21. Chapter Twenty-One Abby

Chapter Twenty-One: Abby

I t felt like I was pretending to be an FBI agent.

I checked the rearview mirror one last time, fussing with my collar to make sure it lay flat against my suit—a stark, official navy that made me feel like a fraud in my own skin. I'd only been to San Francisco's FBI headquarters once before, fresh-faced and eager after my initial debriefing, but now, steering into the underground garage felt like driving straight into the belly of a beast I no longer understood.

"Keep it together, Harper," I muttered to myself as I killed the engine of the Mercedes.

Everything hinged on maintaining my cover, even here–especially here.

My hands were steady—years of training will do that—but my heart? It hammered out a rhythm akin to betrayal as I reached for my badge. It was an old friend, picked up from the dusty corner of my drawer at my long-abandoned apartment, its weight unfamiliar yet comforting against my palm.

Stepping out of the car, I smoothed down my skirt and took a deep breath, letting the cool air of the parking garage fill my lungs, steeling myself. As I approached the security checkpoint, the clack of my heels on the concrete echoed like a march to judgment.

"Harper," I announced crisply, offering the badge to the agent manning the desk. His eyes flicked to the photo, then up to my face, and he nodded, motioning me through with a practiced indifference that I returned in kind. The scanner beeped its approval, green light flashing, and I stepped inside.

The lobby loomed large and sterile, the buzz of fluorescent lighting overhead a dull hum against the low murmur of agents and officials moving with purpose. My poker face was a mask I wore like a second skin, but beneath it, nerves skittered like live wires. Each step was measured, my gaze neutral, even as my mind whispered warnings and the specter of what I had become—and what I was protecting—loomed over me.

"Play the part," I reminded myself silently as I blended into the flow of agents.

I wasn't one of them anymore, not really. The uniformed officers I passed by were part of a world I had once thought would be mine forever; the path my father had proudly walked, the path I had pledged to follow. But as their conversations buzzed around me, filled with codes and casework I should have understood, it sounded like static. I was an outsider now, an FBI agent in name only, my loyalties tangled and twisted in Nathan Zhou.

I had no idea what that meant, but that really scared me.

Reaching Diane's floor, I paused for a split second, the familiar insignia on the doors and walls staring back at me with silent accusation. This floor, these people—they had been my goal, my future. Now, they were just obstacles, unknowing pawns in a game played in shadows and silence.

"Can I help you?" The receptionist's voice pulled me from my thoughts, her smile practiced but genuine.

"Abigail Harper," I said, my voice steady despite the storm inside. "I'm here to see Special Agent Diane Hayes."

"Of course," she nodded, tapping something into her computer. "She'll be out in a moment—please take a seat."

But before I could even consider the offered chair, Diane appeared. She was the epitome of an FBI agent: sharp suit, sharper gaze, and an air of authority that demanded respect. A small shock ran through me as our eyes met—a reminder of what I'd given up, and what I might never get back.

"Agent Harper, so glad you could make it," Diane extended her hand, and I took it, feeling the firmness of her grip.

"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice," I replied, mustering a smile that felt more like a wince.

"Let's talk in my office," she said, turning on her heel and leading the way.

I followed, her office a short walk from the front desk. The space was a blend of institutional gray and splashes of personal flair—a framed photograph of the Golden Gate Bridge, a potted succulent on the windowsill. No family, as far as I could tell–and I hated the relief I felt at that, because I knew she was treading in dangerous waters. Diane gestured to the chair across from her desk, and I sat, my posture straight, hands folded in my lap.

"Can I offer you coffee?" Diane asked, her tone professional but not unkind.

"Please," I managed to say. "With cream, if you have it."

"Coming right up." She turned towards the small coffee maker in the corner of her office, giving me a moment alone with my thoughts.

The scent of brewing coffee filled the room, replacing the sterile chill of bureaucracy with something almost comforting. Diane returned, placing a steaming cup before me and then her own–black–sitting down with a soft sigh.

"We've been worried about you, Harper," she started, her eyes searching mine. "You dropped off the grid, gave us all quite a scare when you disappeared like that."

I kept my face neutral, though her words tightened something in my chest. "I understand your concern," I replied evenly. "But I had to do what I thought was necessary for the mission."

"Is that so?" Diane's voice was calm, but there was an edge to it—an unspoken question hanging between us. "The only reason we didn't panic was because we heard from your father. He assured us you were okay."

I nodded slowly, feeling the weight of my father's influence. A safety net I was both grateful for and resented. It was a complicated dance—being Owen Harper's daughter. The expectation to excel, to follow in his footsteps while carving out my own path.

