Chapter Eight
Fiona
It’s nearly midnight when my screen flickers, and I take it as a sign to finally go to bed.
I slump back in my chair and bite back a yawn, my tired eyes moving to glance at the clock in the right corner of the monitor.
It's late, really late. Usually, I don’t mind staying up late to work, but tonight, I’ve really pushed it, wrestling with this code all night, chasing a phantom bug that seems to vanish every time I get close.
Normally, with an issue like this, I would call or text Raziel for some advice, but we're not exactly on speaking terms.
We probably never will.
I curse as my thoughts start to shift to the man who broke my heart. Damn it, I was doing so well, and this is yet another clue to finally go to bed. My brain already feels like scrambled eggs after the day I've had, and my eyelids are heavy. Sleep, yes, that's what I need.
I reach for the mouse, intending to log off, when the screen flickers again, a momentary glitch of light and shadow.
For a split second, the display warps, the colors bleeding into each other, like a watercolor painting caught in the rain.
I blink, rub my eyes, and for a fleeting instant, I think I imagined it. Again?
Wait, no. I didn't imagine it the first time either.
I blink at my screen, trying to figure out if it's my computer that's broken or if, in this case, it's my brain. I wouldn't rule out the latter. I've already pushed myself too much today.
“Alright, Fiona, let's just shut down, and we'll deal with it tomorrow.”
But then, the screen flickers again, and this time, there's no mistaking it.
The icons on my desktop begin to shift and rearrange themselves, as if a mischievous hand is playing with them.
A shiver runs down my spine. The hum of the lights seems to intensify, morphing into a low, ominous thrum.
My heart rate quickens, a frantic drum against my ribs.
I lean forward, my gaze fixed on the screen, a sense of unease bubbling in my stomach.
This isn't a power surge or a software error.
And then it all stops...
What the hell!
I watch, dumbfounded, as the cursor, which moments ago was obediently following my commands, begins to move on its own, a tiny, erratic dance across the screen.
My breath hitches in my throat. The screen flickers again, and a new window pops up, displaying a series of unfamiliar commands.
Finally, realization dawns. This is a remote access session. Someone is in my system.
Damn it. Damn it.
Usually, I would have realized what's happening from the first screen flicker, but my brain is more fried than usual. Slowly, I feel my shock transform into irritation. Someone just got into my system. So blatantly. The audacity of it annoys me.
Adrenaline surges through me, snapping me into focus.
I reach for the task manager, determined to shut down the rogue process, but the system is locked.
I try the network monitor, hoping to trace the intruder's IP address, but the connection logs have already been wiped. The hacker is good, damn good.
But I'm better.
Suddenly, I remember a backdoor I implemented years ago, a hidden command sequence that should sever the connection.
With trembling fingers, I type the sequence, the familiar characters that should put an end to this game.
The screen goes black for a moment, and then a small text box appears, displaying a single line: “Input key.”
I want to scream, cry, and swipe everything off my desk in a fit of rage.
It failed.
I wasn't supposed to fail!
How dare he lock me out of my own computer? I glare at the screen, livid when it flickers again, and a message appears in a small text box.
“I'll give you the key. If you give me five minutes of your time – R.”
I stare at my computer, completely flabbergasted by the sheer shamelessness of the man to hack into my device and lock me out. It's an insult, the biggest insult to a hacker. So what if he has years and years of experience on me—it gives him no right to do this.
Oh, he wants five minutes?
Fine!
He'll be lucky to have hands left when I'm through with him!
I push back my chair and get up, grabbing my phone and storming out of my apartment.
I don't care that the city is sleeping, I'll show him.
I start to call for an Uber as I head downstairs, but there's a car already waiting outside for me.
I recognise the driver as someone who works for the Rossis, and I try not to be touched that he'd send a car for me so late.
Damn him. He has no right to play with my heart like this.
I spend the ride to his place, seething. Picturing all the ways I'm going to hurt him. I vow to find a way to get into that computer he has systems guarding like it holds secrets to the universe.
I'm practically vibrating when the driver pulls up in front of a large building, intimidating in its structure. No one stops me, and I glide easily to the elevators, getting immediate access to a space that normally wouldn't be so easy to get through.
