VERTIGO
POV: Silas Vane
The reconstruction of the living area took exactly four hours.
Elena slept through it. I ensured she did. After we made love on the floor of the empty atrium—a raw, frantic reclaiming of territory—I carried her to the master bedroom. I gave her a sedative disguised as a chamomile blend. She needed the deep cycle; her cortisol levels were dangerously erratic.
While she slept, I summoned the crew.
At 4:00 AM, twelve men in silent soft-soled shoes moved through the Penthouse. We brought the Barcelona chairs back. We realigned the sculptures. I measured the placement of the obsidian coffee table with a laser level.
I wasn't restoring it to what it was before. I was improving it.
I moved the seating arrangement three degrees to the south, maximizing the capture of the morning light. I added a new piece of art—a jagged, brutalist sculpture of twisted iron I had kept in storage. It looked like a scar. It felt appropriate.
Now, at 8:00 AM, the world was back in order.
I stood by the kitchen island, adjusting my cufflinks. Onyx today. Shielding.
On the screen of my tablet, the stock ticker was stabilizing. My legal team had filed a countersuit against Aris Thorne for defamation and industrial espionage. We were bleeding money, yes, but we were bleeding his reputation.
I checked Screen 4.
Elena was stirring.
The sheer count of threads in the Egyptian cotton sheets moved over her form. She stretched. Even on a grainy black-and-white feed, she was mesmerizing. A chaotic variable that I had somehow integrated into the equation.
"Marcus," I said to the room.
"Sir." Marcus appeared from the service corridor. He looked like a walking ulcer.
"The schedule today."
"You have the deposition with Thorne's attorneys at 10:00. The City Planning Commission at 2:00. And the board emergency vote at 5:00. You cannot miss any of them."
"And the security patch?"
"Completed. The exploit in the loading dock system has been rewritten. No one gets in without a retinal scan and a blood sample."
"Good."
I felt a rare sense of equilibrium. The threats were identified. The parameters were set. I could manage this.
I walked to the bedroom door. I didn't bypass the lock; I simply opened it. She hadn't locked it.
Elena was sitting up. She was wearing my t-shirt. Her hair was a bird's nest of tangles.
She looked at me, sleep-heavy and soft.
"You put the furniture back," she rasped.
"I optimized the layout," I corrected. I sat on the edge of the bed. I resisted the urge to straighten her hair. "Order reduces anxiety. And today, I need you calm."
"I liked the empty room," she murmured, leaning her head on my shoulder. "It was honest."
"It was a vacuum. Vacuums implode." I kissed her temple. "I have to leave. The sharks are circling downtown."
She stiffened slightly. "Thorne?"
"He is flailing. He knows he can't win on the architecture, so he is trying to win in the court of public opinion. He'll be dead in the water by Friday."
I stood up.
"Stay inside," I commanded. It wasn't a threat anymore; it was a baseline safety protocol. "Do not leave the Spire. Do not go down to the lobby. You are safe here."
"I have the key," she reminded me, touching the pocket of the jeans she had discarded on the floor.
"You have the key to this world, Elena. Down there?" I pointed to the floor. "That is the gravity well. Don't fall into it."
I looked at her one last time.
She looked small in the massive bed. Vulnerable.
A structural worry pinged in the back of my mind—a vibration in the steel I couldn't quite locate. But the clock was ticking. 8:15. I was already late.
"Write," I told her. "Finish the chapter. Make me a monster."
I turned and walked out.
I should have listened to the vibration.
POV: Elena Rostova
The vertigo started around noon.
It wasn't physical dizziness. It was an existential tilting of the axis.
Silas had left, and the silence had rushed back in to fill the void he left behind. The furniture was back, perfectly aligned, mocking me with its rigidity. It was as if my rebellion the night before had never happened. As if we had never happened.
I sat in the library, staring at the screen.
THE STRUCTURAL FLAW.
I had the words. I had the passion. But my phone—my personal phone, which lay on the table like a dormant grenade—felt heavy.
I hadn't turned it on since getting it back.
I reached out and powered it on.
