it does affect my fee structure."
The elevator stopped at the executive floor, and Ashley led Eve down a corridor lined with portraits of Vought's greatest successes.
"We'll discuss compensation later," Ashley said quickly, clearly eager to move past the uncomfortable truth Eve had voiced.
The faces stared down at them with the kind of manufactured perfection that spoke of careful image management and strategic lighting. She could detect something else beneath the polished surface: the faint chemical traces of fear and desperation that clung to these halls like expensive cologne.
"But you want me to find this person," Eve said.
"We want you to find someone who can play this person," Ashley corrected, her voice dropping to a whisper as they passed a conference room where she could see figures in expensive suits gesturing animatedly at charts and graphs. "At least publicly. Someone who can handle the pressure, who understands the game we're playing. The relationship doesn't have to be real, but it has to look real. And it has to work with Ryan."
They stopped outside a conference room with floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a panoramic view of the city. Through the glass, Eve could see a figure standing with his back to the door, hands clasped behind him as he gazed out at the urban sprawl below. Even in silhouette, there was something commanding about his posture, something that suggested barely contained power.
But it was the smell that hit her first, seeping through her carefully maintained filters like smoke through a screen door. Power, yes. The metallic tang of someone accustomed to absolute authority. But underneath that was something else, something that made her enhanced senses recoil instinctively. Rot. Not physical decay, but the particular psychological stench that came from something fundamentally broken trying desperately to pass itself off as whole.
And threaded through it all was longing. Deep, desperate, and so carefully hidden that most people would never detect it. But Eve wasn't most people.
"A few things before we go in," Ashley said, her voice dropping to a whisper that was barely audible even in the quiet hallway. "Don't stare. Don't ask about his past. Don't mention Stillwell or Stormfront or any of the others. And whatever you do, don't give him any reason to think you're judging him."
Eve checked her filters one final time, ensuring they were properly fitted for close contact with someone whose emotional chemistry was clearly as dangerous as his powers. Meeting someone like Homelander without the ability to read his emotional state would be like performing surgery blindfolded, but she'd learned that some information was too dangerous to possess in its full intensity.
"Understood," she said.
Ashley opened the door, and Eve stepped into the conference room with the measured confidence of someone who'd spent years navigating the egos and insecurities of the powerful. The man at the window turned, and she got her first clear look at Homelander.
He was smaller than she'd expected. Not physically, but in some indefinable way that had to do with the careful construction of his public image. The suit was perfect, the hair immaculate, the smile precisely calibrated to convey warmth and authority. But there was something in his eyes, a quality of attention that felt like being examined under a microscope by something that might decide to dissect you for fun.
"Eve Warren," he said, extending a hand that she took with professional composure. His grip was firm but not crushing, his skin warm in a way that suggested the barely contained energy beneath. Up close, the smell was almost overwhelming. Power and rot and longing all twisted together into something that made her enhanced senses scream warnings. "I've heard impressive things about your work."
"Thank you," Eve replied, settling into the chair across from him with fluid grace. "I understand you're looking for someone specific."
Homelander's smile widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. She could detect a shift in his chemical signature. Calculation replacing the performative warmth, like a predator adjusting its approach based on its prey's behavior.
"I'm looking for someone perfect," he said, his voice carrying the kind of casual confidence that came from never being told no. "Someone who can be a mother to my son." He paused, his gaze moving over her with uncomfortable thoroughness. "Course, she'd have to be beautiful too. Really beautiful, not just camera-friendly. Long legs, curves in the right places, you know what I'm talking about."
The casual objectification was delivered with the kind of smile that suggested he thought he was being charming. Eve nodded professionally, making notes on her tablet. "Right. Moving on to personality traits and background requirements..."
"Smart, obviously. But not too smart, if you catch my drift. Educated enough to hold a conversation at state dinners, but not so educated she thinks she knows better than me." Homelander leaned back in his chair, completely comfortable with his own requirements. "And she needs to understand this is performance. Public appearances, photo ops, the whole domestic fantasy. I don't do anything halfway, Eve. If we're going to sell the world on the idea that I've found love, then it has to be complete."
His use of the word "fantasy" wasn't lost on her. This wasn't about finding genuine connection. It was about constructing a narrative that would serve his purposes.
"And what about Ryan?" Eve asked, opening a new section on her tablet. "What role would she play in his life?"
The change in Homelander's expression was subtle but unmistakable. The predatory charm remained, but something more complex flickered beneath it. Not quite warmth, but something approaching it.
"Ryan needs structure," he said, and for the first time since entering the room, he sounded like he was discussing something that actually mattered to him. "He's been... difficult since his mother died. Emotional, unpredictable. He doesn't understand what it means to be special, to be powerful. He needs someone who can help him see that his abilities are a gift, not a burden."
