Chapter 13
C hicago isn’t exactly famous for warm springs, but this early April has brought an unexpected string of comfortable weather. When Natalie invited me over for dinner—just the two of us, since Davey was working late—I decided to walk from my apartment in Bucktown to her North Side townhome. It’s a little over an hour on foot, but the fresh air and movement felt like the perfect antidote to a week spent holed up in the apartment.
As soon as I stepped out of the high-rise, my body fell into autopilot. I weaved through the bustling streets, dodging delivery drivers, bikers, and other pedestrians, all moving with that characteristic Chicago urgency. Even here in the city, the air felt light and crisp. Winter’s grip lingered, but spring was beginning to force its way in with pockets of warmth and bright sunbeams slicing through the clouds.
Spring has always been my favorite season, especially in places like Chicago, where winter overstays its welcome. There’s nothing quite like those first days when the sun does more than just shine. It thaws. People emerge from their homes like they’re reborn, shaking off the lethargy of the cold months. For me, spring feels like the promise of a clean slate. A chance to shed the weight of whatever’s been dragging me down and start over. With the sun warming my shoulders through my light jacket, I feel the pull of that promise.
The thought clings to me as I walk. Maybe I can start over. Maybe it’s not too late. If I can just compartmentalize this job, keep my emotions in check, and remember why I’m doing this, then maybe, just maybe, I can find some semblance of redemption on the other side.
Natalie’s invitation surprised me more than I care to admit. Not because of the opportunity it presented, but because I was actually looking forward to spending time with her. The excitement wasn’t tied to what I might learn about Davey’s access to information or whether Natalie might let something slip over dinner. It was the simple pleasure of her company that drew me. That realization sent an uncomfortable ripple through my chest. I’ve always been good at separating myself from these jobs. It’s how I survive the work and justify the things I have to do. Turning people into tasks, into a checklist, dehumanizes them just enough to keep the guilt from drowning me. But Natalie? She’s slipping through the cracks.
I push the thought away as I near their home. Tonight is about getting answers. If I can get a better sense of what Davey knows or if Natalie’s aware of more than she lets on, this dinner will be a success.
A block from the Sinclair home, I stop at a boutique grocery store to pick up a few things: a small fruit platter, an overpriced bottle of wine, fancy crackers, and a specialty dip the cashier swears is a crowd favorite. By the time I leave, the panic bubbling under my skin has simmered down to a dull itch, manageable but persistent.
The Sinclair townhome looms ahead, an understated blend of charm and extravagance. It’s not as massive as Silas’s mansion, but it carries a quiet opulence that suits the Sinclairs perfectly. A brick fence with a black iron gate encloses a pristine front garden, and the grand steps leading to the entrance give the whole place an air of timeless elegance. The first story features the same white stonework as Silas’s home, with arched black windows that transition to weathered antique brick on the upper levels.
Standing at the door, arms full, I press the doorbell with my knuckle and glance up at the security camera tucked into the corner of the alcove. I offer it a smile, friendly and unassuming, exactly the way I want to appear.
Natalie opens the door with a bright smile, immediately reaching for the bags in my hands. “I told you not to bring anything!” she scolds playfully, ushering me inside with a sweep of her hand.
“I’d never come empty-handed,” I reply, stepping in. She lets out a small, amused huff, rolling her eyes before motioning for me to take off my jacket. As I shrug it off, she places the grocery bags on the steps of the grand wooden staircase in front of me. After taking my coat, she heads down the hallway to open a closet tucked beneath the stairs.
To my right is an oversized formal living room, outfitted with textured blue wallpaper and two light blue velvet love seats flanking a white-paneled fireplace. The space strikes a perfect balance between sophisticated and cozy, and just looking at it fills me with an unexpected sense of comfort.
I perch on the tufted ottoman near the door to slip off my boots, tucking them neatly underneath before standing. By the time I’m upright again, Natalie is gathering the grocery bags, nodding her head for me to follow.
“I can’t believe the weather,” she says over her shoulder as we walk. “Did you actually walk here?”
“I did,” I answer, matching her pace as we move down a wide, white hallway. We pass a pristine powder room with bold, vibrant wallpaper and a dining room connected to the blue-accented living space through a cased opening. The dining room is neutral in tone but punctuated with blush pink details: artwork, a statement light fixture, and delicate glassware atop a solid wood credenza. “Did you decorate your home yourself?” I ask, genuinely curious.
