I know I shouldn’t.
I know it’s wrong. An invasion of privacy and a break of the trust I’ve been given.
… but the things that room must hold…
Who is Ransome Rozanov when he leaves the office at night? Why does this man with such status and stature and the sexiest fucking scowl I’ve ever seen seem to operate on high alert all the time? Why so many changes of clothes? Why was there blood on his collar but no nick on his face?
I need to know.
I step inside, carefully pushing the large wooden door open only enough to walk through. In many ways, it’s not at all what I was expecting it to be. The desk, with nothing on it except a couple books about entrepreneurship and a coffee mug identical to the one at the office, is smaller than the one at work. It’s still huge, but more modern, more minimalist. There is a light gray rug underneath and a black, leather roller chair. The walls are a gunmetal gray with a large, monochromatic, abstract painting in the middle behind the desk. A few wood plank shelves hold more books, what appears to be an arrangement of succulents, and an old-fashioned radio.
My skin pricks with the excitement of seeing new sides of him. A side that nurtures plants (even if it is one that requires the absolute barest minimum of human interference to grow) and a radio that, like the guitar, suggests he likes music.
I look back at the desk and see a single drawer underneath. Knowing I shouldn’t, but unable to resist, I pull it open softly. Three pens are lined perfectly in the bottom of the shallow drawer next to a notebook.
My heart leaps in my chest. Nothing saysjackpotlike an actual notebook.
I pull it out and open it carefully, the way you do at a bookstore when you’re afraid to break the spine. Inside I find his handwriting, handwriting I know well—and yet, this is different.
It’s not about Apex. It’s a schedule. A map, with names and places all foreign to me.
It’s gold, is what it is.
I pull out my phone in a frenzy. There are too many pages to take snapshots of, so instead, I set it to slow-mo and take a video as I flip through the notebook, holding the pages wide to make sure everything is visible. It takes all of ten seconds and then I’m able to carefully place the notebook back in the drawer and close it.
When I’m done, I see a phone on the edge of the desk, hiding behind the coffee mug. I pick it up and the screen comes on. It’s not locked.
“What the heck…?” I ask out loud.
There are no apps. There are no contacts. A burner, maybe? A new one he hasn’t activated yet? Either way, he has it for a reason. Which means it may end up on his person. Which meansif I know where this phone is… then, with the location tracking enabled…
… I’ll know where he is, even when he’s not at the office.
I look around, literally feeling like the clock is audibly ticking through my veins. Maybe that’s my heart, which is slamming into my ribcage right now.
I share the location and hurriedly put it back.
I am about to leave, because Lord knows I am really in a danger zone right now, but then something else catches my eye.
“Oh… my… God…” The words escape my mouth in a whisper and my mouth stays popped open as I approach the wall next to the closet. In a black, square-shaped frame is a vinyl record. It caught my attention because it’s Queen. Original press. It’s holding my gaping attention becauseit’s signed.
Queen. My favorite band of all time.
It’s like he knows.As if I needed another sign that we’re so perfect together, Ransome and me.
“Unreal.” I shake my head.
Suddenly, I hear the security system.Fuck. He probably thinks I already left and he’s relocking the door.
But then I hear something else, too. Not the security system—the door.
Someone else is here.
5
AMARA
Footsteps hit the tile. Heavy, wing-tipped footsteps. Footsteps I could recognize even in the middle of the wildebeest stampede fromThe Lion King.
