The Man Who Knew Too Much

I make it three blocks before my legs give out.

Not literally—I’m not that pathetic—but I have to stop and lean against a lamppost because my hands won’t stop shaking and my brain won’t stop screaming he knows he knows he knows.

The wig comes off first. I shove it into my bag like it personally offends me, then the sunglasses, and I stand there in the middle of New Greenland’s financial district looking like exactly what I am: a woman who just got caught doing something she has no business doing.

Forever yours.

The email signature burns behind my eyelids every time I blink.

Those emails started four years ago, back when I was still in university scraping together tuition with that stupid fish stall and three part-time jobs. At first, I thought it’s sweet; some shy guy who couldn't work up the nerve to talk to me in person. Then the emails got more detailed. More knowing. They mentioned things no one should've known. What I ate for breakfast. What time I left my dorm. 

I’d deleted the account twice. Changed my email three times.

They always found me.

And now this man, this stranger who kissed my boss’s fiancée like he owns her, had just signed an email the exact same way.

No. Focus. You have bigger problems.

I pull out my phone and call June.

He picks up on the first ring. “Well?”

“They kissed.”

Silence. The kind that makes my stomach hurt.

“Where.”

“Parking garage off Fifth and Lexington. I got a partial plate number—”

“Send it to me. Now.”

“Sir, I don’t think—”

“Anella.” His voice drops to that dangerous register that makes interns quit on the spot. “You don’t get paid to think. You get paid to do exactly what I tell you. Send. The. Plate.”

The call ends.

I stare at my phone, jaw tight, and type out the numbers before I can talk myself out of it. June Jeremy is a lot of things—arrogant, controlling, completely allergic to the word no—but he pays well and he pays on time. And right now, Jericho’s surgery deposit is the only thing that matters.

You’re doing this for him. Just keep your head down and get through it.

My phone buzzes again. Different number this time. Unknown.

I almost don’t answer. But something makes me swipe.

“Hello?”

“You run fast for someone in heels.”

I stop breathing.

His voice is different over the phone; it sounds lower, rougher, like he’s been awake for three days straight. I hear traffic in the background, the noise of a car engine.

“Stop calling me,” I say.

“I never started. This is the first time.”

“The email—”

“Wasn’t a call.” I hear the smile in his voice. “Coffee?”

“Excuse me?”

“There’s a place two blocks from where you’re standing. Bitter Grounds. Meet me there in ten minutes.”

“I’m not meeting you anywhere—”

“Then I’ll call June and tell him you let me catch you. That you’re a terrible spy and he should fire you immediately.” He pauses. “Or I could tell him about the emails.”

My blood turns to ice. “You don’t know anything about—”

“Forever yours, Anella. Even when you don’t know I’m watching.” He recites it perfectly, word for word, like he’s memorized every single one. “Should I keep going?”

I want to throw my phone into traffic. “Ten minutes.”

“Wear something less ridiculous this time.”

He hangs up.

®®®

Bitter Grounds is one of those aggressively hip coffee shops that serves eight-dollar lattes in mason jars and plays indie music so obscure even the baristas look confused. I hate it immediately.

He’s already there when I walk in, sitting in the back corner with his legs stretched out like he owns the place. No coffee in front of him. Just his phone, face-down on the table, and those dark eyes tracking me from the moment I step through the door.

I want to turn around and leave. But fifty thousand dollars is fifty thousand dollars, and Jericho needs me not to be a coward.

I slide into the seat across from him. “Five minutes.”

“You’re generous.” He leans back, studying me like I’m a painting he’s thinking about buying. “You look better without the wig.”

“And you look like someone who should be in prison.”

His mouth curves. “For?”

“Stalking. Harassment. Breaking and entering into my personal life.”

“I haven’t broken into anything.” He tilts his head. “Yet.”

The barista comes over—a girl with purple hair and about fourteen ear piercings—and he orders two espressos without asking what I want. When she leaves, he folds his hands on the table and says, “So. Anella Bymor. Twenty-six. Business degree from Greenland State. Secretary to June Jeremy for five years. Younger brother in Saint Mercy Hospital undergoing treatment for spinal damage from a car accident.” He pauses. “You visit him every Thursday morning before work. You take the early train because it’s cheaper.”

I dig my nails into my palms under the table. “If you’re trying to scare me—”

“I’m trying to help you.”

“By blackmailing me?”

“By giving you a way out.” He leans forward. “Kerry Showers is bad news. You don’t want to get caught in the middle of whatever’s happening between her and June.”

“And you do?”

Something flickers across his face, too fast for me to catch. “I have my reasons.”

“Which are?”

“None of your business.”

“You make it my business when you grab me in the street.”

The espressos arrive. He pushes one toward me without breaking eye contact. “I’m not sleeping with Kerry because I want to. I’m sleeping with her because she’s a means to an end.”

I blink. “A means to—what are you, a villain in a telenovela?”

“Something like that.” He picks up his cup, takes a sip, makes a face like it personally offends him. “God, this is awful.”

“Then why did you order it?”

“Because you look like you need caffeine.” He sets the cup down. “Here’s the deal. You stop spying on me. I’ll make sure Kerry never finds out you’re following her. June gets to keep his pride intact, you get your money, everyone goes home happy.”

“Except you keep sleeping with his fiancée.”

“She’s not in love with him. Trust me.”

“And you are? In love with her?”

His eyes lock onto mine, and for a second, just a second, I see something raw behind all that strategic charm. “No.”

“Then why—”

“Because,” he says softly, “I’m trying to get close to someone else.”

My chest tightens for reasons I can’t explain.

“Who?” I ask.

He smiles. Doesn’t answer.

My phone buzzes. I glance down—June’s name flashing across the screen. I let it ring.

“You should get that,” the man says. “Your boss seems like the type who doesn’t like being ignored.”

“You don’t know him.”

“I know men like him.” He stands, pulls out his wallet, drops a twenty on the table. “Men who think they can own people just because they sign their checks.”

“And you’re different?”

“No.” He buttons his expensive, tailored coat, the kind you only get custom-made on Harrow Street, and looks down at me. “But at least I’m honest about what I want.”

“Which is?”

He leans down, close enough that I smell Mussë again, see the little scar above his right eyebrow. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

And then he’s gone.

I sit there, espresso untouched, heart doing something stupid in my chest.

My phone buzzes again. This time it’s a text.

June: Emergency meeting. Office. Now.

Great.

I make it back to Jeremy & Co. in fifteen minutes flat, metro card maxed out, heels murdering my feet.

June’s office is on the forty-second floor, with maximum glass walls and white furniture that screams I’m richer than you’ll ever be. He’s standing by the window when I walk in, hands clasped behind his back, staring out at the skyline like he’s plotting world domination.

“You’re late,” he says without turning around.

“Traffic.”

“Don’t lie to me, Anella.”

I bite down on the inside of my cheek. “What’s the emergency?”

He finally turns. His tie is loosened, never a good sign, and there’s something dangerous in his expression. “Victor Harrow called.”

I know that name. Everyone in New Greenland knows that name. Victor Harrow is old money, the kind that built half the city back in the 1800s and still had enough left over to buy the other half. He’s been invested in Jeremy & Co. since before June’s father was born.

“And?” I ask carefully.

“He wants me to partner with someone. Another investor.” June’s jaw works. “Someone he’s been working with for the past three years.”

Oh no.

“Who?”

June picks up a file from his desk and hands it to me.

I open it.

And there, in neat black print at the top of the first page, is a name that makes my stomach drop straight through the floor:

Foxe Shield.