Chapter 4
S wiveling on my bar stool, I tap my manicured index finger against the smooth, black marble countertop. The sleek, circular bar is a centerpiece of the minimalist art gallery, its black shelving system lined with some of the finest liquors and wines in the world. Soft lighting glows beneath the bottles, casting a subtle warmth that contrasts with the starkness of the venue.
Moments later, the bartender slides a tequila, lime, and soda water toward me. I flash him a smile as he winks, placing a few bills on the counter as a tip.
When I first arrived in Chicago, I never imagined I’d end up at so many of these fundraisers. But they seem to be the only places Silas Wells makes public appearances, especially if it involves his sister. Still, I can’t help but roll my eyes at the extravagance. The money spent hosting these events could do far more good by directly supporting the community. Then again, what do I know?
Across the bar, I spot the man of the hour. Silas stands with his forearms braced against the counter, leaning slightly forward as he waits for his drink. The movement shifts his impeccably tailored dark suit, revealing a hint of ink peeking out from under the sleeve of his black-faced watch, wrapping around his left wrist and disappearing beneath the fabric.
Silas is the eldest of the Wells siblings, the heir apparent to Wells Corporation whenever their father decides to retire. And as if his future power and wealth weren’t enough, he’s devastatingly handsome. His dark curls are slightly longer than what’s typical for men of his social caliber, but they suit him. The black-framed glasses perched on his sharp, angular face somehow enhance the air of mystery he carries.
It’s a fact that the Wells family is undeniably lucky—or unlucky, depending on your perspective—that they’re so attractive. If they weren’t, I might have found a reason to abandon this job weeks ago. At least following them around has some perks.
Setting my glass down on the counter, I reach into my small handbag for my phone. The screen lights up with a text message waiting for me. It’s from Peter.
Peter: Don’t make me regret agreeing to your plan.
I set my jaw and count to ten before replying.
Me: Noted.
To say Peter is unimpressed with my suggested timeline for this job would be the understatement of the year. He practically spat nails when I laid out my multi-month plan. But even he can see there’s no way to infiltrate a family of this status overnight without raising suspicion. That doesn’t mean he’ll stop reminding me he doesn’t like it. Subtlety and patience aren’t his strong suits, and he seems determined to let me know at every opportunity.
By the time I clear the messages and put my phone away, Silas has moved from the bar to his usual group of companions. They’re stationed in their typical half-circle formation, quietly surveying the room while exchanging clipped comments out of the corners of their mouths. Two are members of his security team. Discreet, but always present. Another is Natalie’s husband, Davey, who seems as much a fixture of Silas’s orbit as the others. The remaining three are business associates. Boarding school friends, from what I’ve pieced together, their families nearly as wealthy as his.
They’re all dressed in the kind of tailored suits and understated luxury brands that signal old money. Unlike others in the room, who flaunt loud designer logos plastered across every item they wear, this group doesn’t need to advertise their wealth. It’s evident in their presence.
I’ve made brief attempts to crack into Silas’s inner circle at other events, but none of them have been particularly fruitful. The group shares Silas’s skepticism and preference for keeping outsiders at arm’s length. Originally, I thought Davey would be my best entry point. With his background in tech, I figured we’d connect over our shared professional interests. But I’ve since realized that approach is a mistake. Someone like Davey sees our mutual interest in technology as more than a coincidence; it's a giant red flag.
For now, I watch them from a distance, assessing the group dynamic. Cracking this circle will take finesse, but I’ve already decided it’s worth the effort. Silas may be a recluse, but he’s also the linchpin. If I can find the right way in, the rest will follow, and maybe I can be out of this city before I originally told Peter. Under promise, overdeliver.
I slide out of my seat, holding my glass in one hand while tucking my handbag securely under the other arm. Behind me, a beautiful oil painting of Washington Park catches my eye; a vibrant perspective of the park as if viewed from one of its many benches. After a brief pause to admire it, I let my feet carry me toward the next piece of art, each step inching me closer to where Silas and his entourage linger.
