Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Nick
I don’t call ahead.
Rebecca’s assistant tries to block me at the front desk, but one look is enough to make her step aside. I walk past her without breaking stride, heading straight for Rebecca’s corner office as if I still own the damn place, as if I never left this mess behind.
She’s sitting at her desk, looking exactly the way she always does: blood-red silk draped over her, every inch of her poised and perfect, as though she’s been waiting for this moment with the cool detachment of someone who always gets what they want.
She doesn’t seem surprised to see me.
“Nick,” she says with that faint, practiced smile, as if I’m just a few minutes early for brunch instead of about to destroy everything she’s built. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
I slam the door behind me. “Don’t.”
Her brow lifts in feigned innocence. “Don’t what?”
I toss the manila folder Jonah handed me onto her desk with a force that makes the papers spill across the marble surface. Screenshots, tabloid headlines, my name and Sara’s in big, bold, scandal hungry print.
Words like “inappropriate workplace relationship” and “pattern of behavior” jump off the page. There’s even that side-by-side shot of me walking into the gala with her, and the stolen one, grainy, intimate, of us in the lobby after.
Too many photos from a night we were never supposed to be seen at.
Her eyes scan over them slowly, almost disinterested, as though this is just another Tuesday for her. “Tabloids have always loved you, Nick. You are the most unattainable bachelor CEO in the city. Shit, both men and women want you, everyone else envies you, and the worst part? You don’t even try.”
My jaw tightens. “It was a legal hit. You know it.”
She shrugs. “Didn’t look that way in the press.”
I don’t bite. Not now. Not when I’ve got the fire of a goddamn furnace crawling up my spine. “Cut the bullshit, Rebecca. I know exactly what this is.”
She leans back, steepling her fingers as if she’s got all the time in the world. “Do you?”
“You’re behind this.” I gesture to the chaos in front of us. “The leaks, the timing, the missing photo. You’re the only one who had access.”
She scoffs, as though this is beneath her. “Please. If I wanted to come after you, I wouldn’t waste time with some bottom-tier gossip site. I’d take it to the Times.”
“And you didn’t?” I snap.
“No,” she says, her tone flat now. “I didn’t.”
I watch her face closely. I’m looking for a flicker of guilt, something, anything, to tell me I’m right. But there’s nothing. Not even a hint of the smirk she gets when she lies. Just cold indifference.
“Then who did?” I demand.
She lets out a half laugh, her expression hardening, crossing her legs as though she’s the one in control.
“I don’t know, Nick. Maybe someone else realized that Sara’s just the flavor of the month. That she’s nothing new. And that you…” She jabs a finger at me. “You fall for the same type over and over. Wide eyes, pretty mouth, damsel in distress routine.”
My fists clench.
“Careful,” I growl, my voice low. “You’re treading a line you won’t come back from.”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” she waves a hand dismissively. “You think you’re different now? That playing house with your assistant makes you a hero instead of a cliché?”
“She’s not my assistant,” I snap, cold as ice. “I’ve told you that a thousand times.”
Rebecca’s smile is sharp, a knife cutting through the tension. “Right. Of course not. Because that would be unethical.”
That’s it.
I step forward, placing both hands flat on her desk. I lean in, looming over her, my voice low and lethal. “You don’t get to talk about her. Not like that. You don’t know a damn thing about who she is or what she means to me.”
She doesn’t flinch. The satisfaction on her face slips—just barely, but it’s enough.
“You always pick the ones who make you feel good about yourself,” she says, her voice tight. “I was too much. Too loud. Too demanding. But her? She looks at you like you invented oxygen.”
“I came here to get the truth, not a jealous monologue.”
Her eyes flash. “I’m not jealous, Nick. I’m bitter. There’s a difference. You walked away from me, and that’s fine. I’ve made my peace with it. But don’t pretend I’m the villain just because your new girlfriend makes you forget your past.”
I stare at her. And suddenly, it’s all clear.
