Half-Truths (The Veiled Truths Trilogy #1)

Chapter 1

I ’ ve never wanted to use the small knife sewn into the inside of my handbag more than I do right now.

“So, how does a woman like you end up working in cybersecurity?” Charles Goodfield, a banker with an inflated ego, asks me. An oily smile clings to the wrinkles around his mouth as he sips his whiskey, eyes fixed on me over the edge of his glass.

Charles had planted himself beside me a few minutes ago, cutting off my view of the ballroom from my corner perch at the bar. At first, I tolerated his polite small talk, but within six questions, he’d steered our conversation from friendly to flirty. This man, old enough to be my father, has nothing to offer me other than a headache.

I sigh, tracing the rim of my cocktail glass with my finger. For the better part of a month, I’ve been enduring these pretentious fundraisers, and all I’ve gained are the unrelenting attention of wealthy, near-geriatric men like Charles. I think back to the message Peter sent me before walking into this event:

Peter: What use are you if you can’t get me what I need?

Clenching my teeth, I summon the last of my patience and signal the bartender with a polite smile. He approaches with a shaker in hand and leans in to take my order. As he moves away to prepare my drink, I smooth the front of my black velvet dress, forcing myself to look back at Charles.

“Protecting people from unwanted intrusions comes naturally to me,” I reply, my smile all teeth.

He’s either too confident or too stupid—likely both—because his eyes light up as though I’ve presented him with a challenge. He runs a hand through his full head of white hair.

“I bet it does.” His voice drops an octave, and it makes my skin crawl.

Using the knife in my handbag is feeling more likely by the second.

“It pays the bills,” I respond, my tone deliberately flat as my gaze wanders over the ballroom. Guests mingle around us in tuxedos and designer gowns, champagne flutes sparkling in their hands. A jazz band plays in the corner, their perfectly timed notes carrying through the space like a gentle caress.

The tables, adorned with black-and-white elegance, sit before towering windows that frame Chicago’s Magnificent Mile. Even under the cover of night, the city’s lights illuminate snow-dusted rooftops and bustling streets below.

“Speaking of who pays the bills,” Charles says, his tone turning smug, “I don’t see a ring on any of those pretty fingers.”

Ah, there it is.

Before I can unleash a retort sharp enough to give the old man a heart attack, a woman in a navy satin dress strides to the bar behind him. Her dress clings in all the right places, and her hazel eyes meet mine with a question only women ask each other in such situations: Are you okay?

I press my lips together, silently counting to three.

Breathe. I’m Scarlett Page, and Scarlett doesn’t stab pompous men with handbag knives.

Exhaling slowly, I focus on Charles again. “I’m not married. Maybe you know someone who might be a good match for me? Perhaps a friend of the son you were telling me about?” I ask, tightening my grip on my glass.

Charles, oblivious to the woman behind him, waves my comment away. She orders a drink, her weight shifting subtly in our direction as she listens.

“You’d eat those young boys alive,” Charles says, his grin widening. “You need someone with more experience.”

The bartender returns with my drink, and I exchange my empty glass for the fresh one with a nod of thanks. Turning back to Charles, I feign confusion, pulling my chestnut, wavy hair over one shoulder.

“Do you have a friend, then? Or maybe a friend of your wife?”

I want him to flinch, to squirm, to show even a glimmer of guilt. But there’s nothing. Not a shred of shame behind his calculating brown eyes. He doesn’t even hesitate to brush off the woman he’d so proudly claimed to have just celebrated forty-two years of marriage with.

Heat thrums in my chest, but I keep my expression neutral.

He slinks closer, his movements clunky and forced. “Not quite. I was thinking—” he starts, but the woman behind him interrupts, stepping forward with a practiced air of nonchalance.

“Charles,” she exclaims, her voice dripping with exaggerated warmth. The man stiffens, his complexion paling as he turns to face her. “Lovely to see you. I was just talking to Nora. She was telling me how wonderful your holiday in Greece was.”