The next canvas stops me in my tracks; a striking black-and-white drawing of a woman caught in a rainstorm. The detail is so hyperrealistic that, for a moment, I’m convinced it’s a photograph.
“This student is one of my favorites,” a soft voice murmurs close to my side. I glance over my shoulder as Natalie steps beside me. She’s dressed in a sleek black business dress, her hair pulled neatly into a bun, and her hands clasped in front of her. Her polished elegance doesn’t overshadow the kindness in her hazel eyes. “Hana Yoo. She’s incredibly talented.”
I turn back to the artwork and smile. “It took me a second to realize it wasn’t a photo. I can’t imagine what it must feel like to create something this lifelike.”
“She’s meticulous to a fault,” Natalie says thoughtfully, her gaze fixed on the piece. “But it works in her favor.”
I nod, letting the silence linger for a moment before Natalie turns to me, her expression shifting slightly. “I wanted to check in and see if things have been… more pleasant for you since last week.”
Her words bring me back to the banker who had practically glued himself to my side. A few nights later, while doing recon at a popular lounge, I noticed something remarkable—no one approached me. Not a single unwanted advance. It hadn’t been my body language that kept them away, after all. It had been this stranger watching my back.
The warmth in my chest grows, a mix of gratitude and an ache I can’t quite name.
“They have been,” I admit, raising an eyebrow at her. “Do I have you to thank for that?”
A playful glint lights up her eyes as she tilts her head slightly. “Potentially.”
I laugh softly. “Well, whatever you did, thank you.”
“No need to thank me,” she replies, shaking her head in exasperation. “There’s no winning with these people sometimes.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I say with a dramatic roll of my eyes. “This is a beautiful event. Did you choose the pieces displayed, or did you collaborate with the students?”
Her polite, practiced smile melts into something more genuine. Her hands clasp tighter for a brief moment before she begins explaining, her voice brimming with excitement. She walks me through the process she undertook with the students to create the gallery, pointing animatedly from one canvas to another as she dives into every meticulous detail.
But as Natalie speaks, jealousy stirs in the pit of my stomach. It’s uninvited, sharp-edged, and bitter. For some people, their life path is rigid, predetermined by their family’s legacy. But for many like Natalie, endless resources and wealth offer something even more valuable: freedom. Freedom to explore, to be picky, to discard a career like an ill-fitting pair of pants and try another. Money doesn’t buy happiness, sure. But it does buy options, time, and the chance to find happiness on your own terms. And Natalie is one of the lucky ones who is doing something she cares about.
For me, survival has always been the goal. There’s never been room for luxuries or exploration. From a young age, I knew I needed a career that could buy me a sliver of freedom, even if it would never be the kind Natalie has. That has been the plan since day one, and I’ve spent nearly a decade chasing it. Yet, as I stand here, I can’t help but feel like I’m no closer to that dream than when I started.
Natalie barely pauses to take a breath, her passion bubbling over until she finally reins it in. Her cheeks flush a delicate pink as she finishes speaking.
“I’ve talked your ear off,” she says with a self-conscious laugh, gesturing for us to move to the next gallery piece. “Tell me, what do you do for work?”
“I asked because I wanted to hear about it,” I reply, brushing off her insecurity with a wave of my hand. “And cybersecurity,” I add—a carefully chosen half-truth. Half-truths are easier for me to say than the full-out lies I’ve become so accustomed to telling. They ease my conscious just enough to keep me from drowning in the guilt I’ll face when the contract is over.
We stop in front of a wildly abstract painting, its canvas drenched in shades of deep, chaotic red. I move my head side-to-side, trying to decipher what it’s supposed to represent, but I come up empty.
“Oh, you’re in a much different line of work than me,” Natalie says with a chuckle. “That’s what my husband does.”
“What do I do?” a low, measured voice asks from behind us. Natalie’s eyes soften instantly, a clear giveaway before I even turn around. I don’t need to look to know it’s Davey Sinclair; the man behind the security system that’s had me running in circles.
