Chapter 19 - Confession

Sophia

I’ve rewritten this in my head about fifteen times.

I have a confession to make. I’m not actually Sophia Sterling, tech heiress and trust fund hot mess. I’m Sophia Chen, award-winning journalist with a penchant for chaos and a mild addiction to oat milk lattes. I’ve been lying to you.

That doesn’t sound great.

What would Marcus even do if I told him?

Report me? Arrest me? Look at me with those glacier-slick eyes and tell me this was all one big game of gotcha, and congratulations, I just lost?

Or worst case scenario. He’d say nothing. He’d just look at me with disappointment in his usually warm eyes and walk away.

Jamie’s out for the evening, so I’m alone. Which is dangerous. I’m much more reasonable when someone’s around to talk me out of a spiral.

I glance at my phone. No messages.

No new threats. No new bodies. No cryptic texts from Marcus like we need to talk or I know who you are.

Which is both comforting and horrifying.

Because it means the countdown is still ticking.

I open my notes app and try again.

CONFESSION, DRAFT 16

Marcus, I know this is going to sound insane, but I swear I had good reasons. I wasn’t trying to deceive you. Okay, I was, but not you-you, just the company. Which might also be you. Shit. Okay. Let me start again.

Nope.

Delete.

I chuck my phone onto the couch and flop down after it, burying my face in the nearest throw pillow and screaming into it. Like I’m in a horror movie about emotionally repressed women who run out of lies mid-monologue.

“Okay,” I mutter, sitting up again. “What do I actually want from this?”

Do I want to keep lying?

No. God, no. Every time Marcus looks at me like I’m someone he could maybe like, it feels like I’m telling a two-year old that Santa isn’t real.

But coming clean? That means putting everything on the line. My story. My protection. Him.

And I don’t even know if he’s telling the truth either.

What if he’s lying too?

That’s the other piece I can’t shake. Because Marcus Blackwood doesn’t read like a regular CEO. He may be ex-FBI, but I think he’s in this deeper than he’s letting on.

Which means this whole thing between us, the chemistry, the near kiss, the emotional honesty, it could be a game from his end.

I groan and tug at my hair. “Cool, cool, cool. So we’re both maybe spies, both maybe lying, both maybe falling for the person we’re supposed to expose. That’s not a rom-com. That’s an episode of Dateline.”

The buzzer rings.

I blink and check the time.

I’m not expecting anyone. Jamie’s dates never end early.

Cautiously, I cross to the door and press the intercom.

“Delivery for Sophia Sterling,” says a voice.

The name makes my spine lock up. This isn’t the address on file for Sophia Sterling.

Against my better judgment, I open the door.

There’s a woman standing there. Mid-thirties. Red lipstick. Immaculate trench coat. A clipboard in one hand and a slightly-too-sweet smile on her face.

“Hi,” she says, brightly. “You weren’t at your usual address, so I rerouted. Can I come in for just a moment? It won’t take long.”

Nope.

Every instinct I have screams not a chance. I don’t care how official her clipboard looks or how casually she’s smiling.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “What’s this about?”

She doesn’t blink. “Confirmation of delivery. It’s part of your premium Platinum on-boarding.”

“Uh-huh. That’s weird, because I didn’t order anything.”

She glances over her clipboard with a confused frown. “You’re Sophia Sterling, aren’t you?”

And that does it.

My brain short-circuits.

I laugh.

Not the charming kind. The oh-no-the-voices-are-back kind.

“Okay,” I say, stepping back, “So this is the part where you either tell me who you really work for, or I start screaming loud enough to summon the fire department.”

The woman’s smile doesn’t falter. “There’s no need for that.”

“I disagree.”

And just like that, her face shifts. Her smile turns colder. Her gaze more clinical.

She tucks the clipboard under one arm.

Then she says, “Well then, Sophia Chen,” and suddenly I can’t breathe.

She knows. But how? Emerson Wu created my fake background and he’s the best there is.

I raise an eyebrow and say calmly, “That’s not my name.”

“Isn’t it?” she says, tilting her head. “Because a friend of mine at Fremont remembered it. Said you were quite the hurricane.”

My blood goes cold. Fremont.

Maybe this is connected. Even if it’s not, this is definitely a message.

I lift my chin. “You’ve made your point. You can leave.”

She does. No threat. No drama. Just a satisfied glance, and then she’s gone.

I shut the door. Lock it. Deadbolt it. Pull every shade closed and lean against the wall, heart racing.

That was a warning.

Someone knows who I am.

And they want me to know they know.

I grab my phone. Hands shaking.

I should call Jamie.

I should call Marcus.

Hell, I should call the damn FBI.

But all I do is stare at my screen, with the draft confession blinking back at me from my notes app.

Suddenly the lies aren’t just lies anymore.

They’re leverage.

And I’m not the only one holding them.