It buzzed instantly. A deluge of notifications. Emails from my landlord (past due), spam from credit agencies, texts from old editors asking if I was alive.
And then, a text message.
Sender: Unknown
Time: 11:42 AM
Image attachment.
I tapped it.
My blood ran cold. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
It wasn't a threat. It was a photograph.
It was a photo of the manuscript. This manuscript. A screenshot of the file THE GOD IN THE GLASS MACHINE.
The caption was simple:
"Nice title. Dr. Thorne would love the rights to the biography. Exclusive serialization in The New Yorker?"
I dropped the phone. It clattered onto the hardwood.
How?
How did they get it? The laptop was offline. The Spire was a digital fortress. Silas said the network was impenetrable.
The phone buzzed again.
Pick it up, lenochka.
My breath hitched. Nikolai.
I picked up the phone with shaking hands.
"Hello?"
"Elena," Nikolai's voice was warm, thick with fake affection. It sounded like syrup poured over gravel. "You've been busy. A celebrity author. Moving up in the world."
"How did you get that file?" I whispered, standing up and backing away from the windows, as if he could see me through the glass. "Silas secured the network."
"Mr. Vane secures the big doors," Nikolai chuckled. "But he forgets about the little windows. Did you really think destroying a paper file in a trash compactor erased your history? We have backups, Elena. We always have backups."
"I destroyed the leverage," I said, trying to summon the anger that had fueled me before. "I burned the NDA evidence."
"Oh, sweet girl. That wasn't the leverage. That was just the receipt."
The line crackled.
"The leverage," Nikolai continued, his voice hardening, "is what you are doing right now. We know you're sleeping with him. We know you're living in his bed. And now, thanks to a very expensive piece of spyware we planted on your laptop before you even entered the tower... we have your diary."
I stared at my laptop. The black webcam eye stared back.
They had compromised it back at my apartment. Before I even packed.
"What do you want?" I asked. "Money? Silas paid the debt."
"The money is settled," Nikolai agreed. "But Mr. Thorne... he feels aggrieved. He feels humiliated. He wants something that money can't buy."
"He wants to ruin Silas."
"He wants Vane Holdings to lose the Waterfront contract. And to do that, he needs Silas Vane to look like a dangerous, unhinged predator who takes advantage of destitute women."
"He is dangerous," I said, my loyalty flaring. "But he isn't what Thorne says he is."
"Doesn't matter. The manuscript matters. You paint him as a sociopath. If that leaks? Combined with the photos of the assault? Silas goes to prison. Or at the very least, he loses the board vote today."
My stomach turned over.
The board vote. 5:00 PM.
"If I show Silas this," I said, "he will kill you. Literally. He will break every bone in your body."
"Maybe," Nikolai conceded. "But if you tell him, he goes into a rage. He assaults me. He proves the narrative right. And then he loses the company anyway. You know his temper, Elena. You've seen the bruises on his knuckles."
He was right.
If I told Silas now—while he was in the middle of a deposition—he would snap. He would leave the meeting, hunt Nikolai down, and destroy everything he had worked for. Thorne would win by default.
I couldn't tell him.
"What do you want?" I asked again.
"Delete the manuscript," Nikolai said. "All copies. The backups. The cloud."
"And?"
"And bring me the hard drive. Physically. I want the hardware."
"I can't leave the tower."
"You have legs. Walk out the front door. We are parked on 57th and 5th. A black Suburban. 2:00 PM."
"If I do this... you disappear? You leave Silas alone?"
"You bring me the drive, we consider the matter closed. Thorne gets his win because the biography dies, but Vane keeps his company. It's a compromise. Compromise is good business."
It was a lie. I knew it was a lie. You don't negotiate with sharks.
But I was panicked. I was thinking about the fragile peace I had seen in Silas's eyes this morning. "I optimize the layout." He was trying so hard to hold it together. If this manuscript leaked—my venomous words, my descriptions of his trauma—it would shatter him.
"2:00 PM," I whispered.
"Don't be late. Traffic is murder."
The line went dead.
