SEVEN
She's always reminded company garage is nothing like hers.
Even the damn floors shine.
Seven drags her palm across the hood of the last company vehicle, feeling the smooth metal, the hum of a healthy engine beneath. She signs the final evaluation form and exhales.
That's it.
Contract complete.
Final inspection done.
"Everything good?" one of the fleet supervisors asks, clipboard in hand.
"Yeah," Seven says, tapping the paper. "All vehicles cleared. No safety issues. You can send this to your boss."
"Great. She'll want to sign off personally."
Seven rolls her eyes. "Of course she will."
They don't have to say her name.
Everyone in this building says it like it's holy.
Sloane Laurent.
Executive Director.
Seven grabs her backpack, smudged with grease and stickers, the opposite of this polished-ass place, and heads toward the office wing.
She shouldn't be nervous.
She is.
Great.
-
SLOANE
Sloane sits behind her desk, posture perfect, one leg crossed over the other. Her office is floor-to-ceiling glass, city skyline glowing behind her.
She scrolls through her email.
Then she sees it.
FINAL FLEET INSPECTION REPORT — Technician: SEVEN CARTER
Her breath stops.
Just like that.
She clicks it before she can tell herself not to.
A photo attachment: Seven at the garage, leaning over a car with smudges on her cheek, hair messy, sleeves rolled up.
Sloane feels something sharp under her ribs.
She shuts her laptop immediately.
Her pulse is too loud.
Which is ridiculous.
This is work.
This is business.
This is control.
She inhales—
But then a memory cuts through her like a knife.
-
-
-
THREE YEARS AGO
Her last sub, Ayla, kneeling in front of her, posture perfect.
Sloane's voice had been calm. "I didn't ask for improvisation tonight."
Ayla's gaze wavered. "I know, I just thought—"
"You don't think. You follow instructions."
A flicker of hurt crossed Ayla's face.
That same night, Ayla said the sentence that has never stopped echoing:
"You don't want a partner. You want a problem to solve."
Sloane remembers the humiliation of the argument that followed.
the raised voices,
the public fallout,
the way people looked at her like she was the villain.
And the worst part:
Ayla crying as she walked out the door.
"You don't love me.
You love control."
