Page 29 of Take Me Darkly

“Myla McKinnon,” she introduced herself, stepping forward to meet his grip. Her shake was firm, professional, and composed. “I help run the day-to-day operations around here. Zeke and Anton speak highly of you. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Wilkshire.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Devon murmured, his hand lingering over hers just a fraction of a second past professional courtesy before she smoothly withdrew. His gaze held hers, an intriguing spark taking root. “Seems like you run a remarkably tight ship here.”

Myla tilted her head, a subtle, playful glint entering her dark eyes as a soft smile touched her lips. “I do, Mr. Wilkshire. If you play your cards right, I might take you on a tour and let you see exactly how smoothly things run.”

Devon’s smile deepened, a low, impressed hum escaping his throat.

Turning smoothly toward Anton, Myla stepped back into her executive role without missing a beat. “The secure logins are updated and ready for your team, boss. I’ll be downstairs in the administrative suite if you need anything else.”

“Thank you, Myla,” Anton said.

With a polite nod to Devon, Myla turned on her heel and walked back toward the lift. Devon stood completely quiet, his eyes tracking her departure until the iron doors clicked shut, a thoughtful, deeply intrigued smile settling on his face.

Anton cleared his throat, pulling Devon’s attention back to the table. “Devon.”

Devon blinked, smoothly recalibrating his focus. “Right. As I was saying…”

A few minutes later, Anton stepped into his private office down the hall to verify an encrypted line with Zeke and Hale Fulton, leaving Devon and me at the table. He had his laptop open and was firing off press releases to various outlets.

My eyes drifted to the sleek, smartphone sitting beside my hand. Up until this moment, I had been terrified to look up my own name. I had been terrified that seeing the headlines would make my mother’s death feel too stark, too monstrously real.

You’re fighting back now. You need to know what’s being said.

My fingers trembled slightly as I tapped the screen, opened the browser, and typed in my name.

The search results loaded in a dizzying cascade. My breath caught in my throat as tabloid headlines splashed across the top results.

“Billionaire’s Mysterious Benefactress:

Where Is Serena Martinelli?”

* * *

“Tragedy in Lucca: Famous Archeologist Shot”

* * *

“Italian Arson Fuels Speculation Surrounding Reclusive Heiress”

* * *

“Glamorous Archaeologist Vanishes Following Tragic Fire”

Famous. Heiress. Glamorous. All things I was not. Everything on the screen was a lie. A wave of nausea rolled through my stomach.

“Rule number one of crisis management, Serena,” Devon’s gentle voice broke through the fog.

I looked up to find him watching me with a compassionate, reassuring expression.

“Never read the comment section,” he said softly, reaching across the table to gently slide the phone facedown. “Tabloid ink dries fast, but perception is something we manufacture.”

“It’s just... overwhelming,” I confessed, rubbing my palms over my face. “They’re turning the worst tragedy of my life into clickbait.”

“They’re reaching for scraps because Anton has given them nothing for ten years. They know he’s connected to you because of the Met Gala, and now you’ve vanished entirely,” Devon explained patiently. “That works in our favor. Because you haven’t been spotted in New York, our fake Swiss narrative will take root instantly. By sunrise tomorrow, the stories we plant will dominate those search engines. We’re going to bury the speculation under a wall of false leads and noise.”

I closed my eyes, taking a deep, steadying breath. When I opened them, Anton was walking back into the room, his dark, possessive gaze instantly locking onto mine.

I closed the browser, locked the phone, and set it aside. The press was hunting for answers, but sitting in this luxury apartment, knowing my real presence was safely hidden while we manufactured a lie for the world, I felt a new strength settling into my bones.