The things I feel for you.They’re dangerous.For both of us.
I pressed my palms against my eyes until I saw stars.The spreadsheet blurred.I was so tired of this.Tired of the push and pull, the hot and cold, the constant guessing about what was real and what was performance.Tired of wanting his honesty, his heart, from a man who seemed determined to give me everything except that.
A knock at my door made me jump.
“Come in.”
It was Jessica, one of the front desk staff.She looked nervous.Her hands were clasped in front of her like she was delivering bad news to a firing squad.
“Miss Hughes?There’s something you should see.”
I followed her downstairs to the front desk, where three other staff members were clustered around a computer screen.They scattered when they saw me coming, their expressions caught between pity and poorly disguised curiosity.The kind of look you give someone who’s about to find out their life just got worse.
Jessica turned the monitor toward me.
The headline hit first:MYSTERY BILLIONAIRE’S SECRET MISTRESS?HOTEL HEIRESS SPOTTED IN LATE-NIGHT TRYSTS.
Below it, photographs.Me, climbing out of my car in the manor’s driveway, my face lit by the motion-sensor lights.Me, silhouetted in an upper window, my outline unmistakable.
Timestamped.Three different nights over the past week.
Someone had been watching the manor.Watching me.
“It’s on three different gossip sites,” Jessica said quietly.“And the Paradise Peaks Daily picked it up.They’re running a piece about hotel management and, um, personal conduct standards.”
I scrolled down.The article speculated wildly about my relationship with Raphael Antonov, described as a “secretive Russian businessman with alleged underworld connections.”There were quotes from anonymous sources about the hotel’s financial troubles.About my father’s recent health issues.About how I’d dropped out of college to “take care of family business.”
But it was the last paragraph that made my throat close.
Sources close to the hotel report that Miss Hughes has been spending most nights at the Antonov estate, raising questions about the true nature of their arrangement.“It’s like she sold herself to save the family business,” one insider revealed.“Everyone’s talking about it.”
Everyone’s talking about it.
An insider.
I thought about the dead corgi on my doorstep.The heating sabotage that had nearly frozen a hundred guests.The hang-up calls.The break-in at Marjorie’s apartment just hours ago.
Four incidents now.All of them personal.All of them targeted.And escalating.The corgi had been cruel.The sabotage had been dangerous.But breaking into the home of an elderly woman while she slept?
That was violence.That was a promise of worse to come.
And now this, the photographs leaked to the press.
“Thank you, Jessica.”My voice came out steadier than I felt.“I’ll handle it from here.”
I walked back to my office on numb legs.Closed the door.Leaned against it until the wood pressed hard into my spine.
Someone was watching me.Not just the hotel.Me.
The photographs had been taken from positions that required knowledge.The angle from the garden meant someone knew which window was my room.The timing of the driveway shots meant someone knew my schedule, knew when I came and went, knew which nights I stayed late at the manor and which nights I fled early.
This wasn’t random.This wasn’t the media digging into a story.This was someone with access.Someone who’d been building a file on me for weeks, maybe longer, waiting for the right moment to use it.
My phone buzzed.Sophie, probably, asking about the articles.Or Clara, having seen the news.Or Raphael, demanding to know what the hell was going on.
I looked at the screen.
Michael:Just saw the news.Are you okay?I’m on my way.
