Chapter 3
THREE
The party was still going when Britta slipped back to her cottage.
She could hear it from the path—laughter and voices drifting on the ocean breeze, the steel drums that had started up again, someone singing badly to a song she didn’t recognize.
Happy sounds. She should have stayed.
Except she couldn’t seem to get the sense of West’s presence out of her mind—the way he’d shaken her hand, the rumble of his voice when he’d said No drama.
There was definitely drama happening inside her chest.
Sheesh. One smile from the guy and suddenly she couldn’t think? Get. A. Grip.
She’d clearly been overprotected, thank you so much.
Still, she kept replaying moments on an endless loop, cataloging details she had no business noticing.
The way his damp hair had curled slightly at his temple.
The way he’d held the water bottle—casually, but his awareness never fully off.
The way he’d looked at her when she mentioned the UN attack, that flash of understanding that said he knew what violence looked like up close.
The way he’d smiled—small, brief, genuine—when she’d suggested he looked like a surfer.
For the love, she was in trouble.
Britta unlocked her cottage door. Stepped inside the dark space, the moonlight streaming through the windows. Luxurious. Private. All bamboo and white linens.
Fancy.
She should sleep. Wedding events started early tomorrow—spa day with the bridesmaids, then rehearsal, then dinner. She needed rest.
Except her brain wouldn’t stop.
She changed into an oversized T-shirt. Washed her face. Brushed her teeth. Climbed into the king-sized bed that felt too big for one person.
Closed her eyes.
And she was back at the airport, watching Chávez take the poor man to the pavement.
Nope. She opened her eyes.
This was ridiculous.
Britta reached for her laptop on the nightstand. Opened it. The screen glowed in the darkness, casting blue light across the white sheets.
The document was already open.
The title sat at the top of the screen: Starlight.
Probably not the most original file name since it was also her code name with the Secret Service, but it worked for now.
Below the title, in smaller font, the bio she’d written. The one she hoped would someday be real:
Britta Miller writes swoony romantic suspense with wit, heart, and happily-ever-afters you can believe in.
Not her real name. Britta Miller—Miller being her mother’s maiden name. The identity she’d built in secret, submitting to agents, collecting rejections, revising, trying again.
She wasn’t published yet. Wasn’t even agented yet. Just an aspiring author with a drawer full of finished manuscripts and the stubborn belief that someday, somehow, she’d break through.
Writing was the one thing that made her feel completely herself. Not the president’s daughter. Not Starlight. Just Britta, creating worlds she could control, giving heroines the happy endings she couldn’t guarantee for herself.
She scrolled to where she’d left off. Chapter twelve.
The scene she’d been avoiding for weeks because it required her heroine to trust a stranger and Britta had been stuck on how that trust would feel, what would make it believable, what would make someone risk everything on a person they barely knew.
Maybe now she had a hint of it.
Britta started typing.
The cobblestones were slick with rain. My boots slipped—caught—slipped again as I ran through Prague’s Old Town, the medieval buildings rising on either side like sentries judging my terrible life choices.
Behind me: footsteps. Multiple sets. Konstantin’s men closing the distance.
Ahead: the Charles Bridge. Crowds. Tourists with umbrellas and cameras and blissful ignorance about the woman running past them with a thumb drive containing evidence that could topple a criminal empire.
My lungs burned. My messenger bag—heavy with the laptop I couldn’t abandon even though it was slowing me down—bounced against my hip. The rain had soaked through my jacket. My hair stuck to my face.
I’d been so careful. Three weeks of planning. Fake credentials. Disguises. An exit strategy that should have worked.
Should have.
Except someone had talked. Sold me out, we say in the spy world. And now Konstantin knew exactly who I was and exactly what I’d taken and exactly how dead I was going to be if his men caught me.
The footsteps got closer.
I cut left. Down an alley. Darker here. Narrower. Trash bins and delivery entrances and that reek of wet stone and debris.
Dead end.
No.
No no no!
I spun. The alley entrance blocked by three men. Big. Professional. The kind who got paid well to make problems disappear.
I backed up. Hit the wall. My hand found the pepper spray in my pocket—useless against three trained operatives, but it was all I had.
“Ms. Whitman.” The lead guy stepped forward. Russian accent. Scar across his left eyebrow. “You have something that belongs to Mr. Konstantin.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The drive. Give it to us. Maybe you live.”
“Maybe?”
“Probably not.”
Fantastic.