"Owen is..." Diane paused, choosing her words carefully. "He's a fine detective. Has taken down some powerful people in his time."

"His reputation is well-deserved," I acknowledged, my hand subconsciously touching the necklace beneath my shirt–the necklace Nathan had locked to my neck, a constant reminder of his influence. "I'm here to ensure his trust in me wasn't misplaced."

Diane nodded, her expression softening just a fraction. "We're on the same team, Abby. Means you need to keep us informed."

My fingers tightened around the white ceramic mug, the cream in my coffee swirling like storm clouds on a tempestuous sea. Diane's office was utilitarian to the bone—steel filing cabinets, a no-nonsense desk, and the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead.

"Your dad and I go way back," Diane said, her voice pulling me back from the edge of my thoughts. "Owen Harper's quite the legend around these parts."

A small, proud smile tugged at the corner of my lips despite the situation. "Yeah, he is. He's my hero." I hoped that would be enough, that we could move on from this topic. But Diane had the tenacity of a pit bull when she sensed something amiss.

"Following in his footsteps, then?" Diane prodded, her eyes not missing a beat.

"Trying to," I replied, my voice quieter than intended.

Diane leaned forward, her hands clasped like she was about to say grace. There was no warmth in her eyes though—just the cold calculation of a woman who'd seen too many agents fall from grace. "You know, Abby, going off-mission the way you did..." Her voice was cordial, but it felt like a velvet glove over an iron fist as she smiled, her expression at odds with her words. "I should take your badge for that."

I stiffened, my heart thrumming against my ribcage. I knew the rules—I'd broken them, flagrantly. But it was all for Nathan, for us. I couldn't let her see that, though. Couldn't let her see how much I was willing to compromise for him.

For love.

"Understood," I managed, my throat tight. "But…let me explain myself."

She leaned back, waiting.

"Agent Hayes," I began, the faintest tremor in my voice betraying the fear I fought to hide, "despite how it looks, I've continued working. I started..." I swallowed hard, the lie heavy on my tongue, "...dating a Chinese-American man. He's not Triad himself, but he's connected. Knows people."

Diane raised an eyebrow, intrigued but skeptical.

"Is that so?" Her tone was flat, as if she'd heard this kind of story before and found it lacking.

I nodded, reaching into my blazer for the list I had prepared earlier. My fingers grazed the paper, folded crisply like the future it could potentially burn away. I handed it over, watching as Diane unfurled it with deliberate care. "These are Triad laundering locations that have been burned recently." I paused, my heart thudding. "Do you already have his info?"

She leaned forward, her gaze scanning the list, but it wasn't the addresses that caught her attention—it was the necklace around my neck. The collar that was more shackle than ornament, locked securely and hiding its true purpose—a GPS tracker placed by the very man whose secrets I was keeping.

"Unusual necklace," Diane commented, her eyes flickering up to meet mine. "Is that a snake in the filigree?"

My breath hitched, and I forced a laugh, attempting to keep the moment light. "Is it? I never noticed—just thought it was pretty when I saw it."

"May I?" Diane reached out, her fingers inches from the collar that would unravel everything if she discovered its secret.

"Sorry, the clasp is broken." My excuse came out rushed, and I mentally kicked myself for not sounding more casual. I moved back just enough to avoid her touch without seeming too obvious.

"Of course," Diane said, her voice unreadable. She turned her attention back to the list, giving me a moment's reprieve from her probing.

"Good work, Harper," she finally said, tapping a finger against the paper. "We'll look into these laundering locations."

"Thank you," I replied, my relief almost palpable. But I knew better than to let my guard down.

"Keep it up," Diane added, her eyes locking onto mine once more in an unspoken warning. "But remember, we're watching."

I stood up, my legs shaky but my voice steady. "Understood." I needed to leave, to breathe air that didn't taste like this.

"Abby," Diane called out just as I reached the door, and I turned back to face her. "If you're lying, if you're compromised in any way...we have enough power to rain hell on you."

"I–"

"I wasn't finished. Don't think your father gets out of this unscathed."

Her words were a cold fist squeezing my heart. I snatched my hand away from hers. "I know what I'm doing," I spat out, the words sharp. "And I don't appreciate being threatened. I love my job."

"Love your job all you want," Diane shot back, "but don't forget who you work for."

I couldn't stomach looking at her–listening to her–anymore. I stalked out of the FBI headquarters, the chill of the office building not enough to keep the heat of anger from creeping up my neck. As I stepped into the afternoon sun, my phone buzzed. It was Nathan.

"Hello?"

"Abby. Get here now," he said.

"Here?"

"Yes. Grant Avenue Floral is on fire."

And before I could ask him any more questions, he'd hung up.