“My new friend Scarlett was just telling me she works in cybersecurity,” Natalie explains, nodding in my direction with a smile. “Scarlett, this is my husband, Davey Sinclair. Davey, Scarlett Page.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, inclining my head with practiced politeness. My pulse quickens slightly as our eyes meet, and I catch a flicker of his silent assessment.
“Likewise,” Davey says, his tone even as he places a protective hand on the small of Natalie’s back. His posture is relaxed, but there’s an air of calculation in the way he carries himself, like he’s always one step ahead of the conversation. “Do you work for yourself?”
“I do,” I answer smoothly. “I prefer the lifestyle it offers.”
His sharp green eyes narrow slightly, studying me with quiet precision. His head tilts ever so slightly to the side as he asks, “And what kind of lifestyle is that?”
Jesus. Two sentences in, and he's already searching for any cracks in my response.
"One where I make my own hours and travel as I please," I reply, raising my glass for another sip.
"I can’t argue with that," Davey says with a refined smile before his attention shifts to Natalie. "Silas has a question about the catering."
She glances over her shoulder, presumably toward Silas’s location. “Care to join us, Scarlett? Most of my duties are done for the evening. I can introduce you to some friends.”
Davey’s gaze narrows just a hair as he looks at his wife. It’s clear he wishes she hadn’t extended the invitation. She either doesn’t notice or, more likely, chooses to ignore him entirely. That bodes well for me. If this is how he usually reacts to strangers, then his discomfort likely isn’t personal, it’s just his default state. Unfortunately for him, catering to his paranoia isn’t exactly high on my priority list. Still, I can’t afford to appear too eager.
“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” I say, adding a touch of embarrassment to my tone.
“It’s not an intrusion if you’re invited,” Natalie replies with a wink, looping her arm through Davey’s. “Come. I’m sure forcing my brother to socialize with someone other than Davey at one of these events will do him good.”
I catch the way Davey’s jaw tenses beneath the light stubble on his face. His muscles flex subtly, his displeasure barely masked. He’s been described as the most paranoid member of Silas’s inner circle, and moments like this confirm the reputation. But I force a meek smile in his direction as he turns with Natalie, careful not to give him more of a reason to be suspicious.
Trailing a step or two behind the couple, I watch as they lean close to whisper something to each other. It doesn’t take much imagination to guess that Davey is quietly urging his wife to be more cautious. But Natalie, with a teasing grin on her lips, lightly elbows him in response, brushing off his concern.
Davey’s stern expression softens slightly as he leans in and presses a brief kiss to the side of her temple. The protective way he carries himself doesn’t falter, though. He glides through the small crowd of guests with an effortless control, as if Natalie is the most precious cargo in the room.
A waiter carrying a silver tray of hors d’oeuvres steps aside to make room for us, but Davey subtly motions with two fingers, signaling the server to follow before adjusting our course and leading us away from the bar and the main throng of fundraiser attendees. I follow a few paces behind, matching their unhurried stride but careful to maintain a respectful distance.
The dynamic between them is fascinating: her lightness, his seriousness, the way they balance each other out. It’s something to catalog for later, but for now, I stay focused on the path ahead. Every move I make here needs to count.
Silas has relocated from the bar to an impromptu sitting area on the outskirts of the gallery, where oversized leather chairs surround a low coffee table designed for casual conversation. He’s sprawled in the center chair, his long legs splayed in a posture that manages to strike the perfect balance between casual and commanding. His impeccably tailored jacket is unbuttoned, revealing a crisp white collared shirt and a dark tie that sits perfectly in place. One arm rests lazily along the back of the chair, while the other is propped on the armrest, hand braced under his chin as if he’s lost in thought.
Everything about him exudes an effortless kind of power—the sort that draws attention like a gravitational pull. My skin warms as my eyes linger on him longer than I should. There’s an undeniable magnetism to his presence: sharp, self-assured, captivating. I can’t help but admire the way he wears these traits so naturally, as though power and confidence are stitched into the fabric of his suit.
