Truth & Power Investigations. New firm. No established reputation. Generously funded, from the look of the materials. Launched recently enough that I didn’t recognize it — which meant it had come together quickly, with capital that had moved fast.
I pulled up my laptop and ran a quick search. The company’s incorporation date was eight months ago. The registered agent’s address was a law firm I half-recognized — not from the media world.
From the Thornton files.
The connection was thin. Probably nothing. One degree of separation between a law firm and a lobbying network didn’t constitute a story. But it was something, and my brain had beentrained to notice something for twenty years, and right now it was telling me very clearly that I needed to know more before I made any decisions about Olivia Mercer’s offer.
I tucked the card into my wallet and made a note in my phone: T&P Investigations — registered agent — Thornton connection? Verify.
Then I turned back to my notes. There was work to do.
My phone buzzed. Sebastian.
How’s the homecoming?
I typed back:Complicated. You?
Board’s still circling. But Daniel says the worst of the investor panic is settling.
That’s good.
A pause. Then:
I miss you.
Three words. Simple. Direct. Completely unlike the controlled, calculating man I’d first met at that gala who had looked at me like a problem to be solved and ended up being something I hadn’t known how to prepare for.
I typed:I miss you too.And meant it.
Dinner tonight?
I hesitated. Howard’s warning echoed. My credibility was everything. The whole world was watching.
But Sebastian wasn’t just a story anymore. He hadn’t been for a long time.
I sent:Yes. Your place or mine?
Yours. I’ll bring food.
I smiled despite myself. The billionaire who could buy half of Chicago, offering to bring takeout to my shoebox apartment with its water-stained ceiling and the ancient radiator that clanked all night.
I typed:Deal.
I set down my phone and looked at Olivia’s card one more time. The Thornton connection was thin. Could be coincidence. Could be nothing.
Could be exactly the kind of thing that looked like nothing until it wasn’t.
I’d follow the thread in my own time, on my own terms. And I wouldn’t be accepting any offers until I knew what I was actually being offered.
The afternoon sunlight slanted through the newsroom windows, catching the dust motes drifting through the air. I took a breath, centered myself, and started typing.
Whatever came next, I’d be the one holding the pen.
Chapter Twenty
Sebastian “Bash” Laurent
The Crain’s Chicago Business headline hit my inbox at 6:47 AM, right between a congratulatory message from my legal team about Victor Corsetti’s frozen assets and a breakfast reminder from Daniel that I’d promptly ignored.