I looked at the time. 12:45 PM.
I looked at the laptop.
My opus. My reclamation. My autopsy.
It wasn't a weapon against Silas anymore. It was a bomb strapped to his chest, and I was holding the trigger.
I had to get it out of the building.
POV: Silas Vane
"Mr. Vane, can you explain the nature of your relationship with Ms. Rostova?"
The lawyer for Aris Thorne was a lizard of a man. Thin lips. Greasy hair.
We were in the conference room at Vane Holdings. A videographer was recording the deposition.
I leaned back in my chair. My face was a mask of bored indifference.
"She is a contractor. Hired to produce a historical record of the firm's architectural philosophy."
"And is it standard practice for 'contractors' to reside in your personal penthouse?"
"Given the immersive nature of the methodology, yes. She requires 24-hour access to my process."
The lizard smiled. "We have obtained witness statements from the Gala suggesting you referred to her as 'territory.'"
"I referred to her personal space," I lied smoothly. "I have a strict policy regarding the physical safety of my employees. Dr. Thorne violated that space."
"By touching her arm?"
"By touching her without consent. It is assault. I intervened."
My lawyer, a sharp woman named Harper, kicked me under the table. calm.
"Mr. Vane," the lizard continued, sliding a paper across the table. "This is a record of a transaction to a Mr. Nikolai Volkov. Payment of two hundred and twelve thousand dollars. On the exact day Ms. Rostova moved in."
I looked at the paper. It was redacted, but legible.
"We acquire assets," I said. "Ms. Rostova had encumbrances that distracted from her work. We cleared them to ensure productivity."
"So you bought her."
I went still.
The room held its breath.
"I invested in talent," I said. "Next question."
A phone buzzed. Not mine. Marcus's.
He stood in the corner. He looked at the screen. His face went pale.
He stepped forward and whispered to Harper. Harper's eyes widened.
She scribbled a note and slid it to me.
EMERGENCY. LOBBY SECURITY ALERT.
I looked at Marcus.
He mouthed one word: Elena.
I stood up.
"Mr. Vane, we are not finished!" the lawyer barked.
"We are," I said. "This deposition is over."
"If you leave, we will file for a summary judgment!"
I didn't care. The structural integrity of the deposition meant nothing if the foundation was cracking.
I walked out. Marcus followed, jogging to keep up.
"Talk," I commanded, hitting the elevator button.
"She triggered the elevator at the Penthouse level," Marcus said, breathless. "She's coming down."
"Why?"
"She isn't answering the intercom. She has a backpack."
Vertigo hit me. A dizzying, nauseating spin.
"Stay inside. Do not fall into the gravity well."
Why was she descending? Was she running? Had she found another file? Had she realized she couldn't love a monster?
"Lock the lobby," I ordered. "Do not let her exit the building."
"I... I can't sir. The lobby is a public space. Fire codes."
"Burn the fire codes! Seal the doors!"
The elevator arrived. I stepped in.
"Penthouse," I said to the voice command.
"Override," Marcus said. "Go to Lobby."
I looked at him.
"If she's leaving," Marcus said softly, "she'll be at the street level by the time we get there."
He was right. Logic. Painful logic.
I hit the button for the Lobby.
Please, I thought, a prayer to a God I didn't believe in. Don't leave me. Not when I just figured out how to fit you in.
POV: Elena Rostova
The elevator descent was usually smooth. Today, it felt like a freefall.
90... 80... 70...
My stomach was in my throat. I clutched my backpack. Inside, wrapped in a silk scarf, was the laptop.
I had wiped the cloud. I had wiped the local drive. But Nikolai wanted the hardware.
20... 10...
Ding.
The doors opened.
The lobby of Vane Tower was usually a cathedral of silence. High ceilings, echoing footsteps, security guards who looked like statues.
Today, it was busy. Tourists. Delivery guys. People.
I stepped out.
The noise hit me. The smell of the street—exhaust, pretzel carts, rain—wafted in from the revolving doors. It smelled like danger.
I walked toward the exit.
"Ms. Rostova!"
