Storming the Archives
5
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LENA'S POV
I replay the conversation with Eva in my mind, her words still echoing in the back of my mind like a warning I couldn’t escape, no matter how hard I tried.
Eva had been frantic when she called me from New York, her voice shaky, but her words clear. "Lena, you have no idea what you're up against with Reyes," she had said, the urgency in her tone almost palpable. "Dominic and I fought tooth and nail to keep him from taking over Dominic’s tech company. He’s not just some businessman trying to make a profit—he’s dangerous. He doesn’t care about people or integrity. It’s all about power, and he’ll destroy anyone who gets in his way."
Her words had hit me like a punch to the gut. The man we were trying to push out of Portside Bay was capable of much more than I had ever imagined. And now I was up close, feeling the heat of the fire I’d unknowingly stepped into. Reyes wasn’t just a threat to my grandmother’s clinic. He was a threat to everything.
Eva had continued, her voice tight with frustration, "He’s been involved in more shady deals than I can count, and once he has his hands on something, he won’t let go. The fight we had with him wasn’t just about Dominic’s company—it was about keeping him from getting his claws into something bigger. Once he’s set his sights on something, he’ll use whatever means necessary to take it, destroy anyone who gets in his way. And believe me, he will not hesitate to do whatever it takes."
I could hear Dominic in the background, his low voice adding to the intensity of the conversation, but Eva’s words were all that mattered in that moment. Reyes was no ordinary businessman. He was a wrecking ball, and Portside Bay was just another place for him to conquer.
As the call ended, Eva’s voice had softened, “Lena, just... be careful. Reyes will stop at nothing. He’s ruthless, and if you think you’re just going to push him out of your town, you need to think again.”
I had sat there in Noah’s office, the weight of her warning heavy on my chest. What had I gotten myself into?
Noah’s office, the man who’d come here to save a town but whose company had a connection to Reyes’s operations—whether he realized it or not. I had already made the call in front of him, making sure he was filled in. As I spoke to Eva, I couldn’t help but notice the way Noah’s expression shifted. It wasn’t just concern or confusion—it was something else. Something deeper. But I wasn’t sure if I could trust it yet. Could I trust him?
I stare down at the blueprints we’ve been studying since they arrived, the name "Reyes" looming over everything we’re doing. It’s not just about getting him out of Portside Bay anymore. I’m not satisfied with that. I want him gone for good. I want to see him fall, to have everything he’s built come crashing down. I want to make sure he never has the chance to hurt anyone again.
I won’t rest until that happens.
It’s personal now. And I won’t stop until I’ve taken him down.
Noah’s voice breaks through the tension that’s been simmering between us since we started this mess. He looks up from the blueprints I shoved into his hands, his expression unreadable, but the tightness in his jaw is clear.
"I had no idea," he says quietly, his voice low, almost as if he's speaking more to himself than to me. "I had no idea Reyes was involved in this project. I came to Portside Bay to fix things, to build something that would help, not bring more corruption into the town. But now… now it feels like we’re not just cleaning up the mess he left behind—we’re uncovering something much bigger."
He pauses for a second, his eyes briefly meeting mine. “I’m just as driven as you to get to the bottom of this, Lena. I didn’t realize the depths of this situation until now. But I swear, I’m here to make sure this doesn’t end up in the wrong hands—his hands.”
I want to believe him, but the suspicion that’s been bubbling up since we met still clings to the back of my mind. And yet, there’s something in his voice—an urgency, a sincerity—that makes me wonder if he really is in this as deeply as I am. Maybe even more than I originally thought.
I look back down at the blueprints, my fingers pressing against the pages, still unsure of who to trust, still unsure where this all leads. But one thing’s certain: we’re both in this, whether we want to be or not.
The archives reek of damp paper and dust, their silence heavy with decades of forgotten decisions and hidden truths. I sit cross-legged on the cold floor, my fingers smudged with ink, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. Across from me, Noah flips through a thick binder with unnerving focus, his sharp features bathed in the harsh glare of overhead lights.
