Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Emilia “Em” Rivera
The Chicago Media Association’s Annual Excellence Dinner occupied a ballroom at the Drake Hotel that screamed old money and older secrets.
Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto marble floors polished to a mirror shine, and everywhere I looked, power dressed itself in designer labels and practiced smiles.
I adjusted my dress for the third time in as many minutes, smoothing the silk like it might somehow armor me against what waited inside.
The fabric was new — a splurge I couldn’t really afford, deep burgundy that Jenna had insisted brought out the gold flecks in my eyes.
As if gold flecks were going to help me navigate an evening surrounded by media moguls, corporate sponsors, and one very specific billionaire I’d come dangerously close to not leaving his office two days ago.
Almost being the operative word. The word I’d been repeating to myself like a mantra ever since I’d stepped back, straightened my blazer, and walked out of Laurent Enterprises with my dignity technically intact and my pulse doing something completely undignified.
Excellent life choices, Em. Really stellar work.
The invitation had arrived three days ago. I’d attended twice before, both times lurking near the appetizer table and avoiding eye contact with anyone who might ask about my career trajectory. This year was different. This year I had a story that could reshape my entire professional life.
This year I also had the memory of Sebastian Laurent’s hand hovering near my cheek — not quite touching, giving me every chance to step back — seared into places I hadn’t found a way to reach.
I pushed through the entrance, nodded at the security guard who checked my credentials with the enthusiasm of a man counting down the minutes until his shift ended, and let the ballroom swallow me.
My phone vibrated.
You there yet? Please tell me you wore the burgundy.
Jenna. Of course.
I wore the burgundy. Stop mother-henning me.
Not mother-henning. Sister-henning. Big difference. Also you didn’t answer my question about whether HE would be there.
I hadn’t answered because I already knew the answer. Sebastian Laurent’s name was listed among the event sponsors. Laurent Enterprises had donated enough to the Media Association’s scholarship fund to buy naming rights to a small country. The man understood the value of appearing generous.
He also understood, apparently, the value of appearing directly in my line of sight at every possible opportunity.
I spotted him immediately.
Not because I was looking — I was absolutely not looking — but because the room seemed to reorganize itself around his presence the way rooms always did with him.
Conversations shifted. Shoulders straightened.
Even the ambient lighting appeared to cooperate, casting him in gold that photographers probably sold their souls to achieve.
He stood near the bar, one hand wrapped around something amber, the other tucked casually in his pocket.
Dark hair slightly disheveled in that deliberate way that screamed wealth rather than carelessness.
The trimmed beard. The jaw. The white shirt open just enough at the collar that my memory supplied the rest without my permission.
Storm-gray eyes found mine across fifty feet of crowded ballroom.
Heat flashed through my chest before irritation could catch up and correct it.
I looked away first. Grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing server. Reminded myself that I was a professional, that the story mattered, that whatever had almost happened in his office two days ago had been stopped for very good reasons that I stood behind completely.
The champagne burned going down. I took another sip anyway.
“Emilia Rivera.”
His voice came from behind me — low, controlled, carrying that particular resonance that seemed specifically engineered to bypass my rational brain.
Cedar and leather reached me half a second before the words did.
I turned slowly, composing my features into something I hoped resembled professional detachment.
“Mr. Laurent.”
“Back to formalities.” One dark eyebrow arched. “Interesting choice.”
“Consistent choice.” I kept my voice even. “Nothing has changed since my office visit.”
“Hasn’t it?” He stepped closer — not quite invading my space, but close enough that I was aware of every inch between us. “Because I’ve been thinking about what you said when you left. I can’t think clearly around you. It’s been occupying a significant amount of my own thinking.”
“Then we’re both wasting mental bandwidth we could be spending elsewhere.”
“Or we’re both avoiding an obvious conclusion.”
“The obvious conclusion being what, exactly?”
His eyes held mine. “That avoiding each other isn’t working.”
I took a deliberate sip of champagne and didn’t answer, because he wasn’t wrong and we both knew it and giving him the satisfaction of agreeing wasn’t something I was prepared to do in a room full of people who’d print whatever they saw.
