CHAPTER ONE
LIES, LUGGAGE & LOST TEMPERS
AVA LEIGHTON
I crash through the front doors like a hurricane in heels—breathless, and soaked to the skin, dragging a suitcase that’s missing one wheel and all of its dignity.
My tote bag catches on the brass door handle, jerks sideways, and spills open mid-spin like a busted pinata—passport, lip gloss, crumpled notecards, and my “Eva Martin, PR Consultant” name badge all go flying across the gleaming marble floor.
Of course that’s when I slam into a human wall.
Correction: not just a wall. A man. A very large, very solid, very expensive-smelling man.
“Oh my God, I am so sorry,” I blurt, instinctively reaching for his chest to steady myself. It’s broad. Unyielding. Perfect. Unfortunately, my hand is now pressed flat against what has to be a custom-tailored suit.
The man looks down at me with a face carved from ice and annoyance. Sharp cheekbones, five o’clock shadow, storm-gray eyes narrowed with immediate judgment.
“You're dripping,” he says.
“You’re a regular Sherlock,” I mutter, brushing rain off my sleeve without looking up. Not exactly razor-sharp, but at least I sound vaguely sentient.
His gaze flicks down to my drenched clothes, then to the strewn mess across the lobby. “Are you lost?”
“Nope. Totally expected to make my entrance looking like a drowned raccoon,” I huff, kneeling to gather my things. Of course my name badge is face-up at his feet. Of course he picks it up before I can snatch it.
“Eva Martin,” he reads slowly, as if trying the words on for size. His voice is deep and controlled, the kind of voice that’s used to being obeyed.
“PR consultant,” I add, smiling through clenched teeth—equal parts nerves and sarcasm, because pretending I belong here is my only option. “Here for the DartTech summit.”
His eyes snap to mine. “You’re early.”
“I’m actually late. By about three hours,” I confess, wringing rainwater out of my hair. “There was an issue with my rental car. And the weather. And the GPS. And life.”
“Mr. Dart?” a new voice interrupts. A man in a dark vest appears behind him, holding a sleek tablet and wearing the most politely alarmed expression I’ve ever seen. “Is everything alright?”
Mr. Dart. Oh no. Oh hell. I just ran into him—Marcus Dart, the reclusive billionaire I’m supposed to be secretly investigating. Of course I did.
He hands my badge to the staffer without taking his eyes off me. “She’s checked in under Eva Martin?”
The man nods. “Yes, sir. We were told to expect her by the PR firm.”
Marcus—Mr. Dart—gives a curt nod. “Then let her in. And get someone to clean up this mess.”
I stiffen. “I can clean it up myself.”
“Try not to knock anyone else over in the process.”
I watch his back as he strides away, tall and infuriating and maddeningly composed.
Welcome to the lion’s den, Ava.
Day one and I’ve already body-checked the king of the jungle.
***
I follow a too-efficient staffer through a maze of wood-paneled hallways that smell like cedar and money.
My damp sneakers squeak with every step, and my stupid suitcase thuds behind me like it's limping.
We stop at a reception desk flanked by oil paintings and a bowl of what I swear are individually wrapped truffles.
“Mr. Howard will check you in,” the staffer says. He gestures toward a man who looks like he stepped straight out of Downton Abbey—a trim mustache, pressed vest, and an expression equal parts warm and quietly suspicious.
“Miss Martin,” he says, voice smooth as honey with the faintest hint of condescension, like he’s already decided I’m a smudge on his polished reputation. “We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”
“I like to make an impression,” I say with a cheerful smile that I pray doesn't look desperate.
He doesn’t return it. “Clearly.”
I offer my forged credentials—embossed, laminated, and surprisingly convincing considering I printed them in a coworking space two days ago. Mr. Howard eyes them, then me. His gaze is shrewd, calculating.
“You’re quite… young.”
A flicker of heat rushes up my neck. Not the good kind. The kind that makes you feel sixteen and wearing the wrong shoes. I square my shoulders.