As we approach, the hum of voices and the soft background music fade into a distant murmur. Natalie walks straight to her brother, the waiter trailing obediently behind her, and leans over his chair to speak. Silas shifts subtly, moving the hand under his chin to partially cover his mouth as he speaks, ensuring his words are hidden from prying eyes and ears. Natalie’s brows knit together, and she waves the waiter closer.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned about earning trust, it’s knowing when to give people space. Especially in moments when you might want to do the opposite.
I pivot on my heel and head toward a nearby cluster of artwork just beyond the sitting area. On the way, I place my empty cocktail glass on an abandoned table, taking a moment to reposition my clutch, so I’m holding it neatly with both hands at my waist. I let my gaze flick over the art in front of me, though my attention stays partially trained on Silas and Natalie from the corner of my eye. There’s no rush to insert myself.
Timing, as always, is everything.
Though the paintings in front of me are stunning, my mind is elsewhere. Figuring out how to deal with Davey will be a challenge. I’ve spent years perfecting the art of seamlessly integrating myself into groups like this one. It’s a skill I’ve honed to near perfection. Sometimes, I slip into a role so effortlessly that I lose track of where my real self ends and the persona begins. And yet, here I am, over a month into this assignment, and Davey has already subconsciously clocked me before I’ve even truly started.
It’s likely just his overprotectiveness of Natalie and her safety, but that doesn’t make him any less dangerous. Peter’s IDs are always bulletproof, though I'm sure Scarlett’s online presence could probably use more refinement. Davey has already come close to besting me without even knowing it. I can’t afford to let it happen again.
“Scarlett,” Natalie calls, snapping me out of my thoughts. I take a breath and count to five before turning away from the paintings to face her. All eyes are on me now, including her brother’s, whose dark gaze seems nearly black from across the room. I paste on a polite smile as I approach.
“Figure everything out?” I ask lightly. Natalie rolls her eyes in a way only a younger sibling can and jerks her head toward Silas.
“Yes. Someone is just being particular about the seafood options,” she says, clearly exasperated.
I open my mouth to respond, but another voice cuts me off.
“You’d think, with my own sister running this event, I could make a request.”
My eyes lock onto Silas, who now stands shoulder-to-shoulder with Davey. He glances past his brother-in-law, fixing his teasing gaze on Natalie, a glimmer of amusement dancing in his eyes.
His voice is unexpected—deep and earthy, like the low rumble of a crackling fire as it cools. The men of his stature who I've dealt with don’t usually sound like this. They’re usually nasally or sharp. Grating. But Silas’s voice is warm and smoky, and it settles somewhere deep in my stomach, unbidden and stubborn.
“Maybe you should have thought of that last week when I confirmed the menu,” Natalie fires back. Then, she gestures toward me with a small smile. “Please behave yourself in front of my new friend. Scarlett, this is my brother, Silas. Silas, Scarlett Page.”
I’m not prepared for the wave of heat that slides down my spine when our eyes meet. His gaze is sharp and mischievous, framed by dark glasses that do nothing to hide the devilish glint in his expression. A faint dimple cuts into his left cheek, barely visible beneath his scruff, adding a touch of rugged charm to his otherwise polished exterior. Beneath the tailored suit and carefully cultivated demeanor, there’s nothing corporate about this man. He looks like every reckless decision I wanted to make as a teenager, wrapped into more than six feet of devastatingly handsome, self-assured billionaire.
For a moment, I let myself revel in the full-body tingle that Silas Wells evokes, before I lock it away.
“It’s not every day Nat brings a new friend around,” he says, his voice rich and teasing as he extends a hand across the circle.
I match the firmness of his grip, surprised by the rough texture of his palm. It’s not what I expected from a man who could easily spend all day behind a desk. There’s something disarming about the contrast.
“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or a dig at your sister,” I reply, raising an eyebrow as I release his hand.
His smile widens, revealing a perfect row of teeth that could grace the cover of any magazine. “I guess the answer will be one of life’s great mysteries.”