She glances back at me with a small smile, nodding. “It’s not everyone’s taste, but it’s mine.”
As we step into her kitchen, my breath catches. Where the original exterior wall once stood, a massive island now bridges the transition to the new addition. Framed by two stately wood columns, the island anchors the space, its smooth countertop contrasting beautifully with the textured elements around it.
Muted green cabinets and dark-stained butcher block countertops start on the original kitchen walls before the lower cabinets seamlessly transition into the newer atrium-style section built off the back. Glass walls and a slanted ceiling stretch high above, with lush greenery visible from every angle. Open shelving with potted herbs and gleaming cookware decorate the atrium, while pendant lights hang elegantly overhead, casting a soft glow. Under the windows, the cabinets extend into a cozy built-in banquet tucked beside a glass door that opens to the backyard.
“Please tell me you designed this, too,” I gasp, eyes wide.
Natalie’s cheeks flush as she sets the bags on the island. “Well, I worked with an architect to make sure the house didn’t collapse,” she says with a dismissive wave.
I shake my head, ponying up to one of the black barstools at her side. “I knew your house would look like this, considering how you design events.“ I gesture toward the simple but elegant glass pendant lights overhead. “Why don’t you work in interior design?”
She snorts lightly, waving off the suggestion as if it’s absurd. “I don’t think I’d be very good at it,” she says, her face still rosy as she busies herself unpacking the food I brought. She comments that I picked a great wine, her tone shifting to polite deflection.
Watching her, I can’t help but feel a pang of sadness. Seeing someone so outwardly confident and commands the attention of millionaires at events hesitate to give herself credit feels almost… devastating. Before I can stop myself, I reach out, placing my hand gently over hers to halt her movements.
“Stop brushing me off,” I say, my voice soft but firm. Her hands still, and she looks up at me reluctantly. “You have real talent. Own it.”
She blinks a few times, the sheen on her eyes betraying how much the words affect her. Finally, a small, grateful smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “Thank you,” she murmurs.
The pinch in my chest tightens, but I deflect the discomfort with a joke. “Remind me never to let you see my apartment. It’s a cookie-cutter nightmare.” I pat the back of her hand before pulling mine back to my lap.
Natalie laughs, her mood lightening, and moves to retrieve two wine glasses from a nearby cabinet. She uncorks the Sauvignon Blanc with practiced ease, pouring us each a glass. When I offer to help, she waves me off, insisting I relax as she plates the food I brought onto elegant dishes.
It’s only after I’ve taken the time to fully admire her kitchen that I notice the mouthwatering aroma of garlic and the soft hum of the oven timer.
“Though my kitchen might suggest otherwise, I’m not much of a chef,” Natalie says with a self-deprecating grin, noticing where my gaze has landed. “It’s just feta pasta with tomatoes, spinach, and chicken. Oh, and there’s a salad in the fridge.”
“Sounds way better than anything I’d ever make,” I admit, popping a piece of pineapple from the fruit platter into my mouth.
Conversation flows easily after that, as it always does with Natalie. Between discussing her next charity event, trading some half-truths about the types of “projects” I’m working on, and a few lighthearted stories from our pasts, the oven timer beeps. Natalie moves quickly, plating the pasta and salad, while I follow with our now-empty wine glasses and the half-drunk bottle of wine. She sets the dishes on the built-in banquette, motioning for me to sit as she grabs utensils and napkins.
“I don’t care much for using the dining room,” she admits, reaching to refill our glasses.
I swat her hand away, grabbing the bottle to do it myself. “I’d never want to leave this kitchen if I lived here either,” I reply. She glances around, a faint look of pride flickering in her eyes, though she doesn’t voice it.
Holding up my wine glass, I smile and tilt it toward her. She mirrors the motion, clinking her glass lightly against mine. “Remind me to thank Davey for working late,” I joke.
Natalie huffs, shaking her head as she sits across from me. “As if that man needs encouragement to run himself more ragged than he already does.”
I maintain a neutral expression as I cut into the chicken on my plate, ignoring the tightening in my chest. Lifting my fork to my mouth, I will away the ache and muster the courage to ask, “Does Davey work late often?”
