CHAPTER 9
AUDREY
The drafting table is made of solid oak.
The dual monitors are top-of-the-line, the kind graphic designers use when they have an unlimited corporate budget.
There is a fresh cup of coffee sitting on a ceramic coaster, placed there ten minutes ago by a very quiet, very efficient housekeeper who completely ignored my attempts to make small talk.
I stare at the blank screen in front of me.
I should be working. I should be pulling up my old client files from the cloud backup I managed to secure before Simon locked me out of the server. Malcolm gave me the tools to rebuild my life, and I am currently using them to stare at a blinking cursor while my brain spins in circles.
A working woman is less likely to murder her fake fiancé out of sheer boredom.
I press the palm of my hand against my forehead.
He is infuriating. He is terrifying. And he is the only person who has looked at me in the last month and seen something other than a victim.
I drop my hand and grab the mouse, forcing myself to click on the folder labeled Archived Proposals.
I need to focus. If I let myself think about the car ride last night—about the way his hand felt in my hair, or the dark, absolute certainty in his voice when he said I was the prize—I am going to lose my mind.
I am living in a glass cage with a predator who is pretending to be a gentleman, and the worst part is that I am starting to like the cage.
My phone buzzes on the desk, vibrating against the wood.
I jump slightly, my elbow knocking into the edge of the keyboard. I look at the screen.
It’s Vivian.
I let out a long breath and hit accept, putting the phone on speaker.
"If you are calling to tell me that I am on the front page of every gossip blog in the Midwest, I already know," I say, leaning back in the ergonomic chair.
"Oh, honey, you aren't just on the front page. You are the entire internet today," Vivian’s voice comes through the speaker, loud and chaotic. I can hear the sound of traffic and sirens in the background. She’s probably walking back to her office from court.
"My boss literally stopped a meeting this morning to ask if I was the same Vivian Hayes who was tagged in a photo with you from three years ago. I am adjacent to royalty."
"You are adjacent to a felony," I correct her, rubbing the back of my neck. "How bad is it out there?"
"Define bad. Because if you mean 'is Simon currently having a public meltdown', the answer is yes. A friend of mine works at his country club. Apparently, he canceled his morning golf game and spent an hour screaming at someone on the phone in the parking lot."
A sharp, vindictive thrill shoots through my chest. "Good."
"Yeah, it’s great. Right up until the part where the Vance family realizes you are a massive liability and decides to make you disappear.
" Vivian pauses, the sound of a passing bus drowning her out for a second. "Audrey, I’m serious. I saw the picture. You look incredible, but Malcolm Vance looks like he’s ready to unhinge his jaw and swallow the photographer whole. Are you safe in that apartment?"
I look around the pristine, quiet office. The heavy oak table. The expensive monitors. The door that I am free to lock whenever I want.
"I'm safe," I say quietly.
"You don't sound entirely convinced."
"I am. It's just..." I trail off, my fingers absently twisting the vintage diamond on my left hand. "He’s not what I expected, Viv. He’s cold, and he’s ruthless, but he doesn't treat me like I’m fragile. Simon always treated me like I was made of glass. Malcolm treats me like I’m holding a weapon."
Vivian is silent for a long moment. When she speaks again, her lawyer voice is gone, replaced by the tone she uses when she thinks I am making a terrible life choice.
"Audrey. Please tell me you are not falling for the billionaire psychopath who is using you to destroy his own family."
"I'm not falling for him," I say quickly. Too quickly. The denial tastes like ash in my mouth. "It’s a business arrangement. We have a contract."
"People break contracts every day. I make a living off it." She sighs. "Just... keep your guard up. Simon is a coward, but cowards do desperate things when they are backed into a corner. If he can't get to you, he’s going to try to find something to use against you."
"There is nothing to find," I say, pulling up a spreadsheet on the monitor. "My life is a boring, open book. I have no criminal record, no secret offshore accounts, and no hidden scandals. The worst thing I’ve ever done is date his brother."
"Let's hope Simon’s private investigators are as bored by your life as you are," Vivian mutters. "I have to go. My paralegal is waving a terrifying stack of papers at me. Call me later. And don't sign anything else without letting me read it first."
"I won't. Bye, Viv."
I end the call. The silence of the penthouse rushes back in, heavier than before.
Private investigators.
I stare at the spreadsheet, the numbers blurring together. Vivian was joking, but the paranoia she planted immediately takes root in my chest. Simon has endless resources. He has his father’s money. If he wants to dig into my life, he won't stop at my credit score. He’ll dig into my family.
My stomach twists into a tight, uncomfortable knot.
My family isn't a scandal, but it is a wound.
My father walked out when I was twelve, leaving behind a mountain of gambling debts and a mother who spent the next decade working two jobs just to keep the lights on.
I spent my entire adult life building a pristine, professional image to distance myself from that chaos.
If Simon drags my mother’s financial history into the tabloids to prove I’m just a gold digger looking for a payout...
I push the chair back, the wheels scraping loudly against the hardwood floor.
I need air. The walls of the office press too close.
