The muscur redheaded man settled deeper into the plush leather armchair, phone pressed against his ear as he gazed out the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse living room. Gotham's wealthy district glittered below like scattered diamonds. Everything in this room cost more than most people made in a year—the Italian leather furniture, the crystal chandelier shipped from Prague, the Persian rug beneath his feet worth more than a house in the East End.
The phone rang twice before he picked it up.
"Cy here," he said, his voice carrying easy confidence.
"Sure, our usual arrangement." He paused, listening. "That sounds interesting. A nanny and her charge. You'll tell me more ter."
His free hand drummed against the expensive leather armrest as he processed the information.
"So to make sure—the same thing as usual?"
A slow smirk spread across his angur features.
"Okay, usual price and..." The smirk widened into something genuinely pleased. "Well, you know we can always do the Cy discount."
A soft, knowing chuckle echoed from the speaker, and he could practically hear Alice's smile through the connection. Their arrangement worked perfectly for both of them—he got paid less for his services, and she got something she clearly enjoyed more than the money she saved.
"Hey, you like it back there," he continued, his voice dropping to that pyful tone that always made her ugh. "I always give you enough time to adjust before we get started. It's not like you don't appreciate the Cy discount."
Another ugh from Alice, warmer this time. She was probably blushing—she always did when he got flirtatious during business calls. It was part of their dynamic, mixing pleasure with the darker aspects of their professional retionship.
He shifted in the chair, the buttery leather sliding under his weight.
"You know it always saves you and Mr. Jarvis money, Alice."
"I'll get what you want."
The line went dead with a soft click, and he set the phone down on the marble side table just as the living room door opened.
She moved with careful grace, her designer dress flowing around her curves. Even without her vision, Isabel carried herself with the poise of old money and older confidence. Her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders in waves, and her olive-toned skin glowed in the chandelier's warm light. She was stunning—the kind of beautiful that made men do stupid things. Her full lips curved into a genuine smile as she banced a steaming mug.
"Hey honey, I brought your favorite hot chocote," she said, extending the mug with the precision of someone who had memorized every inch of their shared space.
He accepted it gratefully, inhaling the rich scent. The mug was bone china, probably cost more than some people's rent. "Thank you, baby."
She settled beside him on the matching armchair, close enough that he could smell her expensive perfume.
"So are you going to be able to go to dinner with me and my parents this weekend, honey?" she asked, her fingers finding his hand. "You know how Papa gets when we cancel on him."
He squeezed gently. Isabel's parents owned half the legitimate businesses in Gotham's financial district, and their monthly dinners at Le Bernardin cost more than most people spent on groceries in six months. But it was part of maintaining his cover as the respectable boyfriend of Isabel Morales.
"Anything for you, baby," he said, bringing her knuckles to his lips.
She smiled radiantly—the same expression that had first caught his attention at the charity ga where they'd met. "Good. Mama's been asking about you, and you know how she worries."
"I know, sweetheart. We'll be there." The lies came as easily as breathing. Isabel's mother had taken a liking to him almost immediately—probably because he was one of the few men who didn't seem interested in her daughter's money. If only she knew.
Isabel rose gracefully. "I need to go take care of some things upstairs," she said warmly. "I'm looking forward to seeing you in bed."
She leaned down to kiss him, her lips soft and warm. The taste lingered—expensive lip gloss and the faint hint of wine she'd had with dinner.
"See you soon," she whispered before gliding toward the door.
He watched her leave, admiring how she navigated her own home with such confidence. The penthouse, the cars, the art collection worth more than some small countries' GDP—all hers by birthright, all his by association and careful manipution.
His gaze drifted to the full-length mirror against the far wall, its ornate golden frame catching the crystal chandelier's light. His reflection stared back—muscur build, reddish hair, the kind of strong jaw that women found attractive.
*What should I look like when I go pick up some more products for Hatter's Productions?* he mused, sipping from the expensive china.
The image in the mirror began to ripple like disturbed water. The image wavered, features shifting and flowing like cy being reshaped by invisible hands. The muscur frame compressed and rounded, the reddish hair darkened and shortened into tight curls, the pale skin deepened to rich brown. Within moments, the reflection showed an elderly Bck woman with kind eyes and a grandmother's gentle smile.
He studied the new appearance with professional interest. Perfect for blending into certain neighborhoods, for gaining the trust of people who wouldn't look twice at a harmless old woman asking about their children.