My pulse quickens as I wait for her response, though Natalie doesn’t seem to notice the slight tremor in my hand when I reach for my wine glass. She only rolls her eyes and stabs at her salad with her fork. “More often than I’d like.”
I swallow hard, trying to dislodge the lump forming in my throat. Get over yourself. Just do it.
“It’s difficult to separate this type of work from real life,” I say, keeping my tone casual. “I’m sure it’s even harder for him, working with family.”
Natalie pauses, wiping her mouth with her napkin as she considers her response. Her eyes flicker with a mixture of appreciation and frustration, though I can’t tell which is directed at me or Davey. “I’m grateful Davey works with my family. He’s so good at what he does, but he thinks he has to prove himself more because he’s married to me.”
“Did he start working for your dad before or after you got together?” I ask, even though I already know he was a manager for two years before they crossed paths. Natalie’s lips curve into a small smile, the signature Wells dimple appearing on her cheek.
“Before. But he’s a director now. Though, he didn’t accept the promotion right away; he thought my dad only offered it because we’d just gotten engaged. It took me an entire month to convince him to take it,” she explains, sighing as she rubs her thumb along the stem of her wine glass. “Between that and Silas gearing up for my dad’s retirement, they both barely sleep.”
“I didn’t realize your father’s retirement was so close.”
“He’s been saying it for years, but he’s finally serious now. The board has already voted in favor of Silas, and they recently set a date, signed and sealed. Silas has been hinting at nominating Davey as Chief Security Officer once he takes over, and I think that spooked him. So now, he’s more focused than ever.”
I process this revelation carefully. Silas wants to elevate Davey to a position just a step below his own? That’s not just professional trust. That’s a declaration of loyalty. If Davey is slated to become CSO, he must already have full access to the company’s most sensitive information. Silas trusts him with his life, his family, and his entire legacy.
“Why doesn’t Davey work from home a few days a week?” I suggest, testing the waters. “He can do his job from anywhere with the right setup.”
Natalie shakes her head, her tone tinged with resignation. “He prefers his office. He says the systems are more secure there, and he doesn’t want to bring his work here.”
Her words confirm what I suspected. If Davey is that paranoid, any important information he handles is likely kept under lock and key at his workplace. This townhome might not hold any information I need.
“The Wells office isn’t far from here, right? You could start having lunch or dinner with him on his late nights,” I suggest, maintaining my easy tone.
She tilts her head, considering. “That’s true. I’d just have to figure out which days he’s at the downtown office or the satellite office.”
My fork freezes midair.
Satellite office?
I school my expression, though my heart races. A second office, completely off my radar. How did they manage to keep it off both public and private records? Maybe it’s owned by a separate business and I missed it because I didn’t know to look for it.
“I didn’t realize your family had more than one office in the city,” I comment, taking a bite of salad to mask my curiosity.
Natalie shrugs, seemingly unfazed. “It’s tiny. I think Davey and a few of his team members work there sometimes.”
Her words strike me like lightning. I’ve been looking in the wrong place. If William or Silas has highly classified information, Davey would insist it be stored somewhere more secure than the cloud—somewhere accessible only on-site. This off-the-books office isn’t just a workspace; it’s likely where they house local servers.
With a strained smile, I encourage Natalie to create a schedule with Davey. By the end of the conversation, she’s grinning hopefully, and I’m biting the inside of my cheek so hard I can taste blood.
If I can locate this satellite office, everything might change.
–
It’s past eight by the time Davey walks in the door. I’m mid-motion, pulling my jacket from the closet when he steps inside. The look on his face tells me he’s neither surprised nor pleased to find me in his home. Did Natalie tell him I was here? Or did he spy on the security cameras that undoubtedly cover every corner of this place?
The subtle security features are impossible to miss. The faint glint of a camera lens in the corner of the living room, the quiet hum of a system embedded somewhere in the walls. It’s all so understated, yet unmistakably thorough, and fits Davey to a tee. And figuring out where that secret second office is without tipping him off will likely be the greatest challenge of my career.
“Headed out, Ms. Page?” he asks, his tone polite but not hiding the faint hope behind it.
Natalie, standing off to the side, scowls at him, her annoyance palpable.
