The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile, but not quite — and I recognized it now, that almost-smile. I’d seen it break open into something real on the balcony, unguarded and warm, before he remembered himself.
I didn’t want to recognize things about him. I resented knowing them.
“You’re very good at not answering questions, Miss?—”
“Rivera.” I met his gaze directly. “Emilia Rivera. And you’re Sebastian Laurent.”
Something moved through his expression when I said it — a flicker, quickly controlled. My name in his mouth on the balcony had sounded different. Em. Like something he’d wanted to say slowly.
“You already knew that,” he said.
“I know a lot of things.” The words came out sharper than I intended, edged with something that wasn’t entirely professional. “I know about the foundation work on the waterfront. I know about the inspector who suddenly acquired a new boat. And I know that those environmental impact assessments” — I nodded toward the documents — “have some very interesting inconsistencies.”
Sebastian’s expression didn’t change. Only the muscle in his jaw tightened slightly. He took a slow sip of champagne, watching me over the rim of the glass with the infuriating patience of a man who had never once been rattled in his life.
Except that wasn’t true, was it. I’d heard the rattle. I’d felt it.
You feel?—
Stop it.
“You’re accusing me of something?” he said.
“I’m telling you I’m paying attention.”
“Clearly.” He set his champagne down on the table, close enough that his arm brushed past my shoulder. Cedar andleather invaded my senses, and underneath it something warmer, something I recognized now in a way that made my jaw tighten. “Most people who pay attention to my business do so because they want something from me. Money. Access. Favors.” His eyes held mine. “What do you want, Miss Rivera?”
The question landed differently than he probably intended it to. Or maybe exactly as he intended it to — this man who had known my name and my profession and exactly what I was investigating while he’d stood in a service corridor and called it refreshing.
“The truth,” I said.
Something flickered in his eyes. “The truth is rarely as simple as journalists make it seem.”
“Maybe.” I refused to step back, refused to give him an inch. “Or maybe powerful men just prefer complicated lies because they’re harder to unravel.”
His jaw tightened. Just barely, just for a moment, but I caught it. Good.
“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” Sebastian said, his voice dropping to something quieter, more controlled. “I suspect we’ll be seeing each other again.”
The words carried weight they hadn’t earlier in the evening, when I hadn’t known his name or his face or the sound he made when his restraint finally cracked. Now they landed somewhere specific and unwelcome.
He walked away without waiting for a response, the crowd parting for him like he was Moses crossing the Red Sea. I watched him go, my heart doing something complicated that I absolutely refused to examine.
This was bad. This was so much worse than bad.
Because Sebastian Laurent wasn’t supposed to be someone I’d touched. He wasn’t supposed to be someone whose voice I knew in the dark, whose unguarded moments I’d collectedwithout meaning to. He was supposed to be another corrupt billionaire I exposed and forgot about — not a man who had looked at me from across a crowded ballroom like I was something he’d already decided to keep.
I have a way with people who recognize their place. You don’t seem to have that particular affliction.
Damn right I didn’t.
I grabbed my photos and my evidence and my thoroughly catastrophic lapse in judgment, and I got the hell out of there.
Two hours later, I was sitting across from my editor in his cluttered office, spreading documents across his desk like playing cards. The adrenaline of the gala had burned down to something quieter and more complicated, and I was grateful for the familiar smell of old coffee and printer toner, the fluorescent lights that had no interest in being atmospheric.
This was real. This was work. This was the part of the night I actually knew how to do.
“Environmental violations here, here, and here.” I pointed to the relevant pages. “The wetland mitigation report is signed by an inspector who, according to county records, was supposed to be on medical leave when this was filed. And these construction timelines don’t match the permits on file with the city.”