Eve made notes, building a psychological profile of both father and son. "What specifically has been challenging about his adjustment?"
Homelander's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "He's weak. Cries too much, asks too many questions, doesn't want to use his powers. His mother filled his head with all sorts of ideas about being 'normal' and 'fitting in.'" The contempt in his voice was barely concealed. "I need someone who can help him understand that normal is nothing. That we're better than normal."
The clinical way Homelander discussed his son's emotional needs told Eve everything she needed to know about their relationship. This wasn't a father struggling to connect with a traumatized child. This was a man frustrated that his offspring wasn't living up to his expectations.
"And the person filling this role," Eve continued, "what qualities are most important to you in terms of her relationship with Ryan?"
"Someone who can get him in line," Homelander said without hesitation. "Someone who understands that coddling him isn't helping anyone. He needs to toughen up, and fast."
Eve continued taking notes, though she was beginning to understand that this assignment was more complex than a simple matchmaking arrangement. This was about finding someone who could help Homelander mold his son into something more palatable to his vision of what powerful people should be.
Their conversation was interrupted by a soft knock on the conference room door, followed immediately by the sound of it opening without waiting for permission. A Vought employee in a cheap suit practically stumbled into the room, his face flushed with panic and exertion.
"Sir, I'm so sorry to interrupt, but Ryan..." The man's words died as he caught sight of Homelander's expression, which had shifted from mild annoyance to something considerably more dangerous.
Behind him, a boy who looked to be around twelve years old appeared in the doorway. He had dark hair that fell across his forehead and eyes that seemed far too old for his face. He wore jeans and a simple blue sweater, normal clothes that somehow seemed incongruous in the corporate setting of Vought Tower.
"Ryan," Homelander said, his tone carrying a mixture of surprise and irritation. "You're supposed to be in media training."
But it was his smell that made Eve's enhanced senses recoil in shock. Where his father radiated power and rot, Ryan smelled like fear. Deep, pervasive terror that had been baked into his very bones. But threaded through that was something else: a desperate longing that made her chest tight with unexpected sympathy.
He smelled like a child who'd been forced to grow up too fast in a world that was far more dangerous than anyone his age should have to navigate.
"I don't want to practice the stupid lines anymore," Ryan said, his voice quiet but carrying an undercurrent of frustration that spoke of adult patience wearing thin. "They keep making me say things that don't sound like how real people talk."
The Vought employee looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor. "Sir, I tried to explain that the session wasn't optional, but he just..."
"Left," Homelander finished, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that made everyone in the room step back. Everyone except Ryan, who seemed more resigned than afraid. "And you let him."
"I want to stay," Ryan said suddenly, looking directly at Eve for the first time. "For this meeting. It's about me too, right?"
Eve watched the family dynamic with professional fascination and growing unease. The way Ryan looked at his father, cautious but not truly afraid, suggested a relationship built on careful navigation rather than genuine affection. And the way Homelander looked at Ryan, like a project that wasn't progressing according to schedule, confirmed her growing suspicions about their connection.
"Ryan, this is Eve," Homelander said, gesturing toward her with fluid grace. "She's here to help us find someone special for our family."
Ryan's gaze shifted to Eve, and she felt herself being evaluated with an intensity that reminded her uncomfortably of his father. But where Homelander's attention felt predatory, Ryan's seemed merely curious. The look of someone trying to figure out whether she was friend or foe.
She could detect a shift in his chemical signature as he looked at her. The fear remained, but it was joined by something else. Cautious hope, maybe, or the kind of desperate wish for normalcy that all children in extraordinary circumstances carried.
"Hi," he said simply.
Eve found herself leaning forward slightly, her professional instincts kicking in. There was something about this boy that called to the part of her that had always been drawn to puzzles, to the challenge of understanding complex emotional dynamics.
"Hi, Ryan. I'm Eve. You can call me Eve or Ms. Warren, whichever feels more comfortable." She paused, studying his face with the kind of attention she usually reserved for difficult clients. "Mind if I ask what was wrong with the lines they wanted you to practice?"
The question seemed to surprise him, and Eve caught a flicker of something, relief maybe, in his expression. His chemical signature shifted again, the fear receding slightly as he realized she was actually listening to him rather than talking at him.
"They wanted me to say I was excited about Dad maybe getting a girlfriend, and that I hoped she would be like a real mom to me," he said, his voice carrying the matter-of-fact tone of someone much older. "But it didn't sound like something a real kid would say. It sounded like something written by someone who doesn't know any real kids."
The observation was delivered with startling directness, and Eve felt a pang of sympathy for this boy who'd clearly learned to see through adult manipulation at far too young an age. The fear that clung to him like a second skin suddenly made more sense. He was surrounded by people who wanted something from him, who saw him as a means to an end rather than a person in his own right.