“Natalie,” Charles replies, his voice gruff as he sets his whiskey on the counter. He ignores her remark about Greece entirely. “You look well.”

“I am. Nora’s looking for you, by the way. You’ll find her in the hallway with Felicity and the others.” She places a manicured hand on his shoulder, leaning in conspiratorially. “You know how she hates it when you wander too far.” Her tone sharpens subtly, hazel eyes turning cold as they lock onto his.

I take a long sip of my drink, suppressing a smirk.

Charles glances between us, his strained smile faltering. “Of course. I hope you ladies enjoy the evening.” He pivots stiffly and retreats toward the hallway, shoulders sagging with every step. As soon as he’s out of earshot, Natalie scoffs.

“The nerve of these men,” she mutters, her eyes flicking to mine. “Are you okay? Unfortunately, this isn’t the first time I’ve seen Charles try his luck.”

I don’t need to research Natalie Sinclair to know who she is, but I have. Extensively. The thirty-one-year-old middle child of William Wells, one of three heirs to a billion-dollar pharmaceutical empire. She bears the family’s hallmarks: sharp features, olive skin, and a smattering of freckles across her nose. But there’s a softness in her expression that sets her apart from her brothers.

“It seems married men around here share Charles’s mindset,” I reply, frowning. “But you’re the first woman to step in, so thank you.”

She nods, her jaw tightening. A brilliant yellow diamond glints on her ring finger as she raises her glass. “Most of these wives prefer to blame anyone but their husbands for their wanderings eyes,” she whispers before clearing her throat. “Not that you looked like you needed help, but I can’t seem to keep my opinions to myself.”

“Sounds like we’re two sides of the same coin.” I smile, extending my hand. “Scarlett Page.” The fake name slides off my tongue almost too easily.

Her grip is firm, but not unkind. “Natalie Sinclair. It’s a pleasure.”

“I knew you looked familiar,” I lie smoothly. “Kimberly Glines pointed you out to me at her luncheon last month. She spoke very highly of you.”

Natalie’s cheeks flush. “Kimberly is too kind,” she says dismissively. “Are you new to the area?”

“Just moved here from Philadelphia.”

“How are you finding it?”

“The city’s wonderful. I thought these events would help me network, but it’s been… a mixed bag.”

She chuckles. “Tell me about it. I’ve spent half the night dodging questions about when I’ll have children.”

Over her shoulder, a tall, auburn-haired man in a sharp tux watches us from several yards away. His eyes are sharp and calculating, a stark contrast to Natalie’s warmth. I’ve studied his dossier as carefully as hers: Davey Sinclair, her husband and Wells Corporation’s Director of Security.

Natalie, for her part, has distanced herself from the family business, preferring charity work and art initiatives over the corporate empire. Davey’s fierce protectiveness over her, combined with her lack of involvement, made Natalie seem like a dead-end for my goals. But after weeks of making little progress, her unexpected approach feels like a potential opening I can’t afford to ignore.

I turn my attention back to the Wells daughter. “Kimberly mentioned you’re hosting an art exhibit soon?”

Her face brightens. “Yes! It’s to raise tuition funds for local art students.”

Reaching into my handbag, I pull out a business card. My fingers brush the hidden knife’s hilt—a stark reminder of the evening’s frustrations. “I’d love to attend. Supporting the arts is close to my heart.”

Natalie’s eyes widen slightly, her expression softening. “That’s very kind of you. I’ll have my assistant send you the details.”

“Thank you.” I smile, glancing at the clock above the bar. Two minutes until dinner begins. “I won’t keep you any longer. Thank you again for stepping in.”

“Of course. You’ll hear from me soon.”

As she moves toward Davey, I weave through the crowd to my assigned table. The place settings are lavish, and the dinner menu is written in elaborate calligraphy. Settling into my seat, I pull out my phone and type a message to Peter.

Me: Contact established.