Chapter 7
The scent of Eve’s arousal still fills my nose as I step into the elevator despite the thorough shower I took moments ago.
My reflection stares back at me from the polished doors—composed and controlled, yet my eyes betray the hunger that hasn’t been fully satisfied.
I could have done round two easily, and three, and four.
I press the button for the security floor, one level down from my penthouse. The soft hum of machinery fills the space, but my mind drifts to an hour ago—to steam rising around Eve’s naked body, to her gasps echoing off tile walls, to the way she arched against me.
“Fuck.” The word escapes through clenched teeth.
She’d tried to be quiet about it, sneaking to the bathroom—the one place without surveillance. But I knew. Of course I knew. The same restlessness that drove her there had been coursing through me since our kiss in her studio.
When I heard the shower start, something primitive took over. I didn’t plan to follow her. But the sight of her clothes scattered across the bathroom floor, the steam curling under the door…
The elevator stops, jarring me from the memory of her legs wrapped around my waist, her nails scoring my back.
I adjust my black cotton pants, irritated by how easily thoughts of her affect me.
This wasn’t part of the plan. She’s a liability, a puzzle to solve, and a revenge to complete. That was it.
But the way she’d screamed my name…
The doors open, and I force my features into their usual mask of indifference. Whatever happened in that bathroom stays there—locked away with the rest of my weaknesses where it belongs.
I step into Marcus’s command center, letting the door click shut behind me. The stark fluorescent lighting and humming electronics create an atmosphere worlds apart from my penthouse above.
“What have you found?” I ask, positioning myself against a steel desk. The metal feels cool under my fingertips, grounding me after the heated encounter upstairs.
Marcus barely looks up from the circuit board he’s examining. “Your girl’s good. Professional level good.” He gestures to Eve’s laptop. “That machine’s been wiped so clean it squeaks. And I mean properly wiped—not amateur hour deletion.”
“She’s not my girl.” The words come out sharper than intended.
He raises an eyebrow but continues. “The phone’s a burner. Basic calls, few texts. Nothing suspicious except how unsuspicious it is.” He swivels in his chair to face a wall of monitors. “Look at this.”
Security footage shows Liv lying still in bed, her breathing steady and even. Too steady. Too even.
“She’s faking,” I say, studying the feed.
“Caught that, did you?” Marcus’s tone carries a hint of approval. “Been watching her breathing patterns. They’re too regular for REM sleep.”
I lean closer to the screen. “What else?”
“Her devices are clean because they’re decoys.” He picks up her phone, turning it over in his hands. “This isn’t her real phone. The laptop? Probably hasn’t touched it since we modified it. She’s operating on something else, something we haven’t found.”
“Clever girl.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
“More than clever.” Marcus sets down the phone. “This is tradecraft. The kind of operational security you see in people who’ve spent time in seriously dangerous places. War zones. Failed states. Places where one mistake gets you killed.”
I process this information, remembering Eve’s casual mention of her work abroad. “Show me the contents of her bag again.”
Marcus pulls up photos on another screen. Everything is cataloged, labeled, and photographed. Normal items. Too normal.
“Nothing hidden in the lining?” I ask.
“First place I checked. Nothing. If there was something, she placed it somewhere else.”
I study each image, thinking of Eve’s precise movements in her studio. “She’s got something. Something small enough to hide, important enough to risk keeping.”
“Want me to do another sweep of her room?”
“No.” I straighten up. “She’ll notice. She’s too careful not to notice.”
The security feed shows Liv shifting slightly in bed. The movement looks natural and practiced. Like someone who’s learned to fake sleep convincingly.
“Keep watching her,” I instruct. “Every movement, every pattern. She’ll slip eventually. Everyone does.”
Marcus nods, already turning back to his work. “One more thing,” he adds. “Her internet usage? Non-existent. Hasn’t touched the network we set up. Either she’s suddenly developed a digital aversion…”
“Or she’s got another way to connect,” I finish. “Find it.”
I pace the length of Marcus’s desk, my mind racing through possibilities.