The head of security, a large man named Davis, stepped into my path.
"Mr. Vane has issued a shelter-in-place order for you, Ma'am."
"Mr. Vane isn't here," I said, sidestepping him. "And I'm not an employee. I'm going for a walk."
"Ma'am, please. He's on his way down."
"Tell him I went for coffee."
I pushed past him. He grabbed my arm—gently, but firmly.
"Don't touch me," I snapped. "Or I scream."
It was a bluff, but it worked. He hesitated. In that second, I slipped through the revolving door.
The city assaulted me.
The wind. The honking taxis. The grey sky. It was sensory overload after a week in the glass bubble.
I scanned the street.
57th and 5th. Across the avenue.
There. A black Chevrolet Suburban. Tinted windows. Idling.
My heart hammered.
Just give them the laptop. Get back inside.
I stepped off the curb.
"Elena!"
The shout came from behind me.
I turned.
Silas was running out of the main entrance. He wasn't wearing his coat. He was just in his suit, his tie flying over his shoulder. He looked panicked. I had never seen him panic.
"Elena, stop!"
He was running toward me.
At the same moment, the door of the Suburban opened.
Two men jumped out.
They weren't here for the laptop.
They grabbed me.
It happened so fast. One grabbed my arm, the other grabbed my waist. They weren't smooth; they were rough.
"No!" I screamed, dropping the bag.
They dragged me toward the open door of the truck.
"Silas!"
I saw him. He was vaulting over the hood of a taxi. He was coming.
"Let her go!" his voice roared, a sound that cracked the pavement.
One of the men—Nikolai—spun around. He pointed a gun.
Silas didn't stop. He didn't check his stride.
Bang.
The gunshot was deafening.
A bystander screamed.
I felt a hot spray against my face. Not mine.
Silas didn't fall.
Nikolai had missed. Or he had fired a warning shot.
Silas slammed into the gunman.
It was physics. Momentum times mass.
They hit the wet pavement in a tangle of limbs. The gun skittered away into the street.
The second man, holding me, panicked. He shoved me hard. I flew backward, hitting the side of the truck, sliding down to the asphalt.
"Silas!"
I scrambled up.
Silas was on top of Nikolai. He was beating him. It wasn't the surgical violence of the kitchen. It was messy. It was rage. He was punching him, over and over, his fists impacting bone with sickening wet thuds.
"You touched her!" Silas was screaming. "You touched her!"
Sirens.
Distant wails closing in.
Davis and the Vane security team swarmed out of the building. They pulled the second man down.
Silas wouldn't stop. Nikolai was unconscious, his face a ruin, and Silas was still hitting him.
"Silas, stop! You're killing him!"
I ran to him. I grabbed his shoulders.
"Silas! Look at me!"
He froze, his fist raised for another blow. His chest was heaving. His knuckles were split open, blood dripping onto the grey street.
He turned his head slowly.
His eyes were wild. No pupil. Just black voids of adrenaline.
"Elena?" he croaked.
"I'm here," I sobbed, pulling him off the bloody man. "I'm right here."
He collapsed back onto his heels, breathing hard. He looked at Nikolai's broken body, then at me.
"You left," he whispered. "You went down."
"I was trying to save you," I cried. "They had the manuscript. They were going to ruin you."
"I don't care!" he roared, grabbing my face with his bloody hands. "Let them ruin me! I can rebuild a company! I cannot rebuild you!"
He pulled me into his chest, burying his face in my neck right there on the street, with the sirens wailing and the cameras flashing.
"Vertigo," he gasped against my skin. "I thought I lost the signal."
The police cars skidded to a halt. Officers spilled out, guns drawn.
"Drop to the ground! Hands up!"
Silas didn't let go of me. He shielded me with his body.
"It's over," he whispered to me.
He slowly raised his bloody hands.
And as the cuffs clicked onto the wrists of the Architect of New York, I realized two things.
First, Thorne had won. He had his picture of the "violent monster."
Second, I didn't care.
Because the monster had come down from the tower to save me.
And now, I was going to have to save him.