Chapter 8
J ust as the server sets a glass of sparkling water with lime in front of me, Silas walks into the upscale Indian restaurant two blocks from his office. He doesn’t notice me as the hostess leads him to a table a few yards away. I straighten in my seat, forcing my attention back to my laptop screen.
While Davey might have Silas’s corporate calendars locked down tight, he probably doesn’t realize Leslie, Silas’s assistant, has a glaring blind spot. Like a lot of support staff, Leslie takes shortcuts. Instead of relying solely on Silas’s secured company calendar, she mirrors most of his daily events onto her personal one. My guess is that the multifactor authentication slows her down when she’s juggling meetings or making last-minute changes. So, her “solution” is to update her personal calendar first and sync it to the company system later.
It took me less than ten minutes to breach her account. Once inside, I installed a persistent malware payload for ongoing access that’s virtually undetectable.
Unfortunately for Silas, Leslie’s shortcuts make her the weakest link in his meticulously guarded world. And fortunately for me, her lapse in judgment has given me a constant stream of updates about his work schedule, including today’s one o’clock lunch with his Director of Production.
Silas’s calendar events aren’t what I’d expect. His lunch meetings are always booked with reservations set for thirty minutes before the actual meeting time, presumably so he can prepare. He’s obsessively punctual, which is surprising for someone who’s been handed everything on a platinum platter since day one.
After securing Leslie’s account, I dug deeper, scanning her connected cloud storage and synced email accounts. It’s mostly mundane: personal photos, irrelevant emails, and a handful of company documents that definitely shouldn’t have been saved in her private files. Nothing earth-shattering, but I didn’t stop there. I set up a crawler to comb her accounts for flagged keywords and tags Peter specifically instructed me to search for in Wells Corporation’s cloud. The program runs weekly, silently monitoring any new uploads or updates.
So far, nothing substantial has surfaced. For now, the crawler hums along in the background, minimized in the corner of my laptop screen. It tracks and processes files with clinical precision, flagging anything remotely relevant.
While the program does its work, I shift focus back to my other tasks. By the time I’m done here, it’ll have cycled through her entire account.
My gaze drifts back to the future CEO as he smiles politely at the hostess, his expression professional but approachable. He chooses a seat with a clear view of the front door, which also puts my table directly in his line of sight.
Perfect.
He places his briefcase neatly against the leg of his chair. I reach for the naan bread in the basket beside me, tearing off a piece and dipping it into the green chutney.
While he’s sufficiently distracted, I allow myself to study him. He unbuttons his tailored suit jacket with practiced ease, smoothing a hand down the crisp fabric of his shirt and adjusting his tie. I’d half convinced myself that maybe I’d exaggerated his looks in my memory, but seeing him now only solidifies the fact that Silas Wells is unfairly attractive. The bastard even looks good under the overexposed restaurant lights.
Beneath his neatly trimmed stubble is a jawline that could have been carved from stone. His thick-framed glasses add a level of sophistication that almost feels criminal, and there’s nothing awkward about his height. While some men his size come off lanky or uncoordinated, Silas exudes power and control. Broad shoulders and lean muscle fill out his perfectly tailored shirt, and every movement is infused with the kind of confidence that only comes from knowing you’re at the top of the food chain.
As breathtaking as he is, the thought of trailing this asshole around more than I already have irritates me. But it’s necessary. I’m trying to piece together his routines, understand the rhythm of his life. I can’t waltz into his office for a second time, so I have to watch him from the outside. Observe where he goes and whether it leads me closer to the information I need. Until now, I’ve done this unnoticed, keeping myself safely out of his awareness. But not today. Today, I want him to see me.
“Ma’am? Are you ready to order?”
I jolt, startled, and look up to find a waiter standing at my side, his notepad poised. My pulse quickens as I scramble to cover my slip, forcing a smile. I nod and point to my favorite vegetarian dish, rattling off the order. He acknowledges me with a polite nod and heads toward the back of the restaurant.
As I exhale, trying to steady my nerves, a strange sensation prickles at the back of my neck and the hairs on my arm rise in warning. Slowly, I glance up and find Silas’s dark, penetrating eyes lock onto mine from across the room, holding me in place.