“And rainproof,” I add. “Which is more than I can say for your valet stand.”
To my dismay, the corners of his mouth twitch, but the smile never fully forms. “You’ll be reporting directly to Mr. Dart during the summit?”
“Correct.” I nod, trying to sound like someone who has led elite PR campaigns and not, say, a woman who once faked food poisoning to sneak backstage at a tech conference.
He taps something on his tablet, frowning. “Well, your name is on the list, and Mr. Dart confirmed you himself, so I suppose that will do. Try not to cause too many… ripples.”
I make no promises.
As he walks me toward the elevator, he pauses at a portrait of Marcus hanging near the entrance. The man even broods in oil paint.
“Mr. Dart does not suffer fools,” he says, voice lowered.
A prickle of unease runs down my spine, but I lift my chin anyway. I’ve been called worse.
Good thing I’m not a fool. Just a very determined liar with good cheekbones and a press badge held together by dry shampoo and delusion.
As the elevator doors close, I catch my reflection in the mirror: flushed cheeks, rain-plastered hair, mascara halfway down my face.
Fake it till you make it, Ava.
Or until the billionaire figures you out.
***
By the time I get to the briefing room, I’ve wrung out my scarf, dabbed off most of the raccoon-eye mascara, and convinced myself I can fake confident silence. The kind where you sit in the back, nod at the right moments, and collect intel without saying a word. That’s the plan.
And then Marcus Dart opens his mouth.
“The press has already begun sniffing around again,” he says, voice clipped. He’s pacing the front of the room like a panther in a bespoke suit—controlled, coiled, and lethal in his stillness. “So we’ll do what we always do—control the story before the story controls us.”
I’m barely two steps into the room when everyone turns to look. Marcus’s eyes land on me with surgical precision. I feel the weight of it—like he’s dissecting me on the spot, cataloguing every raindrop and heartbeat. I resist the urge to squirm.
“Miss Martin. You’re late.”
I flash what I hope is a breezy smile. “Fashionably. But I hear that’s allowed in PR.”
A few investors chuckle. Marcus doesn’t.
I slide into the only empty chair near the front, nodding to the bejeweled socialite next to me who gives me the kind of once-over that says you don’t belong here. She’s probably not wrong.
“We’ve prepared an investor briefing packet,” Marcus continues, motioning toward one of his staffers. “The messaging is simple—lean into innovation, reinforce reliability, deflect on regulation questions until Q3. Any questions?”
I raise my hand. I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t.
Marcus lifts a brow, almost daring me.
“Just a suggestion,” I say, voice deceptively light. “But pushing reliability without addressing the data breach rumors might make us look tone-deaf. Investors appreciate transparency these days—even the illusion of it.”
The room stills.
Marcus’s gaze hardens. “And how would you propose we spin that, Miss Martin?”
“Position the breach as an inflection point. Talk about what we learned. Emphasize the new security hires. Reframe it as growth, not failure.” I pause. “Unless, of course, we want reporters to tell that story for us.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then the bejeweled socialite hums, “She’s got a point.”
Marcus stares at me for one long, tension-charged moment.
“Noted,” he says finally. Then turns his back and continues without acknowledging me again.
But I caught it.
The flicker in his jaw. The sharp, assessing glint in his eyes.
I just moved from mildly suspicious to officially on his radar.
And damn it—I liked it.
***
The meeting disperses with the shuffle of designer shoes and murmurs of “wine hour” and “snow forecast.” I gather my untouched briefing packet and attempt to disappear into the wallpaper. Mr. Howard finds me before I can slip away.
“There’s been… a minor logistical hiccup,” he says with the kind of measured calm that usually precedes a catastrophe.
I blink. “Hiccup?”
“We seem to have overbooked the suite accommodations.”
“That’s okay, I don’t need a suite. A broom closet with a lock and a working radiator would be fine.”
He clears his throat. “Unfortunately, there are no vacancies. And since you’re listed under internal staff—assigned directly to Mr. Dart—you’ll be placed… with him.”
“With him?”