My brain cycled through options. Run—nowhere to run. Fight—I’d lose. Scream—this part of Prague was industrial, empty at night, and the stones would eat my cries.
I was going to die in an alley in Prague because I’d thought I was smart enough to steal from a Russian arms dealer.
The men moved closer.
I raised the pepper spray.
“I wouldn’t.”
The voice came from behind the men. American. Male. Carrying the tone of someone used to being obeyed.
The Russians turned.
A man stood at the alley entrance. Tall. Dark-haired. Wearing cargo pants and a weatherproof jacket that somehow looked both casual and tactical. His hands were in his pockets. His posture was relaxed.
But his eyes—
I’d seen combat veterans before. Operators. People who’d been in bad places and done hard things and came back different.
This guy had those eyes.
“Walk away,” he said. Not loud. Not aggressive. Just…final.
The lead Russian laughed. “This is not your business, American.”
“I’m making it my business.”
“Three of us. One of you.”
“I like those odds.”
What happened next took maybe ten seconds.
The stranger moved—fast, efficient, no wasted motion. Disarmed the first guy with a move I didn’t fully see. Used the guy’s own momentum to slam him into the second. The third one pulled a knife.
Bad idea.
The stranger caught his wrist. Twisted. The knife clattered to wet cobblestones. Then the Russian was on the ground and the stranger was standing over all three of them, breathing normally like he’d just taken a casual walk instead of dismantling a tactical team.
“Leave,” he said. “Now.”
I thought he meant me.
But no, the Russians took off. Scrambling. Limping. Probably reassessing their career choices.
I stood against the wall, pepper spray still in my shaking hand. Brain trying to process what had just happened.
The stranger turned to me. Looked at me properly for the first time.
Hazel eyes. Strong jaw. A competence in his expression that came from years of training and experience and knowing exactly what you were capable of.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I—yes. Thank you. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t—”
“You’d be dead. Or worse.” He stepped closer. Not threatening. Just…assessing. “Eva Whitman. Posing as a freelance investigative journalist. Currently in possession of evidence that Konstantin has been selling arms to terrorist organizations.”
My stomach dropped. “How do you—”
“I know who you are.”
“Are you working for Konstantin?”
“No.”
“Then who—”
“Someone who has a vested interest in keeping you alive.” He held out his hand. “Come on. We need to get you somewhere safe before they come back with reinforcements.”
I stared at his hand. This stranger who’d appeared from nowhere and knew my name and had just taken down three armed men like it was nothing.
I should run. Should trust my instincts. Should do literally anything except take the hand of a man who clearly had his own agenda.
But standing in a Prague alley with rain soaking through my clothes and Konstantin’s men regrouping somewhere nearby, I realized I was out of options.
I took his hand.
His grip was warm. Strong. The kind of steady that made you believe promises even when logic said you shouldn’t.
“I know who you are,” he said again. Quieter this time. “And I’ll keep you alive. I promise.”
I wanted to ask why. Wanted to ask who’d sent him. Wanted to ask what he got out of protecting a woman he didn’t know who’d just stolen evidence from one of Europe’s most dangerous criminals.
But looking at him—at the certainty in his eyes, the quiet competence, the way he positioned himself between me and the alley entrance without even thinking about it—I made a choice.
I believed him.
Britta stopped typing.
Stared at the screen.
Read the last line again.
West’s voice surfaced in her mind as she re-read, I know who you are. And I’ll keep you alive. I promise.
Her breath caught.
Oops. Not exactly his words, but…
Britta closed her laptop.
This was bad.
She’d written West into her manuscript. After one day. After specifically promising herself—and him—no drama.
Her critique partners would have a field day with this: Too convenient. The hero appears exactly when needed. The instant trust isn’t earned.
Except her character Eva’s trust wasn’t instant. It was born from desperation and the recognition that sometimes survival meant taking a leap.
Britta needed air.
She stood. Grabbed her cardigan from the chair. Padded barefoot to the French doors and stepped onto her private deck.
The moon was out—nearly full, bright enough to cast shadows. Palm trees swayed. The ocean was audible but not overwhelming, just that steady rhythm of waves that should have been calming but wasn’t.
She leaned against the railing. Let her eyes adjust to the darkness.
The party was winding down, the tiki bar area mostly empty now, staff collecting glasses, the steel drums silent. Most of the cottages were dark, people sleeping or at least attempting sleep before tomorrow’s events.