She’s not calculating anymore. Not pulling strings. Not dangerous. She’s hurt. Clinging to something that was never as solid as she thought.
This isn’t about strategy. It’s about spite.
And that makes her less of a threat, not more.
“You didn’t leak it,” I say, my voice low. “You just sent it to me.”
She doesn’t deny it. Just lifts her chin, meeting my gaze.
“You should be careful, Nick. This thing with her? It’s going to cost you more than you think.”
I straighten, jaw tight. “It’s already cost me enough.”
I walk out of her office and down the hall, the weight of her words lingering behind me.
But inside, I’m unraveling.
Rebecca didn’t leak the photos. I believe that now. Not because I trust her, but because for once, she told the truth. Or at least, just enough of it to show me this is bigger than I thought.
Someone else is behind this. Someone who doesn’t want to just wound, they want to wreck.
By the time I reach my building, my pulse is thudding so loud in my ears that I almost don’t hear the quiet voice call my name.
“Mr. Ashford.”
I turn.
One of the security officers, older guy, graying buzz cut, steps out from behind the desk. He’s never said more than a nod before, but now there’s something different in his eyes… serious. Alert.
“I’ve got something you need to see.”
He holds out a flash drive.
I eye it. “What is it?”
He glances around before speaking in a low voice. “You asked us to monitor for anything suspicious after that incident with the file going missing from your office.”
I nod, memory clicking into place.
He clears his throat. “One of our overnight guys flagged some footage. Thought it looked… off. So I pulled it. Thought you should be the one to see it first.”
I take the drive from him, the plastic still warm from his hand. “Thanks.”
“Check it soon,” he says, his gaze lingering on me. The look lands heavy in my gut. “It doesn’t feel right.”
I don’t waste time. Head straight for my office, close the door behind me, and plug the flash drive into my laptop. My fingers tremble slightly against the trackpad, a reflex I can’t shake.
The folder opens.
Footage queues up.
And then I see her.
Not Rebecca. Not some tabloid intern.
A woman I’ve never seen before.
Slim. Pale. Big dark eyes. Nervous posture.
And I know, instantly, this isn’t a coincidence.
She’s standing outside my office door, dressed in a black blazer that’s too formal for her. Clutching a bag to her chest, her posture stiff, as if she’s afraid someone will notice her.
Not once. Not twice. Multiple times. Across several days. Watching. Lurking. Timing her entrance for when no one’s around.
And then, there it is.
She slips inside my office the afternoon after I got the gala photo. A quick glance over her shoulder, then she’s gone from view.
Four minutes later, she walks out.
The camera doesn’t catch her taking anything, but I know exactly what went missing. I know where it was.
The photo of me and Sara.
And whoever she is…
She’s the one who took it.
I rewind the footage. Freeze-frame her face as she passes a security camera near the stairwell.
She’s not someone I know.
But there’s something in her expression, eager, vacant, that twists my gut.
Who the hell is she?
And more importantly, who is she working for?
My mind races, matching the woman’s nervous, careful movements to the name that’s been rattling around in the back of my head since this whole mess started.
Isla Vale. The journalist from Edge Magazine who sent the note. The one who seemed to have every piece of this puzzle except for the one where I come out unscathed.
I lean back in my chair, staring at the screen, the weight of it sinking in. Whoever Isla Vale is, if this is her, then she’s playing a game, and it’s far from over.
The photo of me and Sara? That’s just the beginning. If she’s been watching me this closely, then she’s not just after a story. She’s out for blood.
My phone buzzes on the desk, jerking me from the spiral I’m already sinking into.
It’s a text from Jonah: Board’s calling an emergency meeting this afternoon. They’re pissed. You ready?
No. Not even close.
But I text back: Yeah. Let’s sort this out.
If that magazine is behind this, they’ve made one hell of a mistake.
Because I don’t care what it costs me anymore. My name. My job. My damn reputation.
They came for me?
Fine.
But now they’ve come for her.
And I’ll burn the whole damn building down before I let that stand.