Chapter 9 #2
“Not yet. I need proof. Real proof, not suspicion dressed up as circumstantial evidence.” He turned back to face me, and there it was again — that flash of something unguarded that only appeared when he’d stopped performing for the room.
“This is why I needed your help. You see patterns I miss. You ask questions I don’t think to ask. ”
I moved toward him slowly. “Then let’s find your proof.”
We spent the next three hours buried in documents.
Sebastian had Daniel bring coffee — the expensive kind, dark and strong — and we spread files across the conference table like we were planning a campaign. Which, in every way that mattered, we were.
Richard Hartley’s name appeared in connection with three of the subcontractors who’d supplied substandard materials.
His signature was on authorization forms for payments that didn’t match the official invoices.
And buried in the email archives, I found a chain of communication with an outside consultant referencing “managing complications” and “ensuring discretion.”
“This is him.” I pointed to a specific email, timestamp and all. “This was sent twelve hours after Marco Benedetti first contacted me about the foundation issues.”
Sebastian leaned over my shoulder, close enough that the warmth of him and the faint cedar scent brushed the edge of my awareness. “He knew you were investigating. He’s been tracking your progress from the inside.”
“Which means he probably knows about us too.”
“Yes.” His voice went grim. “Which means we need to move fast.”
I turned to look at him, and suddenly he was right there, his face inches from mine, his eyes dropping to my mouth for exactly one second before coming back up.
“Emilia.” His voice had gone rough around the edges.
“We should probably stay professional.” My own voice didn’t sound particularly convincing.
“We probably should.”
Neither of us moved.
“Sebastian—”
His phone rang.
He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second — something between frustration and reluctant relief — and stepped back to answer. “Laurent.”
I used the interruption to straighten papers I didn’t need to straighten and remember how to breathe normally. My body was staging a full-scale rebellion against my brain’s insistence on keeping appropriate boundaries, and my brain was losing badly.
“When?” Sebastian’s voice sharpened. “How did it—” He stopped, listening. His expression went cold in the particular way it did when he’d received information he hadn’t anticipated and was already three steps ahead of dealing with it. “Don’t touch anything. I’m on my way.”
He hung up and turned to me.
“What is it?”
“Someone leaked to three major outlets.” His voice was controlled and completely flat. “A report alleging that Laurent Enterprises knowingly used substandard materials across multiple developments — not just Lakefront. It names me directly as the person who authorized the cost-cutting measures.”
My stomach dropped. “That’s not true.”
“No. It’s not.” He was already moving toward the door. “But someone wants it to look like it is, and they’ve provided documentation that appears to support the allegations.”
“Fabricated?”
“Almost certainly. But by the time we prove that, the damage will be done.”
I grabbed my notebook and followed him. “Where are we going?”
“To find Richard Hartley.” His jaw was set, his eyes hard with the specific cold focus I’d seen him use in boardrooms. “Before he disappears with whatever evidence he hasn’t already destroyed.”
We made it to the elevator before he stopped, turning to face me. The fury had shifted into something quieter.
“You should stay here,” he said.
“Not a chance.”
“Emilia—”
“You wanted my help finding the truth.” I held his gaze steadily. “This is me helping.”
He looked at me for a long moment. Something in his expression moved — the resistance giving way to something that wasn’t quite surrender and wasn’t quite relief but lived somewhere between them.
“You’re the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met.”
“I know.” I stepped into the elevator. “Are you coming?”
He followed me in. As the doors closed, his hand found the small of my back — that gesture I’d cataloged a dozen times now, the one that felt protective rather than possessive, the one that my body had developed an embarrassingly Pavlovian response to.
“Whatever we find,” he said quietly, “whatever happens next — I want you to know that meeting you is the only good thing that’s come out of this disaster.”
I looked up at him. “Sebastian—”
“I know the timing is terrible. I know this is complicated. I know you’re still deciding how much to trust me.” His thumb traced a small circle against my spine through the silk of Jenna’s blouse. “But I need you to know that.”
The elevator descended, carrying us toward whatever chaos waited below. And despite everything — the threats, the investigation, the rapidly unraveling scandal surrounding us on all sides — all I could think about was how right his hand felt against my back.
How dangerous it was to want something this much.
How I was going to want it anyway.