"That does sound pretty fake," Eve said simply, and watched Ryan's shoulders relax slightly at her validation.
"Most people don't listen to what I actually think," he continued, his voice growing stronger. "They just want me to say what they want to hear."
Ashley cleared her throat from the doorway, her discomfort with the unplanned interaction obvious in both her posture and her chemical signature. Anxiety spiking toward panic as she realized the carefully orchestrated meeting was veering off script.
"I can have someone escort Ryan back to his session..."
"I want to stay," Ryan said again, this time looking directly at his father. "Please. It is about me."
Homelander studied his son for a moment, something calculating flickering behind his blue eyes. "Fine. But you sit quietly and let the adults talk."
Ryan nodded quickly and moved to a chair at the far end of the table, clearly grateful to be included even with conditions.
"So what kind of person do you think would be good for your family?" Eve asked, directing the question to Ryan with the kind of casual interest that suggested his opinion actually mattered.
Ryan considered the question seriously, his dark eyes thoughtful. She could detect another shift in his chemical signature. The fear was still there, but it was overshadowed now by something that looked like genuine engagement.
"Someone who doesn't lie," he said finally, glancing quickly at his father as if checking for permission to speak honestly. "And someone who's not scared of me."
The simplicity of the request hit Eve with unexpected force. Not someone beautiful or famous or powerful. Just someone honest and brave enough to see them clearly.
"Those are good qualities," Eve said. "What else?"
"Someone who likes books," Ryan added, warming to the topic in a way that made him seem more his age. "And maybe someone who doesn't think everything has to be perfect all the time. Like, someone who's okay with mistakes."
The last part was delivered with careful casualness, but Eve heard the deeper need underneath. This was a child who lived under constant scrutiny, who'd learned that imperfection had consequences.
"You're absolutely right," she said. "The best relationships are built on accepting people as they are, not trying to change them into something else."
Ryan smiled for the first time since entering the room. A genuine expression that transformed his face and made him look his age. The shift in his chemical signature was dramatic; the fear receded even further, replaced by something that looked like cautious optimism.
"Exactly," he said.
The meeting continued for another hour, with Ryan occasionally offering observations that were startling in their perceptiveness. Eve found herself adjusting her understanding of the assignment with each interaction. This wasn't just about finding someone to play a role. It was about finding someone who could genuinely connect with a damaged child while navigating the dangerous expectations of his volatile father.
But as she watched the interplay between Homelander and Ryan, she began to understand something else. The longing she'd detected in Homelander's chemical signature wasn't about wanting someone to love him. It was about wanting someone who could make his son into the version of himself that he needed Ryan to be.
The problem was that kind of transformation couldn't be purchased or performed. And the person capable of genuinely helping Ryan might not be willing to mold him into Homelander's image of perfection.
When they finally prepared to leave, Homelander walked Eve to the elevator, his presence filling the space between them with electric tension. His chemical signature had shifted throughout the meeting. The rot and power giving way to something more complex, still dangerous, but tinged with what might have been calculation.
"I'm looking forward to seeing what you come up with," he said as the elevator doors opened.
"I'll have some initial candidates for you to review by the end of the week," Eve replied, stepping into the elevator with the same measured grace she'd maintained throughout the meeting.
"Ms. Warren," Ryan said suddenly, appearing beside his father. His chemical signature had stabilized into something that looked almost like contentment. Still afraid, still carrying too much for someone his age, but no longer drowning in it.
"Will you be there when we meet them? The candidates, I mean?"
The question caught her off guard, and she found herself looking into those too-old eyes with a mixture of professional interest and something that might have been genuine concern. The hope in his chemical signature was so strong it made her chest tight.
"If that would make you more comfortable, yes."
Ryan nodded, satisfied. "Good. I believe in you."
The doors closed on his words, leaving Eve alone with her reflection in the polished steel. As the elevator descended through the building's heart, she reviewed the meeting in her mind, analyzing every word and gesture for hidden meaning.
But it was Ryan's parting comment that stayed with her. The simple statement that he believed in her. Because as she stepped into the controlled chaos of Manhattan, Eve realized that for the first time in years, she wasn't sure she understood anything at all.
She'd built her career on reducing human connection to manageable variables, but what she'd encountered in that conference room defied categorization. A man who smelled like power and rot and desperate longing, who wanted someone to help him transform his son into an acceptable version of himself. A boy who carried fear like armor but still hoped for someone who would see him as more than a project to be perfected.
And underneath it all, the growing suspicion that she was walking into a situation that would challenge everything she thought she knew about the architecture of affection.
The city rushed past as she made her way back to her office, but Eve couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental had shifted. She told herself it was just another assignment, another puzzle to solve.
She had no way of knowing that she'd just met the two people who would change everything she thought she knew about love, family, and the carefully constructed walls around her own heart.