Page 120 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

“Maybe,” Sophie says. “But she also stays late on Thursdays. And that’s exactly when the research wing’s security cameras run a scheduled maintenance cycle, and during that window, the footage isn’t being recorded to the central system.” She pauses. “Diana never stays late on any other night.”

I sit up. “You think she’s timing her late nights to the gap.”

“That’s what it looks like,” Sophie confirms.

“Or she’s a dedicated researcher who happens to work late on the same night every week,” Ethan says. He’s defending her, and I get it—Diana is one of his best people. “Her work output during those late sessions is real. The data she’s generating is legitimate. I’ve reviewed it myself.”

“She can do real work and steal data at the same time, Ethan,” Sophie says gently. “That’s what makes her good at it.”

“Wanting it not to be her doesn’t make it not her,” Max says.

Ethan looks at the access logs, then at the ceiling. I can see the moment he accepts it.

“No,” Ethan says quietly. “It isn’t.”

We spend the next hour going through Diana’s files and the evidence keeps pointing in the same direction.

Then Sophie sits back. She stares at the papers spread across the coffee table.

“I feel like I’m missing something,” she says. “Like the answer is right in front of us and I can’t see it.”

Max sets his mug down. “It’s late. We should call it.”

Sophie nods and starts gathering the papers, stacking them with the same efficiency she used to spread them. Ethan closes his notebook and stands, stretching his arms above his head.

“I’ll send Declan what we have tonight,” Sophie says. “See you all tomorrow.”

Ethan nods and heads upstairs.

Max stands. He’s looking at Sophie. She’s looking at her files. The distance between them is three feet and a hundred unspoken words, and his hand twitches once at his side, like he’s stopping himself from reaching for her.

“Goodnight,” he says, and his voice is gruff. There’s something almost longing in the way he looks at her.

“Goodnight, Max,” Sophie says. She doesn’t look up, but her hand stills on the page she’s holding, and she doesn’t move again until his footsteps have faded up the stairs.

Then it’s just the two of us.

Sophie fills a glass of water from the tap and drinks half of it standing at the kitchen sink. I lean against the counter across from her, arms folded.

It’s the kitchen where she stitched her own arm. The pendant lights cast a warm glow across the counter, and in this light, with her hair pulled back and her face bare, she looks young and soft and like a completely different person.

“How is it in the research wing?” I ask.

She turns, glass in hand, and leans against the opposite counter, mirroring my posture without seeming to realize it. “It’s different, that’s for sure. Less talking.”

I almost laugh. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I’m certainly not complaining,” she says, and takes a sip of water to hide the smile pulling at the corner of her mouth.

“I do miss the daily meetings, though.”

She raises an eyebrow over the rim of her glass. “You miss having someone to boss around.”

“Actually, I miss having someone who doesn’t let me.”

She lowers the glass. The smile she’s been fighting wins, and it changes her whole face, softer, warmer, the operative gone and Sophie in her place.

“Finn, I need to tell you something,” she says urgently, as if she’ll lose her nerve if she doesn’t say it now.