For someone so polished and maddeningly self-assured, he’s shockingly meticulous. And annoyingly effective.
“This is pointless,” I mutter, slamming a ledger shut and rubbing my temples. “Hours in, and all we have are vague numbers and cryptic notes.”
Noah doesn’t even glance up. “Finding the truth isn’t supposed to be easy. You of all people should know that.”
The jab lands, and I glare at him, but the words echo a lesson my grandmother drilled into me countless times. Real answers take persistence and patience. I owe it to her memory to keep going. Still, the weight of what we’ve uncovered—the loan agreement, the whispers of Reyes—feels suffocating.
I lean back against the shelves and let out a slow breath. “I don’t even know what we’re looking for anymore.”
“Leverage,” Noah says, finally meeting my gaze. His blue eyes are calm but calculating, his tone firm. “Something concrete that ties Reyes to this project and gives us a way to stop him.”
“And if we don’t find it?”
His expression doesn’t waver. “Then we keep looking.”
The words come out with a quiet intensity, a fire in his voice that speaks to the raw determination burning just beneath his cool exterior. His jaw is clenched, the sharp lines of his face set with a kind of resolve that makes it impossible for me to look away. I hate the way his certainty grates on my nerves, but at the same time, it steadies me, like a calm amidst the storm I feel swirling inside.
There’s something about him that pulls me in, even when I try to resist. I can’t help but notice the way his broad shoulders fill the doorway, the muscles in his arms flexing as he shifts through the pages of his binder. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing tanned forearms dusted with the faintest hint of hair. And when he reaches to adjust the stack of papers in front of him, I catch a glimpse of the way his biceps move, straining against the fabric of his shirt, the very shirt that looks too damn good on him.
I want to look away. I want to stay focused, but I can’t. My eyes trace the sharp angles of his face, the way his dark hair falls just slightly into his eyes, making him look more rugged, more real. The slight stubble along his jawline only adds to the raw edge he carries, the kind of man who isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty, even in a situation like this. It’s all too much—the intensity in his gaze, the way he moves, the way he seems completely at ease in a world that’s anything but.
And that’s when I realize—he’s not just steadying me in this chaotic mess of paperwork and corruption. He’s also stirring something in me that I can’t ignore.
His focus shifts to me for a brief moment, our eyes locking across the table. There’s a flicker of something in his gaze—an unspoken challenge, a promise, maybe something even more dangerous. His lips press together in a way that makes me wonder how many times he’s fought to keep that control, to stop whatever it is that’s building between us from spilling over.
I grab another binder, my fingers smudged with ink as I flip it open, but I can’t stop the heat that’s spreading through me. His presence is like a magnet, pulling me in, making it impossible to stay focused on anything but him. And for the first time, I can’t help but wonder—if this is the kind of man I’m stuck with, how long before he breaks me completely?
The tension in the air thickens, heavy with everything unsaid, everything that’s building between us. And I realize, as much as I try to keep my distance, Noah Grant is a man I’m starting to crave in a way I’m not ready to admit
The hours blur together, the monotony broken only by the occasional shuffle of paper or hum of the overhead lights. My back aches from sitting on the floor, and the ink smudges on my hands feel like permanent tattoos, but giving up isn’t an option.
“Wait,” Noah says suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence.
I look up to see him holding a single sheet of paper, his expression unreadable.
“What is it?” I ask, scrambling to my feet and crossing the room.
He hands me the page without a word. My eyes scan the list of transactions, each entry marked with vague descriptions: Cargo received. Shipment secured. Special delivery.
“What does this mean?” I whisper, though the sinking feeling in my gut tells me I already know the answer.
Noah’s jaw tightens. “These aren’t normal transactions. And look at the dates—they coincide with the funding timeline for the medical center.”
A chill runs down my spine. “You think Reyes is using the center as a cover?”
