Chapter 4 - The First Date

Chapter 4 - The First Date

Marcus

I'm watching Sophia through the security feed from Conference Room B, and she looks like she's preparing for battle.

She's sitting across from Richard Pemberton III, venture capitalist and chronic narcissist, who's currently explaining why his last three relationships failed because the women "just couldn't handle his success."

Meanwhile, Sophia looks like she’s thinking of ways to destroy him.

It's disturbingly attractive.

"She's going to eat him alive," Elena says from beside me, sipping her coffee and looking amused. "Poor Richard doesn't know what hit him."

I glance at my business partner, trying to read her expression. Elena Vasquez has been my friend since childhood. The one person who knew me before I became Agent Marcus Blackwood. Before I learned to see threats in every shadow. She has a brilliant mind, cut-throat instincts, and stilettos that could kill.

She's also the only person who knows my real identity, which makes her both my greatest asset and my biggest liability in this operation.

"She's interesting," I say carefully, keeping my voice neutral. "Different from our usual clients."

"Mmm." Elena's dark eyes are fixed on the screen, watching as Sophia leans forward with predatory focus. "She's certainly not what she seems. Have you run her background check yet?"

"In progress." The lie comes easily. I've run three separate background checks on Sophia Sterling, and they're all perfect. Too perfect. Someone with serious skills created this identity, which means either she's working for someone very dangerous, or someone very dangerous is working for her.

On screen, Sophia is nodding sympathetically as Richard launches into a story about his ex-wife's ‘unreasonable’ demands for emotional support. But I can see the way her fingers are tapping against her thigh. A nervous habit I've already catalogued. and the slight tension in her jaw that suggests she's biting her tongue.

"What do you think she's really after?" Elena asks, and there's something in her tone that makes me look at her more carefully.

"What makes you think she's after anything?"

"Please." Elena sets down her coffee cup with the kind of precision that suggests she's choosing her words carefully. "A woman like that doesn't need our services. She's beautiful, successful, probably has men falling at her feet. There's something else going on."

She’s not wrong. But what she sees as certainty, I’m starting to see as something else entirely.

"Maybe she's just lonely," I say, and realize I actually mean it.

There was something in Dr. Mendez's office earlier, when I interrupted that psychological evaluation. Something raw and vulnerable in Sophia's eyes that made my chest tight in a way that has nothing to do with professional interest.

She'd looked... broken. Not in the polished, designer way that most of our clients are broken, but genuinely, deeply hurt. Like someone who keeps a suitcase packed, even if it’s only in their heart.

"Marcus." Elena's voice cuts through my thoughts. "You're getting attached."

"I'm being thorough."

"You're being stupid." Her tone is sharp now, businesslike. "We can't afford emotional complications. Not with what we're dealing with."

Before I can ask what she means by that, my phone buzzes. A text from my FBI handler: Update requested. Any progress on the Sterling lead?

I type back quickly: Still assessing. Need more time.

The response comes immediately: Time's running out. We're getting pressure from above. If she's involved, we need to know.

I delete the conversation and look back at the screen. Sophia is standing now, extending her hand to Richard with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. The meeting is over, and judging by Richard's expression, it didn't go well.

"I should go debrief her," I say, already moving toward the door.

"Marcus." Elena's voice stops me. "Be careful. Whatever game she's playing, she's better at it than you think."

I nod, but I'm not sure Elena and I are worried about the same thing.

I find Sophia in the lobby, looking like she's contemplating homicide. She's staring at her phone with an expression that could melt steel, and when she looks up at me, I see murder in her eyes.

"Well," she says, her voice saccharine sweet, "That was enlightening."

"That bad?"

"Let's just say if I were actually looking for a husband, Richard Pemberton III would be at the bottom of my list, somewhere between ‘serial killer’ and ‘guy who eats cauliflower-base pizza with vegan cheese’."

Despite everything, I laugh. "He's not that bad."

"He spent twenty minutes explaining why feminism is the reason he can't find a good woman, and then asked if I'd be interested in a 'casual arrangement' because his last three girlfriends were 'too clingy.'" She pauses, tilting her head. "Actually, you're right. He's not that bad. He's worse."

"I'll make a note in his file."

"Please do." She slings her purse over her shoulder with more force than necessary. "Is this how all your matches work? Do you just throw people together and hope for the best?"

There's something in her tone that makes me want to do something reckless. Like tell her the truth about why I'm really here. Or offer to take her somewhere that isn't a sterile conference room with hidden cameras.

"Not all of them," I say instead. "Some of our clients require a more... personalized approach."

"Personalized how?"

I step closer, close enough that I can smell her perfume again. Close enough to see the way her pupils dilate slightly when I look at her.

"Let me take you to dinner," I say, and the words are out before I can stop them.

She blinks. "Do you usually take your clients out for dinner after disastrous match-ups?"

"No." I should walk away. Should maintain professional distance. Should remember that she's either a criminal, or looking for a juicy story, and either way, she's dangerous. "But I find myself caring less about professional boundaries where you're concerned."

For a split second, she softens. Then it's gone, buried under practiced indifference.

"I don't think that's a good idea," she says, sounding almost regretful.

"Why not?"

"Because..." She hesitates, and I can see her internal struggle. “It just isn’t.”

We stare at each other in the marble lobby, surrounded by the scent of expensive flowers. There are a dozen reasons why this is a terrible idea. She's lying about who she is. We're both here under false pretenses.

But none of that matters when she looks at me like that.

"One dinner," I say quietly. "No cameras, no evaluations, no business talk. Just us."

She's quiet for so long I think she's going to say no. Then she nods, almost imperceptibly.

"One dinner," she agrees. "But I'm picking the place."

"Deal."

As I watch her walk away, I realize I'm in serious trouble. Not because she might interfere with what I’m trying to accomplish here.

But because my attraction is stronger than my desire to find out what her real deal is.