Chapter 22 #2
My phone buzzes with another text from the unknown number.
Public records are fascinating reading.
“Corporate espionage through bureaucracy,” Drake mutters, typing rapidly. “Clever bastard.”
“He’s using the system against us,” I say, watching document timestamps scroll past. Eli’s fingers tighten imperceptibly against my back. “All these mandatory reports and official reviews...”
“Give him a legitimate paper trail,” Eli adds, that edge in his voice I’ve learned means trouble. “And plausible deniability.”
Drake’s screens fill with permit applications, inspection reports, and committee reviews—a web of official documents connecting every aspect of our project to Wolfe’s sphere of influence.
“We’ve been so focused on protecting our networks,” Drake says, “we never considered he’d use official channels to gather intelligence. Every time we file a report or submit for approval...”
“We’re giving him exactly what he needs,” I finish quietly.
Eli’s eyes lock with mine, and something unspoken passes between us. My breath catches at the intensity in his gaze—determination, anger, and something darker. Something possessive.
“So what do we do?” he asks, staring at the web of documents.
Drake and I exchange a look. We both know there’s only one option—but it means playing Wolfe’s game.
“We give him what he wants,” I say. “Just not quite the way he expects.”
Drake’s fingers fly across the keyboard, pulling up a new set of screens.
“We feed the system exactly what we want Wolfe to see.” A smile plays on his lips. “Every permit application, every inspection report, every safety protocol we submit through official channels...”
“Can be engineered to lead him exactly where we want,” I finish, catching his drift. “Make him think he’s found our vulnerabilities?—“
“When really, he’s walking into ours,” Eli straightens, understanding dawning. His hand slides from my back to my waist, fingers splaying wider. Possessive. Protective. “We create a paper trail that makes him think the west wing environmental controls are vulnerable?—”
“While our actual critical systems are completely separate,” Drake nods. “I can build a shadow network. Everything he monitors will look legitimate, but it’ll be a carefully crafted facade.”
“How long?” I ask, already pulling up the building schematics. Eli watches me work, his gaze a tangible weight against my skin.
“Give me forty-eight hours.” Drake cracks his knuckles. “By the time I’m done, every ‘vulnerability’ he thinks he’s found will be a trap. The more he digs through official channels...”
“The more evidence he builds against himself,” Eli concludes, his hand warm on my back. “Every attempt to exploit our supposed weaknesses will be documented, timestamped?—”
“And completely traceable back to him.” I can’t help smiling. For the first time since this started, we’re not just reacting. We’re taking control.
“I’ll need full access to modify the submission protocols,” Drake says, already typing. “And we’ll have to bring Mrs. Wu in on this—make sure the Ethics Committee knows to play along.”
“Do it,” Eli says. “Whatever you need. It’s time Wolfe learned what happens when he underestimates us.”
I watch the plans take shape on Drake’s screens, feeling that familiar surge of excitement that comes with a perfect solution. Eli’s gaze burns against my profile, and when I turn to meet it, something electric passes between us.
Wolfe thinks he’s got us trapped in bureaucracy?
He’s about to learn that sometimes the best trap is the one your target thinks they’ve set themselves.
Hours later, I’m curled on Eli’s couch, heels discarded, watching city lights flicker through floor-length windows. The media preview feels like days ago, though my blazer still carries the scent of fresh paint from the construction site.
“Here.” Eli hands me a glass of wine, settling beside me. Close enough that our thighs nearly touch. “To surviving journalists and outsmarting Wolfe.”
“To Drake’s brilliant plan,” I add, clinking my glass against his. The wine is rich and familiar—the same bottle we shared after closing the Henderson contract.
“You were amazing today,” he says, his thumb tracing circles on my knee. The touch ignites something low in my belly.
I used to think strength meant handling everything alone. But sitting here, with Eli beside me, I wonder if maybe true strength is knowing when to let someone in.
I lean into him, letting the warmth of the wine and his presence ease the day’s tension. “We make a good team.”
“The best.” His lips brush my temple, then trail lower. The wine glass wobbles in my hand as his mouth finds that sensitive spot below my ear.
“Eli...” The rest of my thought dissolves as his hand slides up my thigh, slipping beneath my skirt. His fingers trace delicate patterns against my skin, each touch sending shivers through me. When he finds my center, wet and ready for him, his breath catches.
“God, Isla,” he murmurs against my neck, his skilled fingers teasing until I can barely think straight.
I arch into his touch. “Bed,” I manage to gasp, before his mouth claims mine.
We don’t quite make it to the bedroom.