“Yes, Davey. You can have your wife back for the night,” I reply, slipping my arms into my jacket and pulling my hair out from under the collar. I step aside as he approaches the closet to hang up his own coat, but not before leaning into Natalie and planting a firm, lingering kiss on her lips.
Any trace of irritation she might’ve had vanishes instantly, melting away under his touch. The look Davey gives her when he pulls back is so intimate, so full of quiet devotion, that it feels like I’ve intruded on something private. I move towards the door, focusing instead on putting on my boots.
For all the reservations I have about him, there’s never been any doubt about his love for Natalie. It’s unwavering, absolute. His world revolves around her, and it makes Peter’s earlier instruction to use Davey however I can make bile rise to my throat.
I stand and Natalie pulls away from her husband, skirting past him to see me out. “We’re still on for Thursday?”
It hadn’t taken much to convince her to plan weekly dinner dates, especially on nights she knows Davey tends to work late. Thursday, we’re trying a new restaurant in one of the downtown hotels.
“It’s a date,” I confirm with a smile.
Natalie wraps me in a warm hug, the faint scent of her perfume brushing against me. “Are you sure I can’t call you a car?” she asks, for what must be the third or fourth time tonight.
“I’ll be fine,” I assure her. The cold night air will do me some good. It’s another chance to clear my head and think about how I might spend more time with her before Thursday.
After one last goodbye, I slip out the door and let it close soundly behind me. The sun has long since dipped behind the skyline, and the night air bites against my cheeks. Car tires crackle against the pavement, headlights cutting through the dim street as engines hum softly in the distance.
“Took you long enough.”
The familiar voice works its way down my spine, low and smooth, like velvet drawn over steel. I turn toward the street, fighting the shiver that climbs up my body—a reaction I desperately wish I could blame entirely on the cold.
Under the glow of a streetlight, Silas leans casually against the passenger door of a sleek black sports car. His hands are buried in the pockets of his coat, ankles crossed, exuding that effortless confidence that’s somehow both magnetic and infuriating.
Davey must have told him that Natalie had me over for dinner—probably the reason he dropped Davey off in the first place. Which means Silas didn’t just stumble upon me. He came looking, just like I wanted him to.
Everything is going according to plan, right?
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I arch an eyebrow and muster my usual deflection. “If I realized I was making the King of Chicago wait, I would have taken my time.” My legs feel unsteady as I descend the stairs, heat simmering in my veins with each step closer to him. His stubble is longer than it was the last time I saw him, that infuriating curl still hanging over the edge of his glasses. The chilly air has left his cheeks pink, and the gleam in his eyes looks eerily similar to the one he gave me when he deposited me in my car after the auction.
“Do you need something?” My tone is sharper than intended, but he doesn’t seem bothered. If anything, he looks amused.
He shrugs nonchalantly. “I need plenty of things.”
I unlatch the gate and step out of the Sinclair courtyard. Behind him, the street is lined with slowly moving cars, and to my left, the distant hue of red, blue, and white lights reflects off the nearby buildings. There must have been an accident further down the street.
“I can’t imagine you need much,” I counter, stuffing my hands into my pockets to shield them from the biting wind. It’s colder than I anticipated, and I silently curse myself for not wearing a thicker jacket.
Silas pushes off the side of his Aston Martin, moving with the slow, predatory grace of a jungle cat. “You didn’t text me when you got home after the auction,” he says, cutting straight to the point.
“Ah,” I begin, feigning casual indifference. “I texted Natalie. I’m sure she told you?”
“She did.”
“Then I don’t see what the problem is.”
Silas pins me with a look so intense it feels like it’s peeling back every layer I try to keep hidden. His eyes seem to pull me in, their darkness deepening as he takes a long stride toward me. It takes everything I have not to take a step back.
“I didn’t ask you to text my sister,” he says, his voice low and deliberate. “I asked you to text me.”
The sharp edge of annoyance slices through the spell his proximity casts. Leave it to him to think I owe him something. I tsk and shake my head. “So demanding.”
His lips quirk in response, but the gleam in his eyes shifts, glowing like embers stoked into a flame. He leans in slightly, his voice dropping. “You don’t even know the half of it.”
Heat coils low in my stomach at his words, and for a moment, my brain short-circuits. Just when I think I’ve got him figured out, he throws me off balance with that look. That vexing look that makes it impossible to remember what I’m supposed to be doing.