If I were a weaker woman, that smile might have reduced me to a puddle right then and there. But something about Silas unsettles me in a way I can’t quite name. He’s too perfect, too put together, too aware of his own charm. Unfortunately for him, I have a hard time resisting the urge to humble people like him, no matter who I’m pretending to be.
I mull over his words. “That might be pushing it.”
It takes a moment for my quiet insult to settle before his eyebrow arches slightly, surprise crossing his features. To his right, one of his friends snorts, unable to hold back their amusement.
I introduce myself to the rest of the circle, breaking eye contact with Silas as I shift my focus to the others. But I can feel him tracking my every move with unrelenting intensity. When I glance back at him, it’s just in time to catch him running a hand along the sharp line of his jaw, those endlessly dark eyes pinned on me in a way that sends a chill skating over my skin.
Silas Wells may be the picture of control, but his curiosity tells me one thing: I’ve got his attention.
Good.
“So, you’re new to Chicago?” Gordon, the man seated to my right, asks. His voice is as warm and inviting as his dark skin, a soothing contrast to the simmering tension I feel from elsewhere in the circle.
“I am,” I reply with a nod. “I’ve been here about a month now.”
“Scarlett is in my line of work,” Davey interjects, nursing his whiskey.
My eyes flick to Davey, surprised by his unprompted contribution, before returning to Gordon. It seems whatever Natalie whispered during our walk here struck a chord; Davey’s willingness to keep me in the conversation is unexpected.
“Some healthy competition, then,” Gordon muses, his grin widening as he looks between the two of us. There's an incredulous look on Davey’s face, as if the idea of competition is beneath him.
Well, that lasted all of two seconds.
“I’m happy with my existing clientele,” I say, offering a small, closed-mouth smile to defuse the moment.
“Smart,” Silas remarks, his smirk barely concealed as he brings his whiskey glass to his lips. The subtle barb in his tone reignites the temper I usually keep tightly leashed.
Fighting every impulse to wipe that smirk off his face with the truth—that I’ve been digging around in his company’s multi-million-dollar cloud, the very system his beloved Davey built—I turn toward him instead, waiting for him to lower his glass.
“If I wanted Davey’s job,” I say, my voice sharp yet sweetened by the angelic smile I wear like armor, “I’d have taken it already.”
Silas’s smirk deepens into a full grin, and he tilts his head to the side, watching me like a predator sizing up its prey. My heart stutters, but I force my expression to remain neutral. Bored, even. Looking away first or showing even a flicker of emotion would be submission, and there’s no way in hell this man will get that satisfaction from me.
Unblinking, I hold his gaze, ignoring the subtle flame flickering behind his dark, chocolate-colored eyes. A small voice in the back of my mind warns that if I keep pushing, I might just stoke it into a full-blown inferno.
The silence stretches—seconds, maybe a full minute—before Natalie breaks it with a stifled laugh, effectively extinguishing the tension between us. Both Silas and I glance her way, her smile a welcome reprieve.
“I love you, Silas, but my money’s on her,” Natalie quips, sliding her hand down Davey’s arm and interlocking their fingers.
“I knew I was going to like you,” I say to her, offering a genuine smile. Natalie returns it with a sly grin while the others exchange wary glances.
One of the other men, Brian, thankfully redirects the conversation, asking where I’m from. I exhale slowly, releasing my frustration along with the breath. Though I respond and keep my expression friendly, my thoughts are elsewhere.
It’s unnerving how quickly Silas managed to get under my skin just now. Maybe it’s the stark contrast between Natalie’s warm kindness and his sharp-edged demeanor that caught me off guard. Or maybe it’s the fact that I had to skip my gym session this morning to hunt down a dress for this event. Whatever it is, I need to get my shit together.
The last thing I can afford is for Silas and Davey to dislike me. If they do, I can kiss any chance of getting near their devices goodbye.
Just as I turn to answer Gordon’s next question about my time in Philadelphia, I catch Silas’s eyes from across the circle. His stare is hard, a mix of frustration and something else I can’t quite place. It burns hot, sinking into my gut and setting my teeth on edge.
Game on, Silas Wells. Game on.