“The tradecraft—it makes sense now. Her documentary work in the Middle East focused on women in conflict zones. Eight months embedded with female resistance fighters.” The pieces click together, forming a clearer picture of Eve’s capabilities.
“Those documentaries were something else,” Marcus says, surprising me. “The one about the Kurdish women fighters? Raw stuff. No fancy camera work, just brutal honesty.”
I stop pacing. “You watched her work?”
“Hard not to be curious about the woman who’s got you running surveillance ops at midnight.” He shrugs, eyes still on the monitors. “She’s got talent. Makes you feel like you’re right there in the dirt with them.”
My jaw tightens. I’d tracked her career, collected press clippings, and followed her movements—but I’d never watched her actual documentaries. Too personal. Too real to see her alive and breathing on camera.
“Show me what else you found,” I say, deflecting.
Marcus pulls up a folder. “She learned from the best. Those women taught her how to move unseen, how to hide things in plain sight. How to survive.”
I lean against the desk, an idea forming. “Scale back the surveillance.”
“What?” Marcus’s fingers freeze over his keyboard.
“Not all of it. Make it look like technical issues. Camera malfunctions in strategic spots. Create blind spots. Appear to allow her more leeway.”
His eyebrows rise slightly, but he knows better than to question me directly. “You want to give her rope.”
“I want her to think she has rope.” I move to the monitors, studying Eve’s still form. “She’s too careful when she knows she’s being watched. Too controlled.”
“And you think giving her the illusion of freedom will make her slip up?”
“Everyone reveals themselves when they think no one’s watching.” I tap the screen showing her bedroom. “Kill this camera first. Make it look like interference from the building’s electrical system.”
Marcus nods slowly. “Which tracking systems should we disable?”
“The ones on the east side of the penthouse. Leave enough working that she’ll still be cautious, but give her places to hide.
” The familiar thrill of the hunt courses through me, mixed with something darker.
Something that has nothing to do with strategy and everything to do with the way Eve’s skin felt under my hands an hour ago.
Every instinct screams for more control, not less. But I force those thoughts down, focusing on the calculated risk. “Set it up.”
I study the wall of monitors before me, each screen a window into my carefully constructed world. Eve’s form remains motionless in her bed, but the steady rise and fall of her chest tells me she’s still awake, still planning.
“Set up those blind spots exactly as discussed,” I tell Marcus. “Start with the east corridor camera, then the one in the secondary living area. Make it look natural.”
The screens flicker as Marcus implements the changes. One by one, strategic gaps appear in my surveillance network—calculated weaknesses designed to draw Liv out.
“What about the elevator sensors?” Marcus asks.
“Leave those active. She’ll expect them.” I tap the edge of the desk, considering the layers of deception we’re crafting. “The goal is to make her think she’s found genuine vulnerabilities.”
Marcus nods, his fingers dancing across the keyboard. “And the network disruptions?”
“Intermittent. Random enough to seem legitimate, but consistent enough to be predictable.” The pattern will be subtle—most wouldn’t notice it. But Liv will. She’s too sharp not to.
I straighten my shoulders, feeling the familiar tension of orchestrating a complex operation. The monitors cast a blue glow across the room, creating shadows that mirror the depths of this game we’re playing.
I check each screen one final time, ensuring every detail aligns with our strategy. The trap is elegant in its simplicity—a series of apparent weaknesses that will guide Liv exactly where I want her.
The elevator ride back to my penthouse feels heavy with possibility. I roll my shoulders, letting the weight of the night’s planning settle into my bones. Even through layers of steel and concrete, I feel Eve’s presence above me, magnetic and dangerous.
The doors open to pre-dawn stillness. Everything appears untouched, yet the space feels altered, charged with the potential energy of the trap we’ve laid. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Chicago spreads out before me, a maze of shadows and lights that echo the complexity of our strategy.
In my bedroom, I check my phone one last time. Marcus’s message confirms: “Operation active.” Three cameras down, strategic blind spots in place. The game begins.