I pace in the elevator, and when it opens on the top floor, I already have a play-by-play plan for what I'm going to do to Lorenzo.
He's waiting outside his door, and one look at that ridiculously handsome face and I forget how to breathe.
Damn him.
“You came,” he says with a grin, but his eyes take me in with such hunger that I feel my body thrum with need. No, I refuse to be aroused by this man. Not that I have much of a choice. He's taken control of my own body, the same as he did my computer.
“The key, Lorenzo. Before I break your legs.”
He chuckles, but not in a mocking way. I mean, I couldn't beat him even in my dreams, but the way I feel, I probably could land a punch if I time it well. And the way he’s looking at me, he’d probably let me.
“Five minutes,” he says, nodding to the open door. “I just need five minutes, Fiona. And if you hear me out and you're still not convinced, then I won't just give you the key. I'll give you full unrestricted access to my entire system, including all data, credentials, and control.”
I gasp, my eyes going wide in shock. No one, especially not someone like Raziel, would be reckless enough to do something so crazy. He would essentially be handing me the keys to ruin his life. The keys to twenty-five years of his work.
“You don't mean that,” I whisper.
I don't move when he takes my hand. “I do,” he says. “That's how much I'm willing to risk to get you back, Fiona.”
“Two minutes,” I say, a little dazed, and I let him pull me into his apartment. His words leave me too shocked to react much as he takes me to his office. The sight of his computer running should piss me off, but I'm still stuck on his promise. He inputs a few commands, and it stops.
“Natalie is Estella's niece,” he starts, his hand still gripping mine before I can tug it away.
“My stepmother has been wanting us to meet for months, and my father—wanting to make Estella happy—pressured me into the lunch.
I felt like I couldn't refuse without insulting her, and I didn't want to cause tension in the family.” He pauses.
“But I went with every intention of telling Natalie I was already with someone. I was going to explain and apologize for wasting her time.”
I turn away, trying to tug my hand from his, but it's a firm grip. “You could be lying to me,” I say, my heart aching, afraid to believe this man. “How do I know you're really telling the truth and not just making up a story?”
“Because Natalie is also in a relationship.”
My head whips back to his. “What?”
“The second I sat down, I told her I was involved with someone. And she looked relieved.” He pulls out his phone, tapping on it.
“Turns out, she’s in love with someone else too—a woman.
But she wasn’t ready to come out to her family yet, so she’d been going along with these setups to keep the peace. ”
He turns the phone toward me. It’s a photo of Natalie at the same restaurant—but now she’s sitting across from another woman, their hands intertwined on the table, both of them smiling.
“I told her to call her girlfriend and invite her to take my place. I paid for their meal and left.” He swipes to another image—a text message from Natalie with a heart emoji: Thank you for understanding. You gave me the push I needed. Good luck with your girl.
“That’s why she kissed my cheek,” he says quietly. “She was thanking me.”
“Dating?” I ask, my eyes widening in surprise. “They’re dating?”
“Yes,” he says, his grip loosening, and I feel his fingers caress my wrist. “She was afraid to come out to her family, so she let them set all these blind dates for her, but when I told her about you, she sent me this picture. She's as interested in me as I am in her, which is…not at all.”
“Oh,” I deflate.
“You sound disappointed,” he laughs.
“I am,” I say, kicking his desk. “I had all this pent-up rage and now I don't know what to do with it.”
Lorenzo moves closer, his finger brushing hair off my face. So tender. Gentle—it makes my heart ache with affection. “Does this mean I'm forgiven?”
“There's nothing to forgive. It's my own fault for jumping to conclusions.”
“Still, it wouldn't have come to this if I'd told everyone about us.” I shiver when he traces a hand down my cheek.
“They all know not to set me up with anyone now.
You're all I want, Fiona O'Shea. The only woman who's ever made me feel this way.
It's my fault for making you doubt that even for a second, but I need you to know now that there's no one else. There never will be.”
“What are you saying?”
He smiles, leaning forward and brushing his lips softly over mine. “That I love you. I'm in love with you.”
“I… Raziel…” I gasp when he scoops me off my feet and lays me on his desk, his eyes filling with heat.
“Fuck, baby, you know how I get when you call me that.”