The corners of his mouth twitch upward, hinting at a smirk equal parts infuriating and dangerously charming. My breath catches for a fraction of a second and with all the nonchalance I can muster, I nod in his direction before returning to my laptop screen. My skin burns where his gaze lingers.
Exactly as I hoped.
The gesture seems to be invitation enough. Silas approaches my table with long, self-assured strides, his polished leather shoes barely making a sound on the restaurant’s tiled floor. As he stops across from me, I discreetly dim my computer’s brightness with a few quick keystrokes, pretending to focus on the page in front of me.
“Ms. Page,” he begins in that vexing gravelly voice, one hand resting on the back of the chair in front of him, long fingers curling over its edge. “Twice in one week? If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were following me.”
Gone is the more subtle, professional man I encountered in his office last week. The Silas standing in front of me now is sharper, bolder and, somehow, more exasperating.
“Careful,” I reply, my voice dripping with saccharine sweetness. “Your neck might snap carrying the weight of your giant head.” I rest my chin in my palm, elbow propped on the table, and flash him a practiced smile. My pulse flutters faintly beneath the finger pressed near my jaw, but I keep my tone even. “Have you ever had the Malai Kofta here? It’s my favorite.”
His smile widens, unapologetically amused. “Client meeting?” he asks, pointedly ignoring my question.
“No,” I reply with ease, leaning back slightly. “Sometimes I like a change of scenery.”
Without asking, he pulls the chair out and sinks into it, resting his elbows on the table and steepling his fingers in front of him. His espresso eyes gleam with something almost predatory, and he tilts his head just enough to give me the distinct impression I’m being sized up. “How’s the view?” he asks, his voice low and teasing.
I huff out a laugh, rolling my eyes. “Getting worse by the second,” I say dryly, opening a new browser tab in an attempt to look busy. There’s something about this man who makes my brain short-circuit and my filter vanish. My usual charm has always been my greatest strength, but with him, my snarky attitude continues to slip through. A trait that most men have never found particularly appealing.
The worst part? He isn’t the least bit deterred by it. His shoulders shake as he chuckles, his glasses sliding slightly down the bridge of his nose. He pushes them back up with one finger before fixing his gaze on me again.
“What types of clients do you work with?” he asks, his tone deceptively casual.
“That’s confidential,” I respond, meeting his eyes without hesitation.
“A woman of honor,” he muses, his lips twitching into a small smirk.
“Spare me the fake flattery,” I counter, though my voice is light.
“How long have you been in security?” he presses.
“A decade,” I answer. The truth is a small reprieve from the web of lies I’ve been spinning.
“Ten years, huh? That makes you, what? Thirty-two?”
I arch an eyebrow, refusing to let him bait me. “Let’s not pretend like Davey hasn’t already looked into me. I’m thirty.”
He leans back in his chair, fingers splayed across the table. “And scooped up by a Fortune 1000 company before you even finished school. That’s really impressive,” he says, repeating the fabricated story Davey undoubtedly unearthed in my carefully crafted background.
“What's really impressive is how you can make a compliment sound condescending,” I shoot back, my voice sharp despite the smile I wear.
His posture shifts slightly, his playful expression giving way to something more sincere. “Do I sound condescending?” he asks, his tone almost thoughtful. “I’m being genuine. You’re clearly very talented.”
His words catch me off guard, and for the briefest of moments, I don’t know how to respond. The sharp edges in his voice have softened, leaving behind a tone that almost sounds like respect. It’s unnerving.
I pause, studying him for a moment before giving a brief nod in thanks. I may not be Scarlett Page, but her strengths and mine are one and the same. It’s one of the few things I’m genuinely proud of, even if the circumstances of my life have twisted that pride into something bitter and sharp.
“So,” Silas continues, his tongue brushing along the edge of his teeth in a way that feels frustratingly calculated. “Your turn to give me the third degree.” His eyes lift to meet mine, but I’m a fraction too late to look away from his mouth. His grin deepens, smug and knowing, as if he’s caught me in the act of something I shouldn’t have been doing. My breath falters, but I quickly recover, raising an unimpressed brow.
“I already know everything I need to know about you,” I say deadpan, crossing one leg over the other.
“Ah, so you’ve looked into me,” he says, feigning surprise, though the slight smile betrays his amusement.
