Chapter 2
“L ook what the cat dragged in.” Harrison’s voice cuts through the hum of the coffee shop, sharp and unwelcome. My grip around the mug I’ve been holding tightens.
The last man I wanted to see slaps a manila envelope onto the table as he drops into the seat across from me, throwing one arm lazily over the back of his chair. “Haven’t seen your pretty face in a while. What name are you going by now? Scarlett, right?”
“Where’s Peter?” I ask, ignoring his question. Harrison looks exactly as he always does: unkempt and careless. His winter coat is creased, his dress shirt untucked, and the hems of his jeans are frayed. Dark blond hair falls messily over his forehead, his cheeks flushed pink—like he’s just sprinted through the icy streets of Chicago.
Harrison is Peter’s errand boy, though he likes to think of himself as second-in-command. In my head, I call him Peter’s bitch.
“Clarissa’s causing trouble in New York,” he says, peering suspiciously into the coffee cup in before him. “Peter’s dealing with it. This black?”
I nod, gesturing to the sugar and cream at the edge of the table. “What kind of trouble?”
He pauses, lifting his eyes to meet mine, and his usual smirk fades. Something darker, sharper, flickers there. “The kind you’re familiar with.”
My stomach lurches. I glance at the scratched, laminated menu beneath my coffee cup, focusing on the small imperfections in the plastic. The memories from five years ago come in bursts, but I shove them aside.
Peter Lynch has been my handler for over a decade, though it’s just a polite term for what he really is: a puppet master for the ultrarich. He calls what he does “investigative services,” but that’s a crock of shit. What he offers is a menu of both legal and illegal solutions for the top one percent. Anything from digging up dirt to outright sabotage.
When I first joined Peter’s team, I thought I was doing something noble, even if it skirted the edges of legality. As a cyber investigator, I believed I was helping people; tracking down predators, exposing criminals, and delivering a twisted kind of justice for those who couldn’t get it through official channels. The first year felt rewarding. Corrupt businessmen were taken down, stolen assets recovered, and abusive partners exposed. I told myself the moral gray area was worth it because the ends justified the means.
But then things changed.
Maybe Peter saw that I was skilled, I didn’t ask many questions, or he was waiting for me to get comfortable. Regardless of the reason, the information he began asking me to uncover never made it to a courtroom or a victim’s hands. Instead, it became leverage. Blackmail. A way to silence people or bend them into submission. Most of the time, these people deserved it, so I was able to write it off in my mind, but the jobs only seemed to get progressive worse. Everything I dug up was slowly weaponized to make Peter’s clients more powerful. With every successful contract, Peter’s network grew stronger and his connections more entrenched.
Now? Peter isn’t just untouchable; he’s terrifying. He’s the guy billionaires go to when they need a scandal buried or an enemy ruined. And he doesn’t just control his clients; he controls everyone around him. Step out of line, and he’ll turn the same methods we use against you. He’s always watching, always calculating, and always one move ahead. If anything, Peter is more dangerous than his clients because once you’re in, there’s seldom a way out.
I just hope he doesn’t kill Clarissa. She’s young, and I like her.
“Anyway,” Harrison says, the edge in his voice disappearing as quickly as it came. He smacks three sugar packets against his palm, tearing them open all at once. “Peter had those extra IDs made.” He slides the oversized envelope towards me.
I don’t touch it. Instead, I glance around the coffee shop. It’s quaint with lime-green walls faded to a muted hue, mismatched mugs on every table, and black-and-white checkered floors that have seen better days. It’s the kind of place people like the Wells family would never step foot in, which is precisely why I chose it. Still, I’m careful.
“When’s Peter back?” I ask, turning back to Harrison.
“Cops are involved, so not anytime soon. I’ll be your point guy for now,” he says, too loudly for my comfort. I blink at him, irritated by his lack of subtlety.
“Natalie Sinclair invited me to an art exhibit next week. I think I can use it to secure an invitation to the Wells’ silent auction,” I say, lowering my voice.
The silent auction is the Wells family’s annual charity event, a cornerstone of their public image, held in either the late winter or early spring. Invitations are notoriously exclusive, as the event is hosted at one of the Wells family’s private estates. This year, the auction is set to take place at the home of the eldest son and Wells Corporation President, Silas Wells.
Silas is something of a mystery. When I first arrived in Chicago, I assumed it would be easy to approach him. The media loves to paint him as a playboy—a perpetual bachelor at the ripe age of thirty-five and always seen with a different woman on his arm. I thought I could charm my way into his orbit, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. Silas rarely attends social events, and when he does, there’s an unspoken rule: no one approaches him unless explicitly invited. He’s as guarded and discerning as his brother-in-law, and his aloofness only heightens his allure.
If I can secure a spot at the auction, I might finally have the chance to strike up a conversation with him. Building rapport with Silas could be the key to gaining access to the Wells family’s inner circle and a crucial step toward completing what Peter sent me here to do.
Harrison snorts. “This is taking too long. You’ve been at it for weeks and have nothing to show for it.”
My jaw tightens. Men like Harrison never think beyond the immediate. And now he’s here out of the blue, trying to throw his weight around. If he interferes, he’ll destroy everything I’ve been building and every bit of progress I’ve made with Peter over the past five years will be gone. I will not start over.
“I’d also love to be done with this,” I agree through clenched teeth, my voice barely audible.