“It’s not just a possibility,” Noah says grimly. “It’s a pattern. He’s done this before.”
I blink at him. “Done what before?”
He hesitates, his gaze locking onto mine. “Reyes has a history of using legitimate operations to move dangerous materials—things that shouldn’t exist in places they shouldn’t be. Weapons, chemicals, biohazards. If he’s doing that here, it’s bigger than we realized.”
The air around me seems to grow colder. “And you think Portside Bay is just another pawn in his game?”
“Yes,” Noah says, his voice steady but weighted. “And if we don’t stop him, this town will pay the price.”
The words land like a punch to the chest. Portside Bay isn’t just a town to me—it’s home. It’s my grandmother’s legacy, the people she fought to protect. I can’t let Reyes destroy that.
I set the paper down, my hands trembling. “What do we do?”
Noah straightens, his expression hardening with resolve. “We keep digging. We find proof—something that connects these shipments directly to Reyes and his operation.”
The urgency drives us past exhaustion, each new discovery tightening the web Reyes has spun. At one point, I catch Noah staring at me, his expression softer than I’ve ever seen it. It throws me off balance.
“What?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.
He blinks, like I’ve caught him mid-thought. “Nothing. Just surprised you haven’t thrown in the towel yet.”
I snort, the sound breaking the tension. “You clearly don’t know me very well.”
A corner of his mouth lifts in what might be a smile. “I’m starting to.”
The air between us shifts, and I turn back to the documents, ignoring the strange flutter in my chest.
“Lena, look at this,” Noah says, pulling me from my thoughts.
I glance over to see him holding another sheet of paper, this one yellowed with age. It’s a contract, the title glaring up at me: Conditional Agreement—Sable Enterprises and Torres Clinic.
My stomach drops as I scan the lines. “This is it. This is what ties Reyes to my grandmother’s clinic.”
But Noah’s focus is on a handwritten note scrawled at the bottom. I lean closer, my breath catching as I read the words:
“I did what I had to do to protect us. Forgive me.”
The note is in my grandmother’s handwriting. The familiar script twists the knife already lodged in my chest.
Noah’s voice is quiet. “She knew this would come back to you.”
“She tried to protect me,” I murmur, the words choking in my throat. “But from what? From him?”
Noah doesn’t answer right away, his sharp eyes scanning the paper as if it might give up more secrets. “Whatever deal she made, it wasn’t just about the clinic. This is about control, leverage. Reyes doesn’t let things go unless he gets something in return.”
The weight of his words settles over me, heavier than anything I’ve carried so far. My grandmother’s letter, the ledger entries, and now this—each piece paints a picture of someone who fought against impossible odds and made choices I’m not sure I’ll ever fully understand.
When we finally leave the archives, the sun has dipped below the horizon, and the cool night air bites at my skin. The streets of Portside Bay are quiet, the kind of stillness that feels fragile, like it could shatter at any moment.
“We’re not done,” Noah says as we reach our cars. “I’ll keep working on this from my end. You do the same.”
I nod, though exhaustion tugs at every fiber of my being. “Be careful.”
He studies me for a moment, his expression unreadable. “You too.”
Back at my grandmother’s house, the familiar creak of the porch steps feels both comforting and ominous. The shadowed edges of the yard seem darker than usual, and the feeling of being watched prickles at the back of my neck.
As I step inside and lock the door, I force myself to breathe, but the unease doesn’t leave. I glance toward the table where the day’s findings are spread out, each piece of paper a reminder of how far this fight has come—and how far it still has to go.
I don’t know what Reyes wants, but I know one thing for certain: he won’t stop until he gets it.
And neither will I.
The darkness outside my grandmother’s house feels thicker tonight, almost alive, pressing against the windows as I sit at the kitchen table. The documents spread before me are a mess of damning evidence and unanswered questions. Each piece connects to the larger picture, but the edges refuse to align.
Noah’s words echo in my head: “Reyes doesn’t let things go unless he gets something in return.”
