My phone is in the pocket of my skirt, set to vibrate, so it’s not like I could miss a call or a text. Still, I take it out and check it again. Nothing.
As Theo’s car comes over the crest of a hill, far enough into the burbs that we’re now surrounded by more trees than buildings, I see a brilliant silver curve rising high on the horizon. When I realize what it is, my jaw drops. Theo laughs. “Pretty spectacular, huh?”
At home, Triad’s ultramodern HQ is still more theoretical than real—airbrushed artwork on billboards in front of construction sites. Here, the construction is complete, and it shimmers like some sort of fantastic mirage—surreal and yet so substantial that it dominates the landscape. The mirrored cube of the main building is surrounded by a shining ring structure: the world’s largest and most efficient generator of solar energy. Triad Corporation’s building follows the same design aesthetic as their products, the marriage of beauty and power.
Theo has a badge on his license plate that allows us to drive through the security gate at the boundary of their grounds. The grass seems to have been manicured to a uniform length, like on a golf course. Long rows of oleander bushes line the straight, smooth path into Triad’s parking lot.
“C’mon,” Theo says. He’s grinning, like this is no big deal. Probably he’s psyched just to get a look at the place. “Let’s get you a guest pass.”
I fall into step at his side, but I can’t help staring upward at the sheer enormity of the building as we walk toward the entrance. The sunlight reflects so brilliantly from the glass that it’s hard to focus on it for long.
If Paul is right—if Triad’s plots go beyond Mom and Dad’s worst fears—I’m walking straight into the lion’s den.
The glass doors part for us as we walk into a lobby even more dazzling than the building’s exterior. While Theo flirts with the female security guard to hurry along my pass, I indulge the impulse to stare. This space would be spectacular no matter what, but it’s sort of surreal to have it all to ourselves, my footsteps echoing slightly in the silence. The lobby ceiling is at least ten stories high, lined with viewscreens showing different demos of Triad products both real and theoretical. Always, at least one of the screens is glowing Triad’s trademark emerald green, with white letters spelling out the corporate motto: “Everyplace, Everytime, Everyone.”
A tug at the hem of my cardigan makes me look around to see that Theo has clipped my security pass right there, at my hip. He winks at me. “Relax. Remember—no matter how impressive all this looks, your parents are still the biggest thing that ever happened to this place.”
Hardly. This is the house that Wyatt Conley built, and everyone knows it. Still, Theo’s smile helps quiet the butterflies in my stomach. With him, I feel safer.
He holds out his hand. It’s a casual gesture, or he wants it to seem that way—but I can tell he’s nervous. Last night’s kiss flickers through me, a reminder of everything I feel for Theo, and everything I don’t. We can’t meet each other’s eyes.
But I take Theo’s hand.
Of course this building also has those awful glass elevators. We step inside, and Theo says, “Lab Eleven.”
“Certainly, Mr. Beck,” the elevator replies. Okay, that computer is maybe a bit too smart. Smoothly it lifts us through the lobby, viewscreens shining brilliantly all around us.
“We ought to have the place pretty much to ourselves,” Theo says. His thumb brushes across my knuckles. “Jordyn at the security desk says only five other people have signed in all day.”
Just as he says it, though, the elevator gently glides to a stop at a floor I can tell isn’t our destination, from the way Theo frowns. The doors open—and Wyatt Conley steps inside.
Wyatt Conley. Himself. Yes, he’s the founder and CEO of Triad, which means obviously he’d show up at headquarters sometimes, but actually running into him in the elevator . . . it’s like taking the Universal Studios tour only to be personally greeted by Leonardo DiCaprio.
Except how it’s not like that at all, because I’m beginning to believe this might be the man responsible for my father’s death.
“Theo.” Conley says that name so easily you could imagine he doesn’t have a couple thousand employees, and that it isn’t kind of weird that he apparently knows every single one of their names. “Are you here to work or to show off for your girlfriend? I wouldn’t blame you if it were the latter.”
“This isn’t—I mean, this is Marguerite Caine.” Theo’s hand tightens slightly around mine. “Dr. Kovalenka and Professor Caine’s daughter.”