I thought back to that night—the intimacy, the connection, the way she'd looked at me like I was just a man, not a name or a title or a threat. When I returned to Miami two days after that call pulled me away, I'd tried to find her. Searched the hotel's guest registry for "Celia"—nothing. Asked the conference organizers, the bar staff, and anyone who might have seen her. No one remembered a woman matching her description, or they'd seen too many to single out one.
The name had been fake. Just like mine. We'd both been playing pretend, and when reality intruded, the fantasy dissolved.
Eventually, I'd forced myself to let it go. One night. One memory. Nothing more.
Except it had been more. And some part of me had known that even then.
But if she'd comeback…
I pulled up the security footage from earlier tonight, watching her leave the building and hail a cab. Studying her profile, her movements, comparing them to fragmented memories from three years ago.
The more I looked, the more certain I became.
It was her.
My jaw clenched. She'd been in my office for a week, sitting outside my door, taking my calls, lying to my face about who she was and what we'd been to each other.
Why?
Money? Blackmail? Some scheme I hadn't uncovered yet?
Or something else?
I set down the scotch, my decision made.
Let her think she was safe. Let her think I hadn't recognized her, that her secret was secure.
I'd play along, keep digging, find out exactly what game she was running.
And when I had all the pieces—when I knew her real angle—I'd make my move.
She'd learn that deceiving Cassian Barone was the most dangerous game she could have chosen to play.
CHAPTER 4
Isla
The Calabrese file sat open on my kitchen table, papers spread in organized chaos across the scratched wooden surface. The digital clock on my microwave blinked 2:37 a.m. I'd been at it for hours, forcing my brain to absorb shipping manifests, port regulations, and cargo insurance policies.
But my mind kept drifting back to that elevator. To Cassian's body, inches from mine. To the electricity that had coursed between us.
I rubbed my eyes and leaned back in my chair. The apartment was silent except for the distant hum of the refrigerator and the occasional car passing on the street below. Leo slept soundly in his room, blissfully unaware that his mother was slowly unraveling.
Almost three years since I'd last felt Cassian Barone's hands on my body. Since I'd given myself to a stranger in a way I never had before.
I closed my eyes, and suddenly I could feel them again—those hands. Calloused and demanding, sliding up my thighs, gripping my waist, pulling me closer.
The memory crashed over me like a wave.
We barely made it to his hotel room. The door had hardly closed before he pressed me against it, his mouth hungry on mine. I'd never been wanted like this—like I was air and he was drowning.
Later, when he moved inside me, he'd commanded: "Look at me." And I had our eyes locked, completely vulnerable. Completely his.
I'd never felt so seen. So known.
I shook my head, dispelling the memory. Focus. I needed to focus on the Calabrese documents, not on the way Cassian had made me feel that night. Not on how his touch had awakened something in me I hadn't known existed.
But that was the problem. Now that I was back in his orbit, I couldn't stop remembering. Couldn't stop wanting.