I glance at the note in my grandmother’s handwriting, her plea for forgiveness haunting me. The woman who taught me strength and resilience had faced something far darker than I ever realized. But whatever deal she struck with Reyes wasn’t enough to protect her legacy—or this town—from him.
The creak of the house settling pulls me from my thoughts. I glance at the clock—well past midnight. The stillness of the house is oppressive, the kind of silence that amplifies every small sound.
I rise, heading to the window. The porch light casts a faint glow over the yard, but the shadows beyond seem to shift, as if hiding something just out of reach.
My phone buzzes on the table, the sound startling in the quiet. I grab it, my stomach tightening when I see Noah’s name.
“Hello?” I answer, my voice low.
“Are you at the house?” His tone is sharp, cutting through the haze of my exhaustion.
“Yes,” I reply, my heart racing. “Why?”
“I just left the archives,” he says. “The alarm was tripped after we left. Someone went in after us.”
The words hit like a slap. “What? Who?”
“I don’t know,” Noah says, his voice tight. “But whoever it was, they knew what they were looking for. The binders we left out were gone.”
A cold chill snakes down my spine. The idea of someone rifling through the archives after us—taking the very evidence we uncovered—is almost too much to process.
“I think you’re being watched, Lena,” Noah adds, his tone softer now but no less serious. “You need to be careful. Lock the doors. Don’t open them for anyone.”
I glance at the window again, the darkness outside suddenly suffocating. “You think they’re coming here?”
“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I’m not taking any chances. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Noah, you don’t—”
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone, a mix of irritation and relief swirling in my chest. Typical Noah—making decisions without giving me a chance to argue.
But as much as I hate to admit it, the thought of him coming over is a comfort.
The minutes crawl by, each one stretching longer than the last. I check the locks on the doors and windows, my movements brisk and efficient, the rhythmic action helping to steady my nerves, even as unease prickles at the edges of my skin. But no matter how much I try to stay focused, my mind keeps drifting back to him. Noah. The memory of his presence, the way his body moved with such quiet intensity, fills my thoughts in a way I can’t ignore.
The knock on the door is sharp, deliberate, and my heart skips a beat. Every muscle in my body tightens in response.
“It’s me,” Noah calls, his voice muffled but unmistakable, sending a rush of relief flooding through me.
I exhale, my shoulders sagging with the weight of it, as I unlock the door and let him in. The moment he steps inside, I’m struck by the energy that surrounds him, the undeniable pull of his presence. His sharp blue eyes scan the room with the precision of someone assessing a battlefield—intense, calculating, like he’s already figuring out his next move.
“Everything okay?” he asks, his gaze settling on me, and I can feel the heat of it, burning through the space between us. I try not to notice the way his shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, the subtle flex of his biceps when he shifts his weight, or the way his jaw tightens with the hint of frustration. Everything about him is a magnet, pulling me in even when I try to resist.
I nod, but the tension in my chest doesn’t ease. “For now.”
He sets a leather bag on the table, the contents rattling faintly as he unzips it. I can’t help but notice how his body moves with effortless strength as he pulls out the files, the laptop, the small recorder. I force my focus back on the task at hand, but every shift, every subtle movement of his body, feels like it’s searing into me, keeping me on edge.
“What’s all this?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest, trying to shield myself from the heat I feel rising in me.
“Tools,” he says simply, his voice low, and it wraps around me like a physical presence. “If someone’s trying to cover their tracks, we need to work fast. The longer we wait, the harder it’ll be to get ahead of them.”
The way he says "we" hits me harder than it should, like the word itself carries something else—something that feels too intimate. I don’t argue, though. The stakes are too high for pride, too high for anything other than what needs to be done. But still, the way his voice vibrates in the air between us leaves my body tingling, and I can’t shake the pull to get closer, to feel the heat of him again.