“In Mr. Dart’s private luxury suite.”
My brain short-circuits. “I—I’m sorry, did you say his suite?”
Mr. Howard’s expression is carved from diplomacy. “He’s already been informed. The arrangement is temporary. Likely just one night while we sort out alternate accommodations.”
One night. In a luxury suite. With the subject of my exposé. Who also happens to be the man I insulted, challenged, and stared at for too long in a meeting full of millionaires.
“Does he… have a gun?” I ask, managing to keep my voice so dry it could sand wood. Apparently my survival instinct is fueled by sarcasm.
Mr. Howard chuckles—just barely. “Just a very sharp tongue and very little patience.”
“Right,” I mumble. “Love that for me.”
He hands me a sleek keycard embossed with the DartTech logo. “Penthouse level. Take the private elevator.”
The elevator ride is approximately forty-six seconds of absolute internal panic. I mentally rehearse backup lies. Maybe I can fake an allergy to… minimalist furniture? Billionaire cologne? Emotionally unavailable men?
The doors slide open to reveal a suite the size of my entire apartment building’s first floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the snow-dusted mountains. A fire crackles in a stone hearth the size of a Smart Car. There are art books on the coffee table and actual art on the walls.
And Marcus Dart is already there.
He’s sitting in a leather armchair, reading a file. When he looks up, his expression is unreadable—but his eyes flick to the keycard in my hand.
“No one told you?” he asks.
“Oh, they told me,” I say, trying to sound breezy as I step inside. “I’m just choosing to believe it’s a fever dream.”
His mouth twitches. Not a smile, but maybe its shadow. “Don’t touch my espresso machine.”
Noted.
Also: he has an espresso machine.
And I’m sleeping approximately thirty feet from him tonight.
If I live that long.
***
I claim the side of the suite furthest from the espresso machine and closest to the emergency exit. Not that I’d bolt. Probably.
The bedroom is bigger than my first apartment.
Hell, the closet is bigger than my first apartment.
There’s a king-size bed that looks like it could accommodate six people—or two coworkers with a whole lot of unspoken tension and bad judgment.
A divider screen separates the sleeping space from a seating area with leather chairs and sleek tech gadgets I’m terrified to touch.
I perch on the edge of an armchair, still in my damp jeans, and try to breathe like a person who isn’t about to have a full-blown identity crisis. My thoughts spin faster than a Twitter scandal:
What if he already knows? What if he’s playing me?
What if I accidentally sleepwalk into the wrong bed?
What if I blow this assignment and David fires me and I end up back writing listicles about celebrity cats that look like potatoes?
I drag my fingers through my hair and instantly regret it. My curls are a frizzy halo of defeat. My mascara is probably somewhere around my clavicle. Still damp and unraveling, I glance at my reflection. My confidence? Yeah, I left that back in the lobby with my dignity.
Still… Marcus didn’t kick me out. He let me speak in the meeting. Listened, even. Well, glared. But his glare is weirdly flattering. Like being noticed by a very judgmental Greek god.
This assignment was supposed to be straightforward: fake credentials, get in, observe, gather intel, file the exposé, go viral, win a journalism award, and maybe afford rent next month. But nothing about Marcus Dart feels straightforward.
He’s prickly. Brilliant. Private. A walking contradiction in Italian leather.
And now I’m sleeping in his suite.
I stand and start pacing to burn off the panic. My eyes land on a framed photo on the sideboard—Marcus with two other men, maybe co-founders or friends. He’s smiling. Actually smiling. And younger. There’s a haunted kind of softness in the corners of that smile. I file that detail away.
The door to the suite opens behind me with a soft click. I freeze mid-step.
Marcus walks in, no file in hand this time. Just him.
He looks at me. Not surprised. Not amused. Just… watching.
He leans one shoulder against the wall and folds his arms. “If you’re not who you say you are, I’ll find out.”
My pulse thuds in my throat.
I smile sweetly. “Of course you will.”
He doesn’t blink.
And suddenly I know: the game just started.