Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Isla
“That’s the last one.” I lean back in my chair, stretching muscles stiff from hours at my desk. The final security patch locks into place, the last piece in the trap we’ve spent days perfecting.
Three days of tracking Wolfe’s digital footprints, three days of feeding his team false leads, and finally, the net is tight.
“Drake, confirm the trap is still holding?”
“Checking now.” His voice crackles through my earpiece, thick with exhaustion. “Yeah, we’re golden. They fell for it three times tonight. Every move they make ties them tighter to the evidence.”
A slow smile pulls at my lips. Three days, and Wolfe’s team still thinks they’re ahead. Every breach we log is another thread in the evidence trail leading straight back to him.
“No new attempts in the past hour,” I note, pulling up the system logs. “Think they’ve finally called it a night?”
“Probably sitting around, patting themselves on the back over intel that’s as useful as a fake treasure map.”
Keys click on Drake’s end.
“Meanwhile, our real systems are locked up tighter than Fort Knox. Mrs. Wu’s going to have a field day with this.”
“She deserves it.” I close the logs, satisfaction settling in. “Three days of breadcrumbs, and Wolfe’s people have chased every single one.”
My phone buzzes—Mom’s third call in an hour. I silence it without looking. Not now.
“You should get some rest,” Drake says, gentler this time.
“You first,” I tease, standing to stretch.
“Fine, fine.” He yawns. “Get some sleep, Carrington. And Isla?” His voice turns serious. “Whatever Wolfe throws at us next, we’re two steps ahead.”
“Look who’s talking.” I stretch, feeling muscles protest from too long hunched over keyboards. “When’s the last time you left your tech sanctuary?”
“That’s different. I’m?—“
“A workaholic? Pot, meet kettle.”
His laugh carries through the line.
“Fine. How about we both call it a night? The systems are secure, the patches are holding, and honestly? I could use about twelve hours of sleep.”
I glance at the city beyond my windows, Manhattan’s lights twinkling like stars. The Artisan Hotel rises in the distance, its framework a promise against the night sky. For the first time in days, looking at it doesn’t fill me with dread.
“You’re right,” I admit, starting to shut down my workstation.
“We did good work here, Drake. Thank you.”
“Hey, that’s what friends are for. Breaking into secure systems, fighting corporate saboteurs, the usual.”
I smile, gathering my things. “Just another Tuesday at the office.”
“Get some sleep, Carrington. And Isla?” His voice turns serious. “We’ve got this. Whatever Wolfe tries next, we’re ready.”
The elevator doors close on my reflection – copper hair escaping its bun, exhaustion finally showing in my eyes.
I pull out my phone, fingers hovering over Eli’s contact.
He’s in Chicago until tomorrow, some urgent C-suite meetings he couldn’t reschedule.
The thought of my empty loft makes my chest tight.
On nights like this, after a victory, we’d usually share a bottle of wine on his balcony, his steady presence helping me decompress. He’d probably tease me about working too hard while secretly being just as bad himself. The memory brings a small smile to my face.
“Update from Chicago, Ms. Carrington,” IRIS announces through my phone. “Mr. Alderidge’s meetings are running late.”
“Of course they are.” I lean against the elevator wall, letting out a slow breath. “He’s probably driving his executive team crazy.”
The floors tick down, and I let myself imagine him here instead – his hand on my lower back as we ride down together, insisting on taking me home despite my protests that I can handle myself.
He’d say something about handling myself not being the point, and I’d pretend to be annoyed while secretly loving how well he knows me.
The drive home feels surreal after so many nights at the office. My Chelsea loft welcomes me with familiar shadows, the ambient glow from street lights painting patterns across my drafting table. I drop my keys in the bowl by the door, muscle memory taking over.
“Welcome home, Isla,” IRIS’s voice carries through my home integration system. “Would you like me to start your evening wind-down protocol?”
“Yes, please.” The soft lights fade up as I kick off my heels, the gentle jazz playlist we programmed starting in the background. “Any urgent messages?”
“Only personal correspondence. Your mother has called three times.”
Guilt twists in my stomach as I check my phone. Three missed calls, two voicemails. I should listen to them, but exhaustion pulls at my edges.
“Tomorrow,” I murmur, more to myself than IRIS. “I’ll call her tomorrow.”
My reflection catches in the window as I move to the kitchen – I look exactly as tired as I feel. The city sprawls beyond the glass, the Artisan Hotel’s skeleton visible in the distance. For once, I force myself not to stare at it.
My phone buzzes. Eli.
“You actually left the office,” his voice carries a smile when I answer.
“I’m impressed.”
“Drake’s orders.” I cradle the phone between ear and shoulder, pulling leftovers from the fridge. “Apparently, thirty-six hours straight isn’t healthy.”
“He might be onto something there.” A pause, then softer: “You okay?”
The simple question nearly undoes me. I lean against my counter, suddenly grateful for the solid surface.
“Yeah. Just... tired, you know?”
“I know.” His voice wraps around me like a warm blanket.
“Get some rest, Isla. The world can wait until morning.”
After we hang up, I curl up on my window seat with reheated pasta, letting myself really breathe for the first time in days. The city pulses below, but up here, in my sanctuary, everything feels almost peaceful.
