Chapter Five: After Eleven

Emma’s POV

“He’s nobody to me,” I said. “He only introduced himself.”

Will studied my face for a moment, expression unreadable. “Tom Reilly doesn’t usually waste time on introductions.”

I kept my voice even. “It was nothing.”

He didn’t argue. He simply leaned in slightly, voice low enough that only I could hear.

“Stay away from people like that. Journalists, especially. We still have a contract, Emma. The arrangement only works if both of us keep things clean and quiet. I need you to remember that.”

I met his eyes and gave a single nod. “I remember.”

Will didn’t ask what we had talked about. He simply steered me back toward the main floor, voice low near my ear.

“Ten more minutes. Then we leave.”

I nodded.

We stayed the full ten minutes. I smiled when required. I answered two harmless questions from a trade journalist about the coastal development and the expected timeline for the terminal. The white card sat against the lining of my clutch the entire time, a thin rectangle of risk I could feel every time my fingers brushed the leather. Will remained close enough that his shoulder occasionally touched mine when the crowd shifted. Dana never left our periphery. When the ten minutes ended, Will gave a short nod to Dana and we moved toward the side exit without further conversation.

The car was already waiting. Will returned to his emails the moment the door closed. Dana sat in the front passenger seat, eyes on the road ahead, earpiece still in place. I watched the city slide past the tinted glass and forced my breathing to stay even. The card felt heavier with every block we passed. I kept my hands still in my lap and counted the turns until the private garage entrance appeared.

The elevator ride to the penthouse was silent. When the doors opened, Will spoke without looking at me.

“Dana will adjust the household schedule. You’ll attend the necessary appearances. Beyond that, keep a low profile for the next few weeks.”

“Is that an order?”

“It’s a request that sounds like one.”

He walked toward his wing. The soft click of his door closing echoed down the hallway. I went straight to the east suite, locked the door behind me, and only then allowed my shoulders to drop.

I pulled the card out and set it on the desk. Tom Reilly. Investigative Correspondent. A direct line. No office number. No company logo. The kind of card meant to be temporary and deniable. I photographed it under the desk lamp, sent the image through the encrypted channel Julian had built years ago, then deleted the photo from my phone and wiped the recent files. Old habits. Necessary ones.

Julian replied within a minute.

Reilly is useful but reckless. He burns sources when the story gets bigger than the people in it. Be careful what you feed him.

I typed back: I know. He approached me. I didn’t seek him out.

Does Hammer know?

He saw us speaking. Told me to stay away.

The next message took longer.

Then you’ve already been noticed. Pull back from the archive for a few days. Let the attention die down. Don’t give them a reason to look closer.

I stared at the screen until the words blurred, then set the phone face-down on the desk. Pulling back was the smart move. It was also the last thing I wanted. The restricted folder still sat in my mind like an unlocked door I had not yet been allowed to open. Fourteen months had already begun to feel shorter.

I forced myself to move through the rest of the afternoon as if nothing had shifted. I changed out of the tailored dress, hung it carefully, and spent an hour at the desk reviewing the public creditors’ meeting transcript Will had pointed me toward the night before. My mother’s name appeared on page four, calm and formal, already carrying the weight of a company that had started to sink. The footnotes remained clean. No personal guarantee. No settlement language. Just the version the lenders had been willing to leave on record. I closed the file and sat in the quiet, listening to the distant sound of the city beyond the glass.

Dinner arrived on a tray at seven-thirty. I ate without tasting much of it, then left the dishes in the small kitchenette sink. The penthouse stayed silent. No footsteps in the hallway. No knock at my door. Will had meant what he said about keeping a low profile. I was expected to remain visible only when the board required the picture of a stable marriage, and invisible the rest of the time.

At ten-forty I locked the suite door again, checked the hallway through the peephole, and sat on the edge of the bed with my phone in hand. The number on the card was already saved under a false name. I waited until the clock on the nightstand read 11:07 before I dialed.

Tom answered on the second ring.

“I wondered if you’d call.”

“You said after eleven.”

“I did.” His voice was quieter now, stripped of the public polish he had worn in the auditorium. “The public record on Winston Marine is incomplete. The personal guarantee your mother signed never made the creditors’ minutes. Neither did the settlement that followed three weeks later. I’ve been trying to confirm both for months. The money moved. The paperwork stayed quiet.”

My grip tightened on the phone. “What do you want from me?”

“Nothing yet. Just a conversation. Off the record. If you ever decide the official story isn’t enough, you know how to reach me. I can be patient. But I won’t be the only one looking.”

I opened my mouth to answer.

The suite phone on the nightstand rang—sharp, sudden, the internal line lighting up with Dana’s extension.

I flinched hard. The mobile slipped from my hand and hit the floor with a hard crack, screen still lit, Tom’s voice still coming through the speaker in the sudden silence.