Was that the car or did you actually make it upstairs this time?
I stared at the ceiling. Technically, the back seat of a town car didn’t count as upstairs. It was more like… athletic decision-making at a lower altitude.
Define “upstairs.”
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.
EMILIA MARIE RIVERA.
I groaned and rolled over, burying my face in my pillow. The sheets smelled like coffee and printer ink — my natural habitat. Somewhere across the city, Sebastian’s penthouse probably smelled like fresh linen and expensive decisions, the kind of morning routine that came with skyline views and silence I could never afford.
The thought of him waking up in those crisp white sheets, alone, while I sprawled across my mismatched bedding shouldn’t have made my chest ache.
It did anyway.
I plead the fifth, I texted back.Also, I need to borrow your red blouse. The one that makes me look like I have my life together.
The silk one?
Is there another red blouse that screams “professional journalist who definitely didn’t have sex with a billionaire in the back of his town car last night”?
Fair point. It’s in my closet. Please don’t get any scandal on it.
I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower, letting the hot water pound the tension from my shoulders. I had exactly two and a half hours before I was supposed to be in Sebastian’s office, going through my investigation files together. Together. Like partners.
The word felt dangerous even in my head — partners implied trust, implied standing on the same side, and I was still investigating the man. Still building a case that could bring his empire down around his perfectly tailored shoulders. Whatever the hell we were becoming existed in direct tension with everything I was professionally obligated to do, and I still hadn’t figured out how to hold both things at once without one of them breaking.
The water ran over my face, and I closed my eyes.
Last night had been something. The way he’d looked at me when I’d finally crossed the space between us — like I’d just answered a question he’d been afraid to ask. The way his hands had found my hips like they’d been waiting. The way he’d said my name in the dark, not Em but Emilia — the full weight of it, like something he’d been saving.
I was in so much trouble.
By eight-fifteen I was dressed, caffeinated, and pretending I had everything under control. Jenna’s red blouse helped — silk had a way of making me feel like I could conquer small nations. My notebook was stuffed with evidence, my recorder was charged, and my cardiovascular system was staging a full rebellion every time I thought about walking through his office doors.
Stop it, I told my pulse. We’re professionals.
My phone rang as I was locking my apartment door. Unknown number.
“Rivera.”
“Miss Rivera.” The voice was unfamiliar. Male. Cold in the specific way of someone who had prepared what they were going to say. “We hope you enjoyed the Peninsula.”
My blood turned to ice. My brain cataloged automatically — the controlled cadence, the deliberate pauses, the careful avoidance of names. Whoever this was, he wasn’t improvising. “Who is this?”
“Someone who’s been watching.” A pause that felt architectural, built for effect. “Someone who knows you’ve gotten… close to Mr. Laurent. We also know about Marco Benedetti’s confession. And the city inspector. And that charming recording device you carry in your clutch.”
My hand tightened on my keys until the metal bit into my palm. “If you have something to say, say it.”
“Stop digging. This is your only warning.”
The line went dead.
I stood in the hallway for a full thirty seconds, breath coming too fast, mind racing through the shape of what I’d just heard. Someone had been at the gala. Someone had been watching me for days, maybe weeks. Someone knew about my evidence, my sources, my movements.
My connection to Sebastian.
The last part settled in my chest with a specific, cold weight.