Wells Corporation’s cloud had been my first target on this contract, and it took me over three weeks to breach it, which turned out to be the least of my worries. I expected a Fortune 500 pharmaceutical company to have phenomenal security, but this system is an absolute fortress. The data is fragmented across unrelated directories with vague names, and every file is locked behind encryption so strong it’s useless without the decryption keys. On top of that, the system limited my access to mimic a low-clearance employee, keeping anything truly sensitive unreachable.
Their automated monitors tracked every move I made. Accessing files at odd hours or opening too many at once risks tripping an alarm, so I had to erase my tracks constantly. Peter’s vague instructions to look for “financial discrepancies” or “patient data” only led to dead ends. I sent him fragments, off-the-books payments, encrypted logs, but nothing felt like what he’s really after.
After ten days of searching, all I had to show for my efforts were bloodshot eyes, a pounding headache that felt like a drill to the base of my skull, and Peter breathing down my neck harder than ever. Thousands of files were still unexamined, and Peter didn’t care. He wanted results. When I finally admitted that the company’s cloud wasn’t going to yield whatever he was looking for in the next century, I thought that was the end of it. I’d done my part. I’d gone above and beyond.
I should’ve known better.
Peter loves to dole out any type of punishment, and his favorite for me is yanking me out from behind my keyboard and throwing me into the field, knowing it’s the last place I want to be. So, when I didn’t deliver him the impossible results he asked for, I was on a plane to Chicago. He’s convinced himself that if I get close enough to one of the Wells family members, I’ll be able to gain access to someone’s office that might have the answers.
This sloppy idea isn’t usually Peter’s MO, which tells me he’s pretty desperate for whatever he’s looking for. Normally, he thrives on precision and control, but this? This feels rushed, reckless. More like a Hail Mary than a calculated plan. I don’t have a choice, though. Peter told me to figure it out, and this is me figuring it out, whether I like it or not.
“Then get me results,” Harrison snaps, sinking back into his chair.
I grip my coffee tighter, hunching forward. “Do you think I’m not doing everything I can? Peter won’t let me bring anyone else in to help with the cloud. Getting close to their personal devices is the fastest way.”
Harrison’s shakes his head in disbelief. “He must have lost his mind listening to you.”
Heat rushes through me, white-hot and consuming. For a fleeting moment, I imagine reaching across the table, grabbing him by the back of the head and—
I exhale sharply, forcing the thought away. Harrison isn’t worth it.
“I guess you don’t realize how charming I can be,” I say, baring my teeth in a smile. “I’ll get you answers when I actually have them.”
–
My meeting with Harrison didn’t last much longer. I discreetly reviewed the additional paperwork Peter procured for my fake identity, and after I made sure that all the information matched, I left. I took public transportation to a popular shopping area just a few miles from my apartment and paid in cash, then switched to a ride-share the remainder of the way.
The apartment I stay in at Bucktown is one Peter arranged for me. He handed me the keys and address a month ago, stating that this would be my home for the foreseeable future. The place is meticulously staged, furnished just enough to create the illusion of a well-lived-in space. A facade designed to help me blend into the image of a relatively affluent woman.
It’s a two-bedroom unit in a sleek, high-rise building with a cookie-cutter layout and sterile gray finishes. The design feels cold and almost clinical in its precision. But it’s mine. For the first time in what feels like forever, I have a place to myself. A sliver of autonomy in a life so tightly controlled. Peter may have given it to me for his own reasons, but I intend to savor every moment of the solitude it offers.
I toss my keys onto the entry table and lock the door behind me. Shrugging off my coat and slipping off my shoes, I stow them neatly in the closet before sweeping a quick glance across the living room.
Peter may have given me the illusion of freedom by providing this apartment, but it’s just that: an illusion. In the month since I’ve been here, he’s bugged the place three separate times. It took me only a few hours to locate and disable each device: audio transmitters hidden in the vents, a pinhole camera tucked into the smoke detector, and even a wireless keystroke logger discreetly attached to my workstation.
I wiped all traces clean, rendering the devices useless but leaving them physically intact. I know Peter too well to think this was simply about spying. This was a test—a way to gauge my awareness, my reactions, and whether I’d confront him or handle it quietly. I chose the latter. It seems he’s stopped trying.
For now.
After being out all morning, I’d normally perform a thorough sweep of the apartment but with Peter leaving town in such a rush, I doubt he had time to set up anything new. For now, I head to the bedroom to retrieve my personal phone; the one tied to the real me.
I wipe it regularly and the numbers I truly need are committed to memory. Still, I can’t help but check it. There are no new messages.
With a sigh, I wander to the kitchen and pull open the refrigerator door. As expected, last week’s groceries are nearly gone. I peel back the lid on a container of strawberries, relieved to find they haven’t spoiled yet. After chopping them, I toss them into a bowl and grab a fork before sinking into the couch, phone still in hand.
The television stares back at me from across the room, but I don’t bother turning it on. The news, streaming shows—none of it can silence the ever-present quiet that fills this space. If anything, it only amplifies it, dragging my thoughts back to a time when my old apartment’s TV was always on, playing something inconsequential in the background. Back then, the noise was comforting. Now, it feels foreign.
I open a new message and start typing.
Me: I miss you.
The words linger on the screen, taunting me. My thumb hovers over the send button, but I can’t do it. The number is etched into my memory, deeper than any other, but the futility of the gesture stings. With a sharp exhale, I press backspace until the screen is blank again.
The phone lands on the cushion beside me with a dull thud as a whooshing sound fills my ears, the rhythm of it matching the pounding of my pulse.
Even if I sent the message, it’s not like it’d even reach Drew, anyway.