And that’s the problem, isn’t it? He’s not just some stranger I can flirt with and forget. He’s Silas Wells—intelligent, authoritative, and every bit the formidable man the world sees him as. He’s also the one standing outside his sister’s home, waiting for me, as if I’m the most pressing thing on his mind.
This is what you wanted , I remind myself, trying to tamp down the fire coursing through me. Stick to the plan.
The silence between us stretches, and my body sways imperceptibly toward his, as if pulled by an invisible string. His glasses reflect the faint streetlights, and for a moment, I catch my own image in them: parted lips, dilated pupils, and desire written all over my face.
The sharp honk of a car rips me out of the moment, cutting through the haze like a cold splash of water and reminding me of the chill in the night air. I shiver, taking a step back to put some much-needed distance between us. But before I can retreat further, Silas’s hand darts out, his fingers curling around my elbow as a jogger passes behind me.
My skin burns under my jacket where his hand touches me. What the hell is wrong with me? I’ve faced down people who could destroy me with a single word, and yet here I am, unraveling over a man holding my elbow. This isn’t me.
I clear my throat, glancing toward the distant flashing lights of the traffic jam. “I should get going.”
His grip on my elbow tightens ever so slightly, his chuckle reverberating down my arm. “Get in the car, Scarlett.”
The command jolts me back to myself. There it is. His arrogance.
I bristle, glaring up at him. “I’m perfectly fine walking home.”
“I’m sure you are,” he says placatingly, his grip remaining firm as he steps closer, closing the gap I just created. “But you’re not going to. You can get in willingly, or I can put you in there and strap you in myself.”
The quiet authority of his tone makes my heart stutter and my temper flare all at once. It’s clear he’s not bluffing, and part of me wants to push back and remind him I’m not someone who takes orders. But I know better. The smarter move is to let this play out, to spend more time with him and nudge him closer to trusting me. Still, I won’t let him win so easily. If I’m getting in that car, it’ll be on my terms.
Leaning into him, I rise onto my toes, steadying myself with one hand on his chest. His breath catches as my lips brush against his ear, and I whisper with sharp defiance, “Ask. Nicely.”
His body goes rigid beneath my touch, the tension radiating off him in waves. For a moment, he’s perfectly still, the only movement a subtle tick in his jaw. When he finally speaks, his voice is a low, gravelly growl. “Scarlett, please get in the car.”
A triumphant smile spreads across my face as I pull back, patting his chest twice. “Now, was that so hard?”
His hand falls away from my elbow as I stride past him and yank open the passenger door. The warm interior of the car envelops me as I slide into the seat, the smell of expensive leather and cleaner filling my senses. I shut the door firmly before he has the chance to do it for me, cutting off any attempt at another word.
As I buckle, I watch him stand outside the car for a moment, his posture tense. He stretches his neck, the tight muscles pulling visibly under his skin, before finally making his way around to the driver’s side. Whatever storm is brewing behind his calm exterior, I know one thing for sure: I’ve won this round.
The way he slides into the driver’s seat is almost as intoxicating as the sharp, woodsy notes of his cologne that envelop the closed space. His fingers curl around the steering wheel, perhaps just a fraction too tight, the knuckles paling against the contrast of his dark, tanned skin. Then his gaze meets mine and, for a moment, it feels like all the air has been sucked out of the cabin.
The look in his eyes is a warning. It tells me I’ve crossed a line, that I’m teetering dangerously close to something I might not be ready for. But instead of cooling the fire raging within me, his intensity fans the flames. A spark bolts across my body, igniting that restless, defiant part of me that I thought I’d buried long ago.
There’s something about riling this man up, about poking at his carefully constructed composure, that fuels a wicked, feral thrill deep inside of me. Maybe it’s the power dynamic, the way he’s used to bending others to his will, but has yet to figure out how to bend me. Maybe it’s the way he looks at me, like he’s deciding whether to argue or conquer. Whatever it is, I’m too far gone to resist the temptation to push further.
A slow, Cheshire grin spreads across my lips, and I lean back into the plush leather seat, crossing my legs leisurely. “Are we pretending you don’t already know where I live, or can we just skip the part where you ask for my address?”