I walk into the massive living room, heading toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. The view of Lake Michigan is stunning, but it doesn't help the claustrophobia. I press my forehead against the cold glass, closing my eyes and trying to slow my breathing.
You are not a liability to me.
Malcolm’s words from the car echo in my head. He sounded so certain. But Malcolm doesn't know everything about me. He knows the data. He knows the logistics. He doesn't know the shame of growing up fielding calls from collection agencies.
A soft chime breaks the silence of the apartment.
I open my eyes, turning away from the window.
The sound came from the kitchen. It wasn't my phone. It was a sharp, electronic ping.
I walk slowly toward the kitchen island. Sitting next to the coffee maker is the sleek, black tablet Malcolm was using this morning. He left it behind when he went to the office.
The screen is lit up, displaying a notification banner across the center.
I know I shouldn't look. I know the rule about transparency goes both ways, and snooping through the encrypted tablet of a security CEO is a fantastic way to get myself thrown out of the penthouse.
But the name on the notification stops me dead.
GRANT:Target located. Russo is operating out of a motel in the South Loop. Awaiting your arrival.
My pulse kicks hard against my ribs.
Russo.
The name means nothing to me, but the context is terrifying.Target located. Awaiting your arrival.
Why is Malcolm’s head of security tracking someone in a cheap motel? And why is Malcolm going there personally?
I step closer to the island. The screen goes dark after a few seconds, plunging the kitchen back into shadows.
My heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I press my thumb against the side of my index finger, the physical pain grounding me.
Simon is a coward, but cowards do desperate things.
What if Russo is the investigator? What if Simon already hired someone, and Malcolm found out?
I look at the dark screen of the tablet, then at the private elevator doors at the end of the foyer.
Malcolm told me not to leave the apartment without security. He told me I was safe here. But if he is out there, dealing with Simon’s mess in the shadows, he isn't just protecting me. He is escalating the war.
If Malcolm does something violent to this Russo guy, Simon will use it. He will go to the police. He will use it to destroy Malcolm, and the entire fake engagement will collapse into a criminal investigation.
I can't let him do it. I can't let him cross a line he can't come back from just to clean up my mess.
I turn around and run back to the guest bedroom.
I strip off the oversized sweater and sweatpants, grabbing the first pair of jeans and a dark turtleneck I can find in my suitcase. I shove my feet into a pair of boots, grab my phone and my coat, and walk back out to the foyer.
I press the call button for the private elevator.
The panel flashes red.Biometric scan required.
I curse under my breath. Malcolm’s security system is absolute. I can't even leave the floor without his fingerprint.
I look around the foyer, my eyes landing on the sleek intercom panel mounted on the wall next to the elevator. I press the button labeledLobby Security.
A crackle of static, and then a deep, bored voice answers. "Front desk."
