Sophia

The trouble with being a professional liar is that, after a while, you forget who you were before the lies.

I'm staring at myself in the Tribune's third-floor bathroom mirror. The one with the flickering fluorescent light that makes everyone look like they're dying of consumption. Trying to perfect what I've mentally dubbed my ‘daddy issues heiress’ smile.

It's not my usual expression, which is more ‘I will end your political career with a single exposé and enjoy watching you cry about it on T*****r.’

This smile is softer. Vulnerable. The kind of smile that says, Hi, I have approximately seventeen different types of trauma and a trust fund to match.

"Jesus, I look like I'm about to projectile vomit," I mutter, adjusting the Chanel blazer that cost more than my rent and makes me feel like I'm wearing a costume to my own funeral.

The bathroom door crashes open with all the subtlety of a SWAT raid, and Jamie Torres appears like some kind of caffeine-bearing angel, complete with his camera bag and two cups of what I'm hoping is coffee strong enough to wake the dead.

"That's because you literally are about to projectile vomit," he says, shoving a cup at me. "Triple shot. You're going to need it, and also probably therapy after this is over."

"I don't vomit," I say, accepting the coffee like it's a lifeline. "I channel my crippling anxiety into righteous journalistic fury and use it to destroy corrupt politicians. It's very therapeutic."

"Right. And I'm secretly in love with Chris Evans." Jamie leans against the sink, studying me with those dark eyes that see through everyone's bullshit, including mine. "You know, for someone who's about to infiltrate what is essentially Tinder for rich sociopaths, you look remarkably like you're preparing for your own execution."

"Maybe because I am." I take a sip of coffee and immediately regret it. Jamie's idea of coffee is basically liquid cocaine with a splash of milk. I yearn for a pump of triple caramel to mask the bitterness. "Do you realize how many ways this could go catastrophically wrong? What if they run a background check? What if someone recognizes me from my byline photo? What if I accidentally slip and call someone a fascist to their face?"

“Soph.” Jamie’s voice slices through my mental free-fall like a well aimed dagger. "Breathe. You've got this. You're Sophia Chen. The woman who single-handedly took down the mayor's entire embezzlement ring with nothing but a stack of receipts and pure, unadulterated spite. You can handle a bunch of rich people with emotional problems looking for love."

"Yeah, but rich people with emotional problems don't usually leave a trail of suspicious deaths behind them," I point out, attempting to smooth down my hair, which has apparently opted for chaos over civility.

Three months of investigating have led us to Platinum Connections. The most exclusive matchmaking service in the city, where wealthy clients pay obscene amounts of money for the promise of true love. With an undivulged side-effect, which has some of them end up dead or financially ruined. "That's kind of the concerning part."

"That's what makes it interesting," Jamie says, grinning that infectious smile that has gotten us out of more trouble than it's gotten us into. "Besides, you've got me watching your back. And your fake identity is bulletproof. Sophia Sterling, tech heiress with more money than common sense and a desperate need for male validation."

"I do not have a desperate need for male validation," I say, checking my lipstick one more time and trying not to think about how that's probably a lie.

"No, but she does. And she's who you need to be for however long this takes." Jamie's expression goes serious, which is always terrifying because Jamie only gets serious when things are genuinely fucked. "Just... be careful, okay? These people aren't playing games. Three dead clients in two years isn't a coincidence, and it's definitely not a dating app glitch."

I nod, swallowing the last of my coffee and the anxiety that comes with it. "I'll be fine. What's the worst that could happen?"

Twenty minutes later, I'm standing in the marble-floored lobby of Platinum Connections, surrounded by the kind of understated luxury that screams old money so loudly it might as well be using a bullhorn. There are fresh flowers that has more zeros attached than my bank balance, art that belongs in the Met, and the subtle scent of expensive perfume mixed with what I can only describe as the smell of desperation layered in designer clothing.

"Ms. Sterling?" A woman in a perfectly tailored suit approaches, her smile so polished it could be used as a weapon. "I'm Sarah, Mr. Blackwood's assistant. He's ready to see you now."

Marcus Blackwood. The owner of Platinum Connections, and according to my research, either a brilliant businessman or a sociopathic killer. Possibly both. They’re not mutually exclusive.

Sarah leads me through a hallway lined with black-and-white photographs of happy couples. Presumably success stories, though I can't help wondering how many of them are still alive and/or not in witness protection. We stop at a door marked with his name in elegant script on a golden plaque.

"Mr. Blackwood, Ms. Sterling is here."

"Send her in."

The voice is deep, confident, with just a hint of something that makes my stomach do an unwelcome flip. Like, an actually unwelcome flip. I square my shoulders and walk into the office, prepared to meet my target.

I am not prepared for the man who rises from behind the mahogany desk.

Marcus Blackwood is tall, dark-haired, and unfairly attractive in the way that makes smart women do incredibly stupid things and then write about it in their journals later. His suit is perfectly tailored, his smile is warm but calculating, and his eyes... Christ, his eyes are the color of aged whiskey and probably twice as dangerous.

"Ms. Sterling." He moves around the desk with the kind of fluid grace that suggests he either does yoga or knows how to kill people with his bare hands. Maybe both. He extends his hand. "Welcome to Platinum Connections."

His handshake is firm, his skin is warm, and he holds on just a second longer than necessary. Professional instincts are currently at war with something far more primitive in my brain, and I'm not entirely sure which side is winning.

"Mr. Blackwood," I manage, grateful that my voice comes out steady instead of like I've been breathing helium. "Thank you for seeing me."

"Please, call me Marcus." He gestures to a pair of leather chairs arranged near the window. "I have to say, I'm intrigued. It's not often someone of your... profile seeks our services."

There it is. The first test. I settle into the chair, crossing my legs and arranging my features into what I hope is the right mix of confidence and vulnerability. "My profile?"

"Young, beautiful, successful." His eyes never leave mine, and I'm starting to think he might actually be able to see through my soul. "Most women with your advantages don't need professional help finding companionship."

"Maybe that's exactly why I do need help," I say, letting a hint of loneliness creep into my voice. "Success can be isolating. People see the money, the accomplishments, the lifestyle. They don't see me."

Something flickers in his expression. It almost looks like recognition. "And what would they see, if they looked deeper?"

The question catches me completely off guard. For a moment, I forget I'm supposed to be playing a role, forget that this man might be responsible for three deaths, forget that I'm here to investigate him. For a moment, I almost tell him the truth.

Instead, I smile the practiced smile I've been working on. "I suppose that's what we're here to find out."

Marcus leans back in his chair, studying me with those whiskey-colored eyes. "Indeed it is, Ms. Sterling. Indeed it is."

And that's when I know I'm in serious trouble.