He pulls out the ledger we found at the archives, his focus laser-sharp as he flips through the pages, his jaw set, his body poised with determination. Every movement feels purposeful, and I can’t help but trace the lines of his body in my peripheral vision—how the muscles in his forearms flex as he flips the pages, how his posture makes him seem even more commanding, more... magnetic.
“The shipments,” he mutters, barely lifting his eyes from the page. “We need to map out the distribution points.”
I grab a notepad from the counter and sit across from him, my pulse racing as I feel the space between us shrinking with every breath. “We already know they coincide with the funding timeline. What else are you looking for?”
“Patterns,” he says, his tone clipped, and something in it makes my chest tighten. “Anomalies. Anything that doesn’t fit.”
I jot down dates, locations, descriptions, my handwriting growing sloppier as the hours drag on, but all I can think about is the way his body fills the space in front of me, how close he is, how his steady presence makes everything feel more intense. The heat from his body reaches across the table, suffusing the air between us, and every time he moves or shifts, I feel it like an electric charge, making it harder to focus.
“This one,” Noah says, pointing to an entry. His finger hovers over the page, but I can’t stop my eyes from following the way his hand looks on the paper, the vein that snakes up his wrist, the way the muscle in his forearm tenses. “It’s different from the others.”
I lean over, my breath hitching in my throat as I look at the entry. The shipment is marked “Special Cargo,” but the destination is a private address, not a distribution hub like the others. The sudden shift in my focus has me feeling the weight of his proximity even more, the scent of him filling my senses.
“Why would Reyes send something directly to a private residence?” I ask, frowning, but my voice is laced with something else, something I can’t explain.
“Because it’s important,” Noah replies, his voice low and grim, and the tension in his words only adds to the heaviness in the air. “And because whoever lives there is someone he trusts.”
My mind races, but my body—my body is still acutely aware of him, of how his warmth wraps around me, how close he is, how desperately I want to close the distance between us.
The address is burned into my mind as we finish cataloging the rest of the entries. By the time we’re done, the first light of dawn is breaking over the horizon, casting a pale glow through the windows.
Noah leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. “We need to check out that address.”
“Are you serious?” I ask, my exhaustion making me sharper than I intend. “We can’t just show up at someone’s house and start asking questions.”
“No, but we can watch,” he counters. “If something’s being moved, we’ll see it. And if we’re lucky, we’ll get the proof we need.”
The idea of staking out a stranger’s house feels absurd, but the conviction in Noah’s voice leaves little room for argument.
“Fine,” I say, standing and stretching the stiffness from my limbs. “But if we’re doing this, we’re doing it my way.”
His lips twitch in what might be a smirk. “Wouldn’t dream of doing it any other way.”
The house at the address is unassuming—modest, with a neatly trimmed lawn and a white picket fence that screams normalcy. But the black SUV parked out front tells a different story.
Noah and I sit in his car, parked a safe distance down the street. The tinted windows give us cover, but I still feel exposed, like the shadows are watching us as closely as we’re watching the house.
“Do you recognize the car?” I ask, my voice low.
Noah shakes his head. “No plates. Probably a rental.”
We wait in tense silence, the hours stretching out as the sun climbs higher in the sky. The street remains quiet, the only movement the occasional neighbor walking their dog or a car passing by.
“This feels pointless,” I mutter, shifting in my seat.
Noah doesn’t respond right away, his sharp gaze locked on the house. “Patience,” he says finally. “They’ll slip up eventually.”
The slip-up comes in the form of a man in a suit—tall, broad-shouldered, and radiating authority. He steps out of the house, his movements brisk as he climbs into the SUV.
“That’s him,” Noah says, his voice tight.
“Who?” I ask, leaning forward.
“Michael Reyes,” Noah replies.
The name sends a chill down my spine.
We watch as the SUV pulls away, Noah starting the car in one fluid motion.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my pulse spiking.
“Following him,” he says simply.
My protests die in my throat as I watch the SUV disappear down the road. Whatever Reyes is planning, we’re closer to uncovering it than ever before.
And I’m not about to let him slip away.