I walk out into the hallway, my bare feet silent on the floorboards. The penthouse is empty. Grant is supposedly somewhere in the building, but he isn't in the apartment.
I walk into the massive living room, heading toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. The view of Lake Michigan is stunning, but it doesn't help the claustrophobia. I press my forehead against the cold glass, closing my eyes and trying to slow my breathing.
You are not a liability to me.
Malcolm’s words from the car echo in my head. He sounded so certain. But Malcolm doesn't know everything about me. He knows the data. He knows the logistics. He doesn't know the shame of growing up fielding calls from collection agencies.
A soft chime breaks the silence of the apartment.
I open my eyes, turning away from the window.
The sound came from the kitchen. It wasn't my phone. It was a sharp, electronic ping.
I walk slowly toward the kitchen island. Sitting next to the coffee maker is the sleek, black tablet Malcolm was using this morning. He left it behind when he went to the office.
The screen is lit up, displaying a notification banner across the center.
I know I shouldn't look. I know the rule about transparency goes both ways, and snooping through the encrypted tablet of a security CEO is a fantastic way to get myself thrown out of the penthouse.
But the name on the notification stops me dead.
GRANT: Target located. Russo is operating out of a motel in the South Loop. Awaiting your arrival.
My pulse kicks hard against my ribs.
Russo.
The name means nothing to me, but the context is terrifying. Target located. Awaiting your arrival.
Why is Malcolm’s head of security tracking someone in a cheap motel? And why is Malcolm going there personally?
I step closer to the island. The screen goes dark after a few seconds, plunging the kitchen back into shadows.
My heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I press my thumb against the side of my index finger, the physical pain grounding me.
Simon is a coward, but cowards do desperate things.
What if Russo is the investigator? What if Simon already hired someone, and Malcolm found out?
I look at the dark screen of the tablet, then at the private elevator doors at the end of the foyer.
Malcolm told me not to leave the apartment without security. He told me I was safe here. But if he is out there, dealing with Simon’s mess in the shadows, he isn't just protecting me. He is escalating the war.
If Malcolm does something violent to this Russo guy, Simon will use it. He will go to the police. He will use it to destroy Malcolm, and the entire fake engagement will collapse into a criminal investigation.
I can't let him do it. I can't let him cross a line he can't come back from just to clean up my mess.
I turn around and run back to the guest bedroom.
I strip off the oversized sweater and sweatpants, grabbing the first pair of jeans and a dark turtleneck I can find in my suitcase. I shove my feet into a pair of boots, grab my phone and my coat, and walk back out to the foyer.
I press the call button for the private elevator.
The panel flashes red. Biometric scan required.
I curse under my breath. Malcolm’s security system is absolute. I can't even leave the floor without his fingerprint.
I look around the foyer, my eyes landing on the sleek intercom panel mounted on the wall next to the elevator. I press the button labeled Lobby Security.
A crackle of static, and then a deep, bored voice answers. "Front desk."
"Hi," I say, forcing my voice to sound calm and authoritative. "This is Audrey Jennings. Malcolm’s fiancée. I need the elevator unlocked for the penthouse. I have to run an errand."
There is a long pause. "Miss Jennings. Mr. Vance left strict instructions that you are not to leave the building without an escort."
"I know," I lie smoothly. "Grant cleared a temporary escort profile for me this morning. Check the log. He is meeting me in the lobby, and we are running late."
Another pause. I hold my breath, my fingernails digging into the palms of my hands.
If the guard calls Malcolm to verify, I am dead.
The system gives a soft, reluctant click.
The panel turns green, not because I defeated Malcolm’s security, but because I found the one human seam in it. The heavy metal doors slide open.
"Have a good afternoon, Miss Jennings," the guard says through the intercom.
"Thank you."
I step into the elevator, my pulse roaring in my ears. The doors close, and the car begins its rapid descent toward the ground floor.
I pull out my phone and open a ride-share app. I type in South Loop Motels. There are only three in that specific area that fit the description of a place a shady private investigator would operate out of.
I am acting like a lunatic. I am breaking the only rule Malcolm gave me. I am walking out of a secure fortress and straight into the kind of neighborhood where people like Russo do business.
But as the elevator numbers tick down, I realize I am not doing this to protect my own reputation.
I am doing it to protect Malcolm.
The doors open to the grand lobby of the building. The security guard at the desk looks up, expecting to see Grant standing next to me.
I don't give him time to ask questions. I pull the collar of my coat up, lower my head, and walk straight out the revolving glass doors into the freezing Chicago wind.
A black sedan pulls up to the curb a minute later. I check the license plate, open the back door, and slide in.
"South Loop," I tell the driver, my voice shaking slightly.
The car pulls away from the curb, merging into the heavy afternoon traffic. I look out the window, watching the towering glass skyscrapers of the Gold Coast fade into the grittier, industrial landscape of the south side.
I look down at my left hand.
The vintage diamond catches the gray light filtering through the car window.
Fear keeps you sharp, Malcolm had said. Don't lose it.
I am terrified. But for the first time in a month, I am not running away from the danger.
I am driving straight toward it.