The Man Who Knew Too Much

I made it three blocks before my legs gave out.

Not literally—I wasn't that pathetic—but I had to stop and lean against a lamppost because my hands wouldn't stop shaking and my brain wouldn't stop screaming he knows he knows he knows.

The wig came off first. I shoved it into my bag like it personally offended me, then the sunglasses, and I stood there in the middle of New Greenland's financial district looking like exactly what I was: a woman who just got caught doing something she had no business doing.

Forever yours.

The email signature burned behind my eyelids every time I blinked.

Those emails had 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 was 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. The fact that I cried in the library stairwell after my brother's first surgery failed.

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 owned her—had just signed an email the exact same way.

No. Focus. You have bigger problems.

I pulled out my phone and called June.

He picked up on the first ring. "Well?"

"They kissed."

Silence. The kind that made 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 dropped to that dangerous register that made 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 ended.

I stared at my phone, jaw tight, and typed out the numbers before I could talk myself out of it. June Jeremy was a lot of things—arrogant, controlling, completely allergic to the word no—but he paid well and he paid on time. And right now, Jericho surgery deposit was the only thing that mattered.

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

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

I almost didn't answer. But something made me swipe.

"Hello?"

"You run fast for someone in heels."

I stopped breathing.

His voice was different over the phone; it sounded lower, rougher, like he'd been awake for three days straight. I could hear traffic in the background, the noise of a car engine.

"Stop calling me," I said.

"I never started. This is the first time."

"The email—"

"Wasn't a call." I could 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 paused. "Or I could tell him about the emails."

My blood turned to ice. "You don't know anything about—"

"Forever yours, Anella. Even when you don't know I'm watching." He recited it perfectly, word for word, like he'd memorized every single one. "Should I keep going?"

I wanted to throw my phone into traffic. "Ten minutes."

"Wear something less ridiculous this time."

He hung up.

®®®

Bitter Grounds was one of those aggressively hip coffee shops that served eight-dollar lattes in mason jars and played indie music so obscure even the baristas looked confused. I hated it immediately.

He was already there when I walked in, sitting in the back corner with his legs stretched out like he owned 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 stepped through the door.

I wanted to turn around and leave. But fifty thousand dollars was fifty thousand dollars, and Jericho needed me not to be a coward.

I slid into the seat across from him. "Five minutes."

"You're generous." He leaned back, studying me like I was a painting he was thinking about buying. "You look better without the wig."

"And you look like someone who should be in prison."

His mouth curved. "For?"

"Stalking. Harassment. Breaking and entering into my personal life."

"I haven't broken into anything." He tilted his head. "Yet."

The barista came over—a girl with purple hair and about fourteen ear piercings—and he ordered two espressos without asking what I wanted. When she left, he folded his hands on the table and said, "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 paused. "You visit him every Thursday morning before work. You take the early train because it's cheaper."

I dug 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 leaned 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 flickered across his face, too fast for me to catch. "I have my reasons."

"Which are?"

"None of your business."

"You made it my business when you grabbed me in the street."

The espressos arrived. He pushed 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 blinked. "A means to—what are you, a villain in a soap opera?"

"Something like that." He picked up his cup, took a sip, made a face like it personally offended him. "God, this is awful."

"Then why did you order it?"

"Because you look like you need caffeine." He set the cup down. "Here's the deal. You stop spying on me. I'll make sure Kerry never finds out you were 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 locked onto mine, and for a second, just a second, I saw something raw behind all that strategic charm. "No."

"Then why—"

"Because," he said softly, "I'm trying to get close to someone else."

My chest tightened for reasons I couldn't explain.

"Who?" I asked.

He smiled. Didn't answer.

My phone buzzed. I glanced down—June's name flashing across the screen. I let it ring.

"You should get that," the man said. "Your boss seems like the type who doesn't like being ignored."

"You don't know him."

"I know men like him." He stood, pulled out his wallet, dropped a twenty on the table. "Men who think they can own people just because they sign their checks."

"And you're different?"

"No." He buttoned his expensive, tailored coat, the kind you only got custom-made on Harrow Street, and looked down at me. "But at least I'm honest about what I want."

"Which is?"

He leaned down, close enough that I could smell cedar again, could see the little scar above his right eyebrow. "You'll find out soon enough."

And then he was gone.

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

My phone buzzed again. This time it was a text.

June: Emergency meeting. Office. Now.

Great.

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

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

"You're late," he said without turning around.

"Traffic."

"Don't lie to me, Anella."

I bit down on the inside of my cheek. "What's the emergency?"

He finally turned. His tie was loosened, never a good sign, and there was something dangerous in his expression. "Victor Harrow called."

I knew that name. Everyone in New Greenland knew that name. Victor Harrow was 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'd been invested in Jeremy & Co. since before June's father was born.

"And?" I asked carefully.

"He wants me to partner with someone. Another investor." June's jaw worked. "Someone he's been working with for the past three years."

Oh no.

"Who?"

June picked up a file from his desk and handed it to me.

I opened it.

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

Foxe Shield.