My phone buzzes. Marcus’s hourly security update.
“Sir, the damage assessment is complete. She took out six cameras in total.”
“Cost?”
“Forty thousand. Custom hardware.”
I end the call, jaw tight. The feeds on my monitors mock me—black screens where there should be crystal-clear surveillance. Eve’s empty room stares back at me, a testament to her defiance.
My fingers trace the cool glass. “Clever girl.”
The words escape before I can stop them. I shouldn’t admire her cunning. Shouldn’t respect how precisely she identified and neutralized my security measures. And I absolutely shouldn’t remember how she felt against me hours ago, her body arching—
“Sir.” Marcus’s voice crackles through the intercom. “The new security measures are ready for installation.”
I adjust my titanium watch. “Hold off.”
“Hold off?” The surprise in his voice grates against my nerves.
“You heard me.” My reflection stares back at me—tie perfectly straight, suit immaculate. But beneath that polished exterior, Eve’s touch still burns against my skin. The memory of her defiance, her calculated submission—it strips away my practiced control, leaving me raw.
The intercom crackles again. “There’s something else. We found traces of an encrypted signal from the guest room last night.”
Of course. Even now, she’s three steps ahead, playing her own game while I’ve been distracted by the feel of her beneath my hands.
“Let it be,” I say, surprising myself. “For now.”
Movement flickers across my security feed. Eve. She prowls my kitchen like a caged animal, her restless energy radiating through even the distant footage. I lean closer to the monitor, watching her precise movements with an intensity that surprises me.
“Careful, little journalist.” The words slip out as her fingers brush her collar again—that telling gesture I’ve cataloged along with her other unconscious habits. She’s planning something. The thought sends a surge of possessive anger through my chest.
The leather of my chair protests as I shift forward, unable to look away, glad that one camera in this area had evaded her rampage. Even through under surveillance, she commands attention. Her shoulders carry tension in clean lines, and hereyes keep darting to the cameras—quick, professional sweeps that betray her awareness of being watched.
The coffee pot rattles slightly in her grip as she pours, her usually steady hands betraying the slightest tremor. I trace her outline on the screen, remembering how those hands felt against my skin just hours ago.
“Sir.” Marcus’s voice crackles through the intercom. “The Hong Kong investors are waiting.”
“Push it back.” My eyes stay locked on Liv as she brings the mug to her lips, her throat working as she swallows. Everything about her screams preparation—the controlled breathing, the measured steps. She’s gathering herself for something.
“Sir, Mr. Chen specifically requested—”
“I said push it back.” The edge in my voice silences any further protest.
Liv sets down her mug with deliberate care. Her fingers drum once, twice against the counter—another tell. The urge to go upstairs and confront her claws at my chest. To demand answers, to pin her against that counter until she reveals every secret she’s keeping.
“Trying to protect you might be the death of me,” I murmur, watching her move through my kitchen with growing familiarity. The thought should terrify me. Instead, it sends a dark thrill down my spine.
The sight of her in my space, surrounded by my security, should feel like victory. Instead, it feels like standing on the edge of an abyss, knowing I’m about to fall.
I barely register the door opening as Marcus enters, my attention fixed on the security feeds. Eve’s movements in the kitchen have my complete focus—the careful way she tests the drawers and her seemingly casual glances at corners where cameras might hide.
“Sir.” Marcus’s voice pulls me back. He carries a thick manila folder, and his usual mask of indifference shows cracks of concern.
“What did you find?”
He places the folder on my desk. “Not enough. Her digital footprint is too clean. Bank records, social media, phone records—all carefully crafted. Basic enough to seem real, deep enough to withstand casual scrutiny.”
My fingers drum against the mahogany. “She’s not trained for this.”
