Prologue
KATE
I lost my friends somewhere near the street vendor selling bacon-wrapped hot dogs and vape pens.
Typical.
But I wasn’t worried.
I know these streets better than I know most men. Grew up on them. Fell in love, got my heart broken, bled, danced, and built my empire on these sidewalks.
I own half the waterfront now.
Not that anyone knows it.
Three shell companies. Five LLCs. A dozen business fronts—well-oiled, air-tight. Clean enough for the banks, dirty enough to scare off the amateurs.
I’ve built something. On my own. And I’m proud of it.
But none of that makes me feel anything.
Dating? A dead end.
Every man wants to impress me, compete with me, or try to control me. None of them make me feel. Not where it counts. Not in the pulse between my legs or the back of my skull.
So I stay busy.
Fitness. Friendships. Real estate.
Bigger deals. Riskier plays. One power move after another.
But tonight?
Tonight I just wanted to be off.
Hair down. Heels high. A little shimmer. A little skin. Just another hot blonde in the crowd with a fake smile and a cold drink.
And then I felt him.
Rochefort.
That sleazy French creep I’d turned down—politely, repeatedly—at least six times this month. His eyes on me were like oil on silk. I felt them before I saw him. But this time, it wasn’t just him.
He had backup.
Not security. Not friends. Muscle.
And that’s when my stomach did something it never does.
It clenched.
I moved fast. Slipped through the crowd, ditching the main drag, cutting through an alley near the old fish market. I had the layout of this place tattooed on my brain. But even I couldn’t outmaneuver him in heels on cobblestone.
And that’s when I slammed into him.
Literally.
Six foot something. Black Armani. Calm as death.
Not sweating. Not smiling. Just… watching.
I stumbled. He didn’t.
His hand caught my waist—firm, possessive, like I belonged there.
Our eyes locked.
And boom.
Not fireworks. Not yet.
But that kind of spark—the kind that rewires your brain.
I should’ve pulled away.
Should’ve kept running.
Should’ve screamed or kicked or bolted.
But I didn’t.
Because for reasons I still don’t understand, I felt safe in the arms of the most dangerous man on the damn coast.
It wasn’t until much later—after the champagne, the dancing, the hot tub, the kiss that melted my spine—that I realized who he was.
Michael Waters.
Bayview’s favorite son. Wall Street’s ghost. Rumored mobster. Real estate rival. And if the whispers were true? I’d never seen him in person. He has zero socials and sues anyone who tries to take his picture.
Recluse billionaire.
A killer in a suit.
But that night?
I didn’t care.
For one night, I wasn’t Kate Peters, power broker and waterfront queen—maybe his enemy.
I was just a hot-blooded woman pretending to be someone else…
In the arms of a man who made me forget everything else.
His mouth was on my neck, hands at my hips, steam curling from the hot tub like smoke off a fire we didn’t dare put out.
We hadn’t made it all the way—not yet. But the way he touched me, the way he looked at me like I was something sacred, like he was on the verge of worshipping me or destroying me—it was almost worse than sex.
We moved inside a plush cabin… I was drowsy from his kisses and all the champagne I had drunk that night. I wanted to stay sleep in his arms, maybe cuddle and kiss a little more… maybe let him pleasure me….
And then?—
Gunshots.
Sharp. Close. More than one.
Michael moved instantly. His body tensed over mine. He pulled away, grabbed a gun I hadn’t even noticed, and crouched at my side.
“Stay here,” he said, eyes hard, voice low. “Lock the door. Don’t move. No matter what.”
“Michael—” I started, but he was already gone.
I waited.
I swear I did.
Wrapped in one of his robes, I crept to the window and parted the curtain just enough to see the dock. He was out there—half-lit in the glow of the harbor lights, gun drawn. He moved like a man who’d done this before. Like he wasn’t afraid of blood.
And I just stood there, pulse racing, heart in my throat.
What the hell was I doing?
What had I let myself fall into?
Was I that desperate to come that I reduced myself to this?
He was the enemy. Not just professionally—but on a primal level. He was danger wrapped in silk, ambition with a body count. I’d spent the last year building walls high enough to keep people like him out.
And tonight, I let him in. Let him touch me… almost take me…
I felt stupid. Weak.
But not sorry.
Not yet.
I gathered my things—fast, quiet, efficient.
Years of navigating these streets alone taught me how to disappear.
I slipped out through the side deck, barefoot and invisible, cutting down the docks, past the private slips, past the seafood shack, into the alleys where the streetlights flickered like bad omens.
Nobody saw me.
I could hear the fireworks in the distance, echoing over the water like aftershocks. The whole town was distracted. Too drunk, too loud, too busy looking up.
