8. War Room
War Room
CONNOR
My suite looks like a crime scene.
Not literally. But the walls are covered in printouts, photos, timeline sketches. Red string connects faces to dates to locations. Rachel's face appears in at least twelve different shots, most of them from the last seventy-two hours.
I'm mapping a conspiracy. What I should not be doing is noticing the way her hair catches the lamplight when she leans forward to study the evidence board.
Focus, Grey.
"This is insane," she says.
"This is thorough." I don't look up from the financial records on my laptop. If I look at her, I'll get distracted by the way that black sweater drapes over her curves. "Sit."
"Don't tell me what to do."
"Rachel." I finally meet her eyes. Mistake. They're dark and tired and still somehow magnetic.
"Sit down before you fall down. You've been awake for nineteen hours."
She wants to argue. I can see it in the stubborn set of her jaw. But her legs are shaking and there's a chair right there, so she drops into it with a huff that shouldn't be as attractive as it is.
I slide a mug toward her. Black, two sugars. Exactly how she takes it.
She doesn't ask how I know that. Smart woman.
"We need to map this," I say. "Everyone who could benefit from destroying you. Everyone with access. Everyone with motive."
"That's a long list."
"Then we make a long list."
I pull up a fresh document and project it onto the wall. The first name I type makes her posture stiffen.
Senator Moreau.
"Obviously," she mutters.
I add more names. Political rivals. Business competitors. Three different tabloid editors who would kill for this story. Then I pause. "Who else?"
The silence stretches. When I look at her, she's staring at the wall with an expression that makes my chest tighten.
"Fawn Moreau," she says quietly.
My fingers freeze over the keyboard. "Moreau's daughter?"
"Niece. And my old design-school rival." The words come out bitter. Wounded. "We were in the same cohort at Parsons. She plagiarized my senior thesis, got caught, almost got expelled. I testified against her."
I type the name. Add a red circle around it. "Tell me about her."
She does. The entitled smirk. The hearing where Fawn cried and blamed Rachel for sabotage. The way Fawn looked at her six months ago at a gala, like she was already planning Rachel's funeral.
I listen without interrupting. Watch the way Rachel's hands tighten around the mug. The way her voice stays level even though I can hear the hurt underneath it.
When she's done, I say, "She has means, motive, and access."
"She also has her uncle's corruption to hide." Rachel wraps both hands around the coffee mug.
"If I go down for being connected to him, nobody looks too closely at her."
"Smart."
"She always was." She hates admitting it. I can tell. "Just not as smart as me."
I almost smile. "Confident."
"Accurate."
This time I do smile. Just barely. Just enough to watch warmth flicker in her eyes before she looks away fast.
Dangerous territory, Grey.
We work in silence for twenty minutes. I pull financial records while Rachel cross-references social media posts. The suite feels smaller with every passing minute. Forced proximity is strategic when you're protecting a client.
It's torture when you want to back her against the nearest wall and kiss her until she forgets her own name.
I run my hand through my hair, refocusing on the offshore account trail. Fifty thousand euros transferred three days before Paris Fashion Week to a freelance photographer. The same photographer who took the photos that started this nightmare.
"You're staring," I say without looking up.
"I'm thinking."
"You're staring."
She kicks my chair. "Focus on the conspiracy, Grey."
I catch her ankle before she can pull back. Her skin is warm through the thin sock. My thumb finds the arch of her foot and presses, just once. I feel her whole body jolt.
The fantasy slips in before I can stop it: her legs wrapped around me, that sharp gasp turning into a moan, my name on her lips instead of that defiant glare?—
I release her ankle. "Don't distract me."
"You grabbed me." Her voice has gone breathless.
"You kicked me."
"You deserved it."
I finally look at her. Really look. Her pupils are dilated. Her chest rises and falls just a little too fast. She feels this too. This pull. This hunger.
"Rachel."
That's all I say. Just her name. But something shifts in her expression. Heat. Challenge. Want.
She stands up fast. "I need water."
I watch her walk toward the kitchen. Watch the sway of her hips. The curve of her ass in those dark jeans. When she disappears around the corner, I drop my head back and stare at the ceiling.
Get it together.
I give her thirty seconds. Then I follow.
She's standing at the counter with her back to me, shoulders tense. I stop in the doorway and lean against the frame.
"You okay?"
She spins around so fast she nearly drops the water glass. "Fine. Just tired."
Liar. But I don't push. Instead I gesture back toward the war room. "I need you to look at something."
She follows me back. I pull up the financial transfer on the screen and watch her face go pale as she processes what she's seeing.
"That photographer took the photos of you and Moreau that started this whole thing," I say. "Fifty thousand euros. Three days before your show."
"Can you trace the account?"
"Working on it." I pull up another window. "But look at the timing. Three days before your show. Right when you were doing final fittings."