“I didn’t say that,” I reply, my own smirk tugging at the corners of my lips. A sharp, precise expression meant to bait him. “I’ve gathered plenty from the few times we’ve met. Enough, at least.”
He clutches a hand to his chest like I’ve wounded him. “Ouch.”
I roll my eyes and shift my focus back to the laptop, tapping a few keys to pull up the minimized browser tab running Leslie’s account scan. Once again, nothing. Clean. Empty. The same result I’ve gotten for weeks.
Frustration churns beneath the surface as I stare at the results. Aside from a cluster of encrypted files on Wells server—an anomaly but not unusual for a company of this size—there’s nothing. No signs of illegal activity, no breadcrumbs leading to whatever Peter is so eager to uncover. Silas is arrogant and insufferable, but he doesn’t fit the mold of the targets I’ve gone after in the past. If anything, he’s too polished and calculated.
Unable to stop myself, I decide to tug the tiger’s tail. “Did you get stood up on a date?”
Silas doesn’t miss a beat. He glances at his watch, revealing a sliver of the tattoo on his wrist beneath his tailored cuff. “My lunch meeting doesn’t start for another seventeen minutes,” he says casually.
“Anything interesting to discuss?” I press, dipping a piece of naan into the chutney and popping it into my mouth. He drums his fingers against the table, each tap as deliberate as his words.
“It’s confidential,” he says, his voice layered with mockery.
“Touché,” I reply with a laugh, breaking off another piece of naan. Silas watches the movement, his gaze lingering on my lips with an intensity that heats my cheeks, betraying me despite my best efforts to stay composed.
Silas’s expression shifts, his features relaxing while he looks at me with an air of quiet curiosity. It’s not malicious or calculating, just...studying, as though he’s trying to piece something together.
“Natalie seems to really like you,” he says suddenly, his voice softer, yet still probing.
The statement lodges somewhere deep in my chest. For someone who’s been burned more times than she can count, Natalie’s willingness to let me in feels undeserved, and the realization stings. I clear my throat and reach for my drink to buy time.
“Good,” I say finally, my voice steadier than I feel. At least this isn’t a lie. “I really like her too.”
Silas opens his mouth as though to respond, but the waiter arrives with my food, carefully setting the plate on the already crowded table. I thank him and move to shut down my laptop, sliding it into the leather slot of my bag near my feet. When I look up, I freeze.
My fork is in Silas’s mouth, and half of one of the fried potato balls from my dish is gone.
For a moment, I can only stare. My mind trips over itself, the simmering guilt from earlier evaporating under the molten heat of outrage that spreads through me like wildfire. He doesn’t flinch under my glare; if anything, he looks pleased with himself and my reaction, licking the fork with an exaggerated slowness that makes my blood boil.
“You’re right,” he says, his voice dropping low and rough, like we’re sharing a secret. “The Malai Kofta is delicious.”
Before I can form a coherent thought, he sets the fork down with deliberate care on the napkin next to the dish, winks, and rises from his seat with the ease of someone who knows exactly how much he’s riled me up.
“Enjoy your meal,” he tosses over his shoulder as he walks back to his table.
My fingers curl into fists at my sides as I watch him sit down, adjust his glasses, and pull a stack of files from his briefcase like nothing happened. The upward tilt of his mouth makes me want to throw my drink at him, but I resist, though just barely.
I know exactly what this is. Silas is testing me, pressing at my edges to see if I’ll crack, pushing just far enough to watch me bend but not break. Maybe he enjoys pushing boundaries, seeing how far people will go before they snap.
But that’s not it, not entirely.
Women fall at his feet. I don’t. And that bothers him. This isn’t about my food—it’s about control. About the fact that I refuse to give him the reactions he’s used to.
I take a deep breath, counting to ten as I stare at my meal. But the anger refuses to dissipate. Even as I force myself to focus on eating after purposefully asking for a new fork, I can feel the air between us crackling with unspoken challenge.
When the bill comes, I reach for my wallet, only for the waiter to shake his head. “It’s already been taken care of,” he says, tilting his chin toward Silas’s table.
I don’t react. Not a thank you, not a protest—nothing. I simply gather my things, push my chair in, and walk out the door. I don’t look in his direction. Not when I’m told, not when I stand, not even as I leave.
But I feel him watching me the entire way out.