“We should talk,” he said. “Somewhere more private.”
“We’re talking now.”
“About the investigation. About what happens next.” He paused, those gray eyes steady on mine. “There are things you don’t know, Em. Things that could change everything.”
The use of my name — the one he’d known before I’d known his — did something I refused to examine. “If you’re trying to intimidate me into dropping the story—”
“I’m trying to propose an alliance.”
That stopped me. “An alliance.”
“Temporary. Mutually beneficial.” He took a sip of his drink, the signet ring catching the light. “You have questions about my project. I have information that could answer them. But there are also parties involved who would prefer those answers never come to light.”
“Parties who work for you.”
“Parties who work within my organization.” He said it with quiet precision.
“There’s a difference. I didn’t authorize what happened with the foundation work.
I didn’t approve the cost-cutting measures that led to the code violations.
And I certainly didn’t arrange for a city inspector to receive a very expensive boat in exchange for his cooperation. ”
I stared at him. “You expect me to believe you had no idea what was happening in your own company.”
“I expect you to consider the possibility that I’m not the villain you’ve decided I am.
” His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“I’m proposing a formal review. Full access to internal documents.
Interviews with relevant personnel. In exchange, you sign an NDA covering proprietary information unrelated to the investigation. ”
“You want me to sign a contract.”
“I want us both protected. You get the access you need to verify your story. I get assurance that competitive secrets stay out of the Tribune’s business section.” He set his glass down. “It’s cleaner this way.”
Cleaner. As if anything about this situation could be called clean. As if we hadn’t stood on opposite sides of his desk two days ago with the air between us pulled taut as a wire, both of us choosing not to close the remaining distance and neither of us entirely at peace with that choice.
“And if I refuse?”
Something shifted in his posture — a stillness that was somehow more dangerous than movement.
“Then we continue as adversaries. My legal team buries you in subpoenas and cease-and-desist letters. Your editor gets pressure from the parent company that I happen to partially own.” His voice was quiet, controlled, and completely without bluster.
“The story dies, your career takes a hit, and we both pretend we haven’t been thinking about each other every hour since you walked out of my office. ”
Arrogant. Accurate. Infuriating in exactly equal measure.
“I need time to consider.”
“Take it.” He reached into his jacket and withdrew a card — heavy cream stock, embossed lettering, because of course. His fingers brushed mine as I took it. The contact lasted two seconds. My skin remembered it for considerably longer. “My direct line. When you’re ready to discuss terms.”
“This doesn’t change anything,” I said. “Between us.”
“Everything has already changed, Em.” His voice dropped, intimate despite the crowd. “You know it as well as I do.”
He turned and walked away before I could respond, disappearing into the crowd with the unhurried certainty of a man who had just said the last word and knew it.
I stood there clutching his card and my champagne, pulse doing its inconvenient thing, mind spinning through scenarios I couldn’t afford to linger in.
Full access. Internal documents. The chance to verify everything Marco had told me and build a case so airtight that even Sebastian Laurent’s army of lawyers couldn’t dismantle it.
It was everything I’d wanted.
It was also, transparently, a trap.
The question was whether the trap was the alliance itself — or the man proposing it.
I drained my champagne and went hunting for the appetizer table.
The next hour passed in a blur of small talk and forced networking.
I traded business cards with journalists I half-recognized, listened to war stories from correspondents who’d covered everything from political scandals to natural disasters, and tracked Sebastian’s movements through the room with a focus that felt uncomfortably close to surveillance.
He worked the crowd with the precision of a man who’d spent decades learning how to make people feel chosen.
A hand on a shoulder here. Laughter there that sounded almost genuine.
Whatever else I thought of him, he understood power — how to wield it, how to make others crave proximity to it without ever appearing to demand anything in return.
It was infuriating. It was also, if I was being completely honest with myself, something I was starting to find more compelling than I could afford.
I needed air.
I was making my way toward the balcony when a hand caught my elbow.
“Ms. Rivera. A moment?”