They didn’t see the girl in a borrowed robe slipping into the shadows like she’d never been there at all. I knew how to avoid the cameras… after all I owned half the buildings they were placed on.
I made it back to my condo in less than ten minutes.
Closed the door behind me. Locked all five deadbolts.
Then I stood there, dripping in someone else’s chaos, heart breaking in a way I wasn’t ready to name.
There’s nothing like a five-mile run to clear your head—unless your past catches up to you in a $150,000 Mercedes.
The Bayview path curved along the water, sun high, gulls shrieking overhead like they had something to warn me about.
My playlist was blasting—my closest friends knew I was a total music junkie— my pace was solid, and I was finally starting to feel like myself again.
Like I hadn’t made out with the devil in a hot tub four nights ago and then ghosted him like I was auditioning for CIA field work.
And then the black car rolled past.
Slow.
Too slow.
I didn’t recognize it at first. Bayview is crawling with expensive toys. But then it cut in front of me—sharp, deliberate—and parked sideways across the trail.
Shit.
The door opened.
Double shit.
Michael Waters stepped out, dark suit, dark scowl, no tie, no smile. His hair was wind-slicked, his eyes locked on me like he’d just spotted prey, and two guys in sunglasses flanked him like shadows.
I mouthed it before I could stop myself: ‘Oh shit.’
His brow arched.
And I did what any intelligent, powerful, self-made woman would do in that moment.
I pivoted.
Hard.
Tore off the trail and into the dunes like I was being hunted—because I kind of was.
Sand kicked up behind me. My lungs burned. The bass from my playlist thudded in my ears, but I didn’t stop. Not even when I hit the seagrass lining the dunes and had to hurdle it like a damn Olympic hopeful.
He called after me. I didn’t hear what he said.
Didn’t want to.
Because if I stopped, if I looked back, I might remember how his mouth felt on mine. I might let myself forget what I saw on that dock. The weapon. The man he really was.
And I might do something even more dangerous than getting caught.
I might let him catch me on purpose.
So, I switched my morning runs to afternoons.
Different route. Less visibility. More shadows. Instead of my signature ponytail. I ran in a cap, bun, and dark Oakleys.
But I wasn’t going to let him take coffee from me.
So I stuck to my morning ritual. 8:30 a.m. sharp. Sundress, sandals, oversized black sunglasses. Nothing flashy. Just enough to blend in with the yoga moms and real estate wives. Low risk. No heat.
The corner café was old school—cash register with the sticky buttons, ceiling fan that only worked when it wanted to, pastries that probably violated health codes but tasted like heaven. Bayview nostalgia at its finest.
I stood in line, scrolling my phone, pretending not to scan every reflection in the glass. Tension had been trailing me for days. That electric pressure in my chest. Like I was being watched.
Paranoia, maybe. I’d done a good job disappearing. Slipped away like a pro. He’d forget. Men like him always did.
But as I stepped to the counter, coffee order already in my mouth, I felt it again.
The shift. The buzz. The eyes.
And before I could process the moment, it happened.
I reached for my card to pay.
And a hand reached with me—quick, clean—and plucked it straight from my fingers.
I gasped. Turned.
Michael Waters stood beside me.
Smiling like sin. Wearing that black suit like a warning label.
“I figured if I hung out around all the local hotspots,” he said, holding up the card between two fingers, “I’d find you again.”
He glanced down. Read it out loud with lazy precision.
“Kathryn Peters.”
I froze. Breath caught. His voice had a habit of doing that.
Then I lifted my chin and said, “Kate, actually.”
He smiled wider.
And just like that, I was back in the fire.
My cheeks flamed.
I hated that. The loss of control. The way heat rose under my skin just from the sound of his voice.
Michael looked too good for 8:30 a.m. Too dangerous. Too intentional.
He paid for my coffee before I could argue, and I didn’t want to make a scene—not here, not in front of the regulars who thought they knew me.
So I let him lead me outside.
He didn’t touch me, but I could feel the gravity of him anyway.
Out on the sidewalk, the air was warmer. Thicker. A summer heat that stuck to your neck and made you feel like secrets were about to spill. I tucked a strand of hair under my cap, trying not to meet his eyes.
Then I noticed the car.
Jet black. Obscene. Parked just a little too perfectly.
And beside it—two men in suits. Ear pieces. Watching.
I nodded toward them. “They with you?”
He glanced over, then shrugged like it was nothing. “Sometimes.”
My stomach dropped.
“You know who I am?” he asked, voice low.
I nodded once. “Yes.”
He didn’t blink.
I took a breath. “And I’m sorry if I… if I led you on.”
His brow lifted slightly.