“IRIS, dim lights to evening setting.”
As the apartment softens into gentle shadows, I feel the adrenaline of the past few days finally begin to fade.
Sleep proves elusive despite my exhaustion. I find myself in my favorite spot – the window seat overlooking Manhattan, a throw blanket wrapped around my shoulders. The city’s rhythm feels different at this hour, slower, more contemplative.
“Unable to sleep?” IRIS asks softly.
“Just thinking.” I press my forehead against the cool glass. “Run tomorrow’s schedule for me?”
“9 AM Ethics Committee briefing. 11 AM structural review with the construction team. 1 PM?—”
“Stop.” I close my eyes, letting out a slow breath.
“What would happen if I just... didn’t go in tomorrow?”
A pause.
“That would be unprecedented in your work history, Isla. Are you feeling unwell?”
A laugh escapes me.
“No, IRIS. Just wondering when I last took a real break.”
My phone lights up on the cushion beside me. Eli’s name flashes across the screen, surprising me – he’s supposed to be in Chicago.
“Shouldn’t you be terrorizing some executives right now?” I answer.
“Open your door.” There’s something soft in his voice that makes my heart skip.
“What?” I stand, moving toward my entryway. “Eli, you’re in Chi?—“
The words die in my throat as I open the door. He stands there in his rumpled suit, tie loosened, holding a bouquet of my favorite peonies. His hair is still messed up from the flight, but his eyes are warm as they take me in.
“Meetings ended early,” he says simply. “Couldn’t stand another night away.”
I’m still staring, taking in the impossible fact of him here, when he steps forward and kisses me. He tastes like expensive scotch and smells of his signature cologne – sandalwood and something uniquely him. I melt into him, not caring that I’m in yoga pants and my ancient Columbia sweatshirt.
“You’re here,” I mumble against his lips, breathing in that familiar scent that speaks of private jets and board rooms, but also of late nights in his design studio and quiet moments like this.
“I’m here.” He pulls back just enough to hand me the flowers.
“And I brought tea. The mint kind you like.”
“Of course you did.” I can’t stop smiling as I let him in, watching him shed his suit jacket and roll up his sleeves. He moves through my space with familiar ease, finding mugs in my kitchen like he never left.
When he joins me at the window seat, passing over a steaming cup, the domesticity of it all makes my throat tight. This man flew back early just to bring me tea and flowers. Just to be here.
“Tell me what’s keeping you up,” he says softly.
I curl my fingers around the warm mug, breathing in the mint steam.
“Would you believe me if I said nothing?”
“Not a chance.” His shoulder brushes mine. “But I’ll wait until you’re ready to talk about it.”
The city lights blur as unexpected tears prick my eyes.
“When did you get so patient?”
“About the same time you stopped carrying the world on your shoulders alone.” His fingers interlace with mine, warm and steady in the darkness.
“Though I’m still learning too.”
We sit in comfortable silence, drinking tea and watching the city below. His thumb traces circles on my palm, and I feel the last of my defenses crumble.
Sometimes the strongest thing you can do is let someone see you exactly as you are.
The first hints of dawn paint the sky in shades of lavender when I finally start to drift. My head rests against Eli’s shoulder, his steady breathing more soothing than any white noise machine. The empty tea mugs sit forgotten on the floor beside us.
“We should probably move to actual furniture,” he murmurs into my hair.
“Window seats aren’t meant for sleeping.”
“Mmm.” I burrow closer, too comfortable to care. “Five more minutes.”
His chest rumbles with quiet laughter.
“Your back will hate you tomorrow.”
“Worth it.” I feel myself sliding further into that space between waking and dreams. “Stay?”
The word hangs in the air, weighted with more meaning than my sleep-fuzzy brain intended. Eli’s arm tightens around me.
“As long as you want,” he says softly.
IRIS dims the lights further without being asked, the city’s glow casting gentle shadows across our tangled forms. In the distance, construction lights still illuminate the Artisan Hotel site, but for once, I don’t feel the usual pull of responsibility.
“You know what I miss?” I mumble against his shirt.
“What’s that?”
“Those all-nighters we used to pull in the Columbia design lab. You’d bring terrible coffee, and I’d—“ A yawn interrupts me. “I’d sketch until the sun came up.”
“And Professor Santos would find us passed out on our drafting tables.”
His fingers card through my hair. “You always had ink smudges on your face.”
“Still do sometimes.” I’m barely awake now, the rhythm of his heartbeat lulling me under. “Some things don’t change.”
“No,” he agrees, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Some things just get better.”
I drift in and out of consciousness as Eli shifts beneath me. His arms slide under my knees and shoulders, lifting me with practiced ease. The gentle sway of his movement and the solid warmth of his chest almost pull me completely under.
Through heavy lids, I watch him in the city light as he methodically removes his clothes, expensive fabric finding its way to my reading chair.
The mattress dips as he slides in behind me in just his boxer briefs, pulling me against his chest. His skin is warm against mine through the thin material of my sweatshirt, one arm draped protectively over my waist. His breath stirs my hair as he presses a kiss to the nape of my neck.
The last thing I register before sleep claims me completely is the perfect fit of his body curved around mine, his heartbeat steady against my back. For the first time in years, I let myself be held, be vulnerable, be still.