Z

I did not sleep.

Neither did Jack.

At four in the morning, I found him sitting alone in the kitchen with a glass of water and the gun from earlier resting several feet away on the counter.

The security team had swept the property twice.

The man they captured refused to speak.

The second intruder had escaped through the woods.

I stood in the doorway.

“You should be upstairs.”

“So should you.”

“This is my house.”

“Congratulations.”

Jack looked exhausted.

For the first time since I met him, he appeared human enough that I almost forgot everything else.

Almost.

I sat opposite him.

“They wanted the harbor project.”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“I have an idea.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“No.”

I folded my arms.

He sighed.

“Victor Lang.”

I knew the name.

Everyone in Boston business circles did.

Lang Development.

Hotels.

Casinos.

Construction.

Shipping terminals.

Northbridge’s largest rival for the harbor redevelopment.

“Is he…”

I hesitated.

Jack understood.

“Like me?”

“I was trying to phrase it more diplomatically.”

“Don’t.”

I waited.

Jack stared into his glass.

“Victor and my father worked together twenty years ago.”

“What happened?”

“They stopped.”

“That sounds suspiciously incomplete.”

“My father believed business should become legitimate.”

“And Victor?”

“He believed legitimacy was weakness.”

I looked around the silent kitchen.

“Which side did you choose?”

Jack met my eyes.

“The one that let me survive long enough to change anything.”

It wasn’t an answer.

Not exactly.

But it was the closest thing to truth I had gotten.

By eight, every major gossip account in Boston had posted photographs of Jack and me entering his property.

Somebody had been waiting outside the gates.

The headlines were merciless.

MYSTERY BLONDE SPENDS NIGHT WITH WHITMORE KING.

NORTHBRIDGE BOSS’S NEW GIRL?

FROM JOB INTERVIEW TO MANSION IN ONE WEEK.

I nearly threw my phone into the sink.

Jack read the articles beside me.

“This bothers you.”

“That’s an astonishing observation.”

“They don’t know what happened.”

“They don’t care.”

His jaw tightened.

I pointed toward the screen.

“I worked ten years to be taken seriously. Do you know what every person at Northbridge is going to think now?”

“That you’re sleeping with me.”

“Correct.”

“You aren’t.”

“That rarely matters to gossip.”

His expression darkened.

“I’ll handle it.”

“No.”

“Emily—”

“No statements threatening reporters. No lawyers bullying websites. No mysterious disappearances.”

“I wasn’t planning disappearances.”

“The fact that you specifically denied only the third one concerns me.”

Jack almost smiled.

I didn’t.

“This is my career.”

That wiped the humor from his face.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

His answer came quickly.

Too quickly.

Something in me softened despite myself.

I looked down.

“You can’t fix everything by scaring people.”

“No.”

Jack stood.

“But sometimes it’s remarkably efficient.”

By Monday, the rumor had spread through Northbridge.

Conversations stopped when I entered elevators.

Two women in accounting stared at me during lunch.

Martin Sloan avoided eye contact entirely.

Then someone taped a printed gossip headline to my office door.

MRS. WHITMORE?

I ripped it down.

Jack saw it.

Twenty minutes later, the entire executive floor received an email.

Emily Carter was employed on merit. Any employee undermining a colleague through harassment or speculation would answer directly to the CEO.

No romance.

No denial.

Just a professional boundary.

I hated how grateful I felt.

That afternoon, things got worse.

Dominic arrived at my desk carrying a folder.

Inside were photographs.

My apartment.

My mother’s building.

The pharmacy she used.

My favorite coffee shop.

My blood turned cold.

“They’ve been following you longer than we thought,” Dominic said.

“How long?”

“Possibly since before your interview.”

Jack entered behind him.

I looked up.

“That’s impossible.”

“Maybe,” Jack said.

“Why would anyone follow me before I worked here?”

Nobody answered.

I stood.

“Jack.”

He exchanged a look with Dominic.

I hated that look immediately.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

Jack shut the office door.

“Your freelance work.”

“What about it?”

“Six months ago, you worked for Meridian Public Strategies.”

“Yes.”

“For three weeks.”

“They hired me for consumer research.”

“On which account?”

I tried to remember.

Several clients.

Retail.

Hospitality.

Then one came back.

“Lang Development.”

Jack’s face confirmed everything.

My stomach dropped.

“I never met Victor Lang.”

“You didn’t need to.”

“I wrote customer profiles.”

“You also analyzed public sentiment on the harbor redevelopment.”

“That was marketing research.”

“For them.”

I moved toward my laptop.

“I still have some of the files.”

Jack stepped beside me.

I searched archived folders.

Most contained ordinary research.

Surveys.

Public comments.

Competitor sentiment.

Neighborhood concerns.

Then I found something I didn’t remember downloading.

A spreadsheet labeled HARBOR PARTNERSHIP INTERNAL.

I clicked.

Jack leaned closer.

Rows of payments appeared.

Companies.

Dates.

Consultants.

Political donations.

Shell organizations.

Millions of dollars.

“I have never seen this.”

“I believe you.”

“How did it get here?”

“Someone at Meridian accidentally included it.”

I checked the metadata.

Created by COLIN.MERRICK.

My chest tightened.

“Colin.”

Jack’s missing employee.

Dominic swore.

Suddenly everything made sense.

Colin had worked with Lang before Northbridge.

He had leaked files.

He knew my freelance history.

And years later, when I appeared at Northbridge by coincidence, he might have panicked.

Jack studied the spreadsheet.

“This could prove Lang manipulated the bidding process.”

“So they aren’t after me because I matter to you.”

His eyes shifted toward mine.

“At first, probably not.”

“They think I have this.”

“Yes.”

I laughed once.

It sounded broken.

“Fantastic.”

Jack reached toward me.

I stepped back.

He stopped.

I needed distance.

From him.

From Northbridge.

From all of it.

“I’m resigning.”

His face changed.

“No.”

“You don’t get to say no.”

“You resign and Lang still comes after you.”

“Then your security team can keep watching me.”

“You think this is only about security?”

“What else could it possibly be?”

Jack stared at me.

For one long second, something unguarded appeared in his eyes.

Then it vanished.

He walked toward the window.

“You’re staying.”

I grabbed my purse.

“No, Jack.”

He turned.

“Emily.”

I reached the door.

His next words stopped me.

“My father was murdered because somebody discovered who mattered to him.”

I slowly looked back.

Jack remained by the window.

“That photograph you saw in my study was taken two days before he died.”

My anger faded.

“He trusted the wrong person,” Jack continued. “Afterward, I learned something.”

“What?”

“Never give your enemies leverage.”

My throat tightened.

I understood then.

The empty house.

The untouched coffee.

The controlled expression.

The man who owned half of Boston and ate alone.

“You built your entire life around having nothing to lose.”

Jack looked at me.

“Yes.”

“And now?”

His eyes held mine.

A dangerous silence filled the room.

“Now,” he said, “I’m having a very inconvenient week.”