"Someone knew my schedule."
"Someone knew everything." I type faster, following the digital breadcrumbs. "Your movements. Your events. Your security protocols."
The color drains from her face. "They've been watching me for weeks."
"Maybe longer."
She sinks into the chair. I keep working, but I'm hyperaware of her in my peripheral vision. The way she's gone still. The fear she's trying to hide.
I want to fix this. I want to track down whoever's doing this and make them disappear. I want to wrap her in my arms and promise her she's safe.
None of which is professional. All of which I want anyway.
It's nearly two in the morning when I finally close the laptop. Rachel is still sitting there, staring at the evidence wall with exhausted determination.
"You should get some sleep," I say.
"I'm not tired."
"Liar."
She stands up. We're too close now. Close enough that I can see the gold flecks in her eyes. The tiny freckle at the corner of her mouth.
"Connor."
"Don't." My voice comes out strained. "Don't say my name like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you want me to do something about it."
The air between us crackles. Electric. Inevitable.
She should step back. Should walk away. Should remember that I'm supposed to be saving her career, not fantasizing about all the ways I could make her come undone.
But she steps closer instead. "What if I do?"
My hands at my sides. Physical restraint. The only thing keeping me from reaching for her.
"Rachel." It's a warning. "This is a bad idea."
"Everything about this week has been a bad idea."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
We're inches apart now. Heat radiates off her body. I can smell jasmine and something clean and warm underneath it. Her pulse flutters in the hollow of her throat.
She's not unaffected. She's just braver than I am.
"If I kiss you," I say, voice low and dangerous, "I won't stop there."
She forgets to breathe. I watch her chest freeze mid-rise. "Maybe I don't want you to stop."
For one perfect, terrible second, I let myself imagine it. My hands in her hair. Her back against the wall. The taste of her mouth and the sound she'd make when I?—
A knock at the door shatters the moment.
I step back like she burned me. "Stay here."
"Connor."
"Stay. Here."
I check the peephole. Nate. I open the door just wide enough for him to hand me a file folder without seeing inside.
"Hotel security footage from the break-in," he says. "And Webb wants a status update."
"Tell him I'm busy."
Nate's expression doesn't change, but I know he's noticed Rachel standing in my war room at two in the morning. "Copy that."
I close the door. Turn back to find Rachel watching me with an expression I can't read.
"What was that?"
"Security footage." I hold up the folder. "From your break-in."
She crosses her arms. "You said you'd tell me before making moves like that."
"I did tell you. Just now."
"After you already got it."
"Would you have said no?"
She opens her mouth. Closes it. "That's not the point."
"That's exactly the point." I toss the folder onto the table. "Someone broke into your room,
Rachel. Someone threatened you. I'm not asking permission to protect you."
"I'm not asking you to ask permission. I'm asking you to include me."
"I am including you. You're standing in my war room at two in the morning looking at evidence I gathered."
"Evidence you gathered without telling me."
We're arguing. Again. The tension from a moment ago has shifted into something sharper.
Familiar territory. Safer territory.
"Go to bed, Rachel."
"Don't order me around."
"Then stop acting like a client and start acting like a partner."
Her eyes flash. "I am your client."
The words land like a slap. Cold. Clarifying. Right.
She's my client. This attraction, this pull, this thing between us that makes my chest tight and my control slip—none of it matters. She's my client. I'm her fixer. There are lines I don't cross.
Even when I want to.
Especially when I want to.
"You're right," I say. My voice comes out flat. Professional. "You're my client. Which means you should listen when I tell you to get some sleep."
Something flickers in her expression. Hurt, maybe. Or disappointment.
She turns toward the door. Pauses with her hand on the handle. "For the record? I don't want a fixer who makes decisions for me. I want a partner who makes them with me."
Then she's gone.
I stand in my war room, surrounded by evidence of her unraveling life, and listen to her footsteps disappear down the hallway.
My phone is in my hand before I realize I'm holding it. No new messages. No threats. No instructions.
Just Webb's name on my recent calls, waiting for that status update.
I walk to the window instead. Paris glitters below, beautiful and cold. My reflection stares back at me from the dark glass. I look exactly like what I am: a man who fixes problems for a living and destroys everything he touches.
I press my palm against the cold window.
Down the hall, Rachel is going to bed angry at me. Frustrated with me. Maybe still wanting me despite every reason she shouldn't.
And I realize with creeping, terrible certainty: I don't know how to do this. Don't know how to be the partner she needs instead of the fixer I've always been. Don't know how to let someone in without eventually destroying them.
I've spent fifteen years building walls. Fifteen years learning how to fix everyone else's problems while keeping my own locked away.
Rachel Nguyen is going to burn through every single one of those walls.
And I have no idea if I'm ready for what comes after.