I bypass my private office and walk directly to the secure conference room at the end of the hall.
Grant is waiting for me inside. The heavy soundproof door clicks shut behind me.
"Sir," Grant says, handing me a sealed blue folder. "The sweep you requested on Simon’s recent communications is complete."
I take the folder. I don't sit down. I open it and scan the top sheet of paper.
"He bypassed the block on her phone using a third-party application," Grant explains, his voice low. "He left two voicemails. We intercepted the audio files."
"I know. She told me." I flip to the second page. "What else?"
Grant hesitates. He crosses his arms, his massive frame tense. "Simon didn't just call Audrey last night. After he left the museum, he made a phone call to a private investigator. A man named Russo. He operates out of the South Side. He specializes in corporate espionage and blackmail."
I stop reading. I slowly close the folder, the heavy cardstock snapping shut with a sharp sound.
"Simon hired Russo?" I ask quietly.
"Yes. He wants Russo to dig into Audrey’s background. He is looking for leverage. He wants to find something he can use to prove the engagement is a fraud, or something he can use to force her to drop the legal claim against his holding company."
A cold, absolute calm settles over me. It is the same calm I felt when I bought the condemned building back from the city three years ago. It is the calm before the execution.
Simon is a coward, but he is a desperate coward. He realizes he is losing control of the narrative, and he is trying to find a weapon to use against the woman living in my house.
"Grant," I say, tossing the blue folder onto the conference table.
"Sir?"
"Find Russo." I walk toward the door, my voice dropping to a dead, hollow register. "I want to know where he sleeps, where he eats, and who pays his bills. And then, I want you to arrange a meeting."
"A meeting with Russo?" Grant asks, his brow furrowing slightly. "To buy him off?"
"No." I place my hand on the heavy steel handle of the door. "To explain to him what happens to people who look into my fiancée’s past."
I open the door and step out into the hallway.
The game of chess is over. Simon just flipped the board.
And now, I am going to break his hands.
CHAPTER 9
AUDREY
The drafting table is made of solid oak. The dual monitors are top-of-the-line, the kind graphic designers use when they have an unlimited corporate budget. There is a fresh cup of coffee sitting on a ceramic coaster, placed there ten minutes ago by a very quiet, very efficient housekeeper who completely ignored my attempts to make small talk.
I stare at the blank screen in front of me.
I should be working. I should be pulling up my old client files from the cloud backup I managed to secure before Simon locked me out of the server. Malcolm gave me the tools to rebuild my life, and I am currently using them to stare at a blinking cursor while my brain spins in circles.
A working woman is less likely to murder her fake fiancé out of sheer boredom.
I press the palm of my hand against my forehead.
He is infuriating. He is terrifying. And he is the only person who has looked at me in the last month and seen something other than a victim.
I drop my hand and grab the mouse, forcing myself to click on the folder labeledArchived Proposals.
I need to focus. If I let myself think about the car ride last night—about the way his hand felt in my hair, or the dark, absolute certainty in his voice when he said I was the prize—I am going to lose my mind. I am living in a glass cage with a predator who is pretending to be a gentleman, and the worst part is that I am starting to like the cage.
