Chapter 10

Morning arrived quietly.

For the first time in years, Meera Andrews woke up somewhere that didn't feel familiar.

Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting golden streaks across the polished wooden floor. Beyond the glass, the Pacific Ocean stretched endlessly beneath a cloudless sky.

She sat up slowly.

For a moment, she couldn't remember where she was.

Then everything came rushing back.

The festival.

The gunshot.

Grant.

The strange men in black suits who obeyed his every command.

She rubbed her temples.

"What kind of businessman needs that much security?"

A soft knock sounded at the bedroom door.

"Miss Andrews?"

It was Maria.

"I've prepared breakfast."

"I'm coming."

Meera freshened up before following the scent of coffee downstairs.

The dining room looked more like something from a luxury hotel than a rented house.

Fresh fruit.

Pastries.

Eggs.

Pancakes.

Everything was arranged perfectly.

Grandma Rosa was already seated, smiling as Maria poured tea into delicate porcelain cups.

"There you are," Rosa said warmly. "I was beginning to think you'd sleep until noon."

"I wish."

Meera slid into the chair beside her.

"Has Grant left already?"

Maria shook her head.

"Mr. Gonas has been in his office since six this morning."

Meera frowned.

"Six?"

"He rarely sleeps."

Something about that answer bothered her.

Who worked before sunrise after surviving a shooting the previous evening?

Before she could ask another question, voices drifted in from the hallway.

"...double the security."

Grant.

"...the harbor must remain operational."

Another voice answered.

"If Romano moves first—"

"We'll be ready."

Meera froze.

Romano?

She'd heard that name before.

The conversation stopped as footsteps approached.

Grant entered the dining room wearing a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. He looked composed, as though the events of the previous night had never happened.

"Good morning."

"Morning," Rosa replied.

Meera simply watched him.

Grant noticed.

"What?"

She tilted her head.

"Who are you?"

He pulled out a chair opposite her.

"I thought we settled that."

"No."

She folded her arms.

"I know you're Grant Gonas."

"Correct."

"I know you own GONAS."

"Also correct."

"But I don't know why armed men call you 'Boss,' why strangers are shooting at you, or why people keep mentioning someone named Romano."

For a brief moment, the room fell silent.

Maria quietly excused herself.

Even Rosa lowered her eyes, sensing the weight of the conversation.

Grant met Meera's gaze.

"There are things I can't explain."

"You mean you won't."

"I mean I can't."

"What's the difference?"

"The difference," Grant said evenly, "is that one is a choice."

"And the other?"

"A necessity."

Meera leaned back in her chair.

"I don't like secrets."

"I know."

"You expect me to trust you anyway?"

Grant didn't answer immediately.

Finally, he said, "I expect you to trust that I'm trying to keep you safe."

She laughed softly.

"That's the problem."

"What is?"

"I don't even know what I'm supposed to be safe from."

Grant looked away toward the ocean beyond the windows.

Neither do you.

And if he had his way...

She never would.

A tense silence settled over the dining table.

Grant reached for his coffee without taking a sip.

Meera studied him carefully.

He always looked composed.

Too composed.

As though every expression had been rehearsed before it reached his face.

"You've been watching me," she said.

Grant finally looked up.

"I've been making sure you're safe."

"That's not an answer."

"It wasn't meant to be."

She sighed.

"Do you ever give a straight answer?"

"When I can."

"And when you can't?"

"I stay silent."

Meera leaned back in her chair.

"You must be exhausting to work with."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Grant's mouth.

"So I've been told."

Before she could respond, Damien entered the dining room.

He stopped the moment he noticed Meera.

"Sorry. I didn't realize you were having breakfast."

Grant nodded toward him.

"What is it?"

"It's important."

Grant stood.

"I'll be in the study."

As the two men disappeared down the hallway, Meera glanced at Rosa.

"They don't want me hearing their conversations."

Rosa stirred her tea.

"Perhaps they're trying to protect you."

"Or hide something."

---

Grant closed the study door.

"What happened?" he asked.

Damien placed a folder on the desk.

"Our men searched the festival after everyone left."

Grant opened the file.

Inside were photographs of a discarded shell casing, footprints, and security-camera stills.

"The shooter escaped through the marina."

"And?"

Damien slid one final photograph across the desk.

A blurry image of a man standing near Meera's taco stand... two days before the festival.

"He wasn't there to watch you."

Grant's eyes narrowed.

"He was watching her."

Damien nodded.

"And we've confirmed something else."

"What?"

"The anonymous tip about Meera's invitation..."

"It didn't come from us."

Grant looked up sharply.

"Who sent it?"

"We don't know."

The room fell silent.

Someone else knew about Meera.

Someone else had been moving pieces on the board.

Grant disliked unknown players.

Unknown players were dangerous.

---

Outside, Meera wandered onto the back terrace overlooking the ocean.

The breeze carried the scent of salt and pine.

For the first time since arriving, she felt like she could breathe.

"You found my favorite spot."

She turned.

Grant stood in the doorway, hands tucked into his pockets.

"I was looking for some air."

"So was I."

For a while, they simply looked out at the waves crashing against the rocks below.

Finally, Meera broke the silence.

"You don't seem happy."

Grant gave a quiet laugh.

"Happy isn't a word people usually use to describe me."

"What word do they use?"

He thought for a moment.

"Efficient."

She laughed.

"That's terrible."

"It works."

"No."

She shook her head.

"You're a person, Grant. Not a machine."

He didn't answer.

No one had spoken to him like that in years.

Most people praised his discipline.

Few questioned what it had cost him.

"You know," Meera continued, "when I was little, Grandma used to tell me that people who never smile are usually carrying a sadness they don't talk about."

Grant kept his eyes on the ocean.

"And do you believe her?"

"I do."

A long pause followed.

Then Grant spoke so quietly she almost missed it.

"My father used to say that showing emotion gave your enemies something to use against you."

Meera turned toward him.

"Is that what you believe?"

Grant didn't answer.

Because he wasn't sure anymore.

---

A sharp ringtone cut through the quiet.

Damien.

Grant answered immediately.

"Yes?"

"We've got movement."

Grant's posture stiffened.

"Where?"

"Near the taco stand."

Grant's expression changed instantly.

"The stand should be empty."

"It is."

"Then who's there?"

Damien hesitated.

"Someone left a package."

Grant's voice turned cold.

"Don't touch it."

"We already evacuated the area."

"I'm on my way."

He ended the call and looked at Meera.

"I have to leave."

She noticed the urgency in his eyes.

"What happened?"

"Something at your stand."

Her heart skipped.

"My stand?"

"I need you to stay here."

"I'm coming with you."

"No."

"You can't stop me."

Grant stepped closer, his voice calm but firm.

"Meera... if you trust me even a little, stay with Rosa until I come back."

For the first time since they'd met, there was no command in his voice.

Only concern.

Meera searched his face, trying to understand the man behind the walls he had built.

After a long moment, she nodded.

"Fine."

Grant gave a single appreciative nod before turning toward the front door.

As his SUV disappeared through the gates, Meera couldn't shake the feeling that whatever waited at her little taco stand wasn't just about a business anymore.

It was about her.

And somewhere across the city, hidden in the shadows, a pair of eyes watched Grant's convoy race toward the waterfront.

The trap had been set.

The only question left was...

Who was supposed to spring it?