Chapter 7 - Choosing Battles

Sophia

I'm standing in front of my closet wearing nothing but a towel and a crisis of confidence, which is not a look I'm particularly enamored with.

"It's not a date," I tell my reflection in the mirror for the fifteenth time in the past hour. "It's a strategic intelligence-gathering operation that happens to involve wine and potentially candlelight."

My reflection looks unconvinced. She's got that skeptical eyebrow raise that Jamie always says makes me look like I'm about to eviscerate someone's poorly constructed argument.

Which, to be fair, I usually am.

I pull out a black dress. Professional but not prudish, attractive but not trying too hard, and then immediately put it back. Too obvious. Marcus Blackwood strikes me as the type of man who would see right through an obvious power play, and the last thing I need is him thinking I'm trying to seduce information out of him.

Even if the thought of seducing him is giving me tingles up and down my spine.

What the fuck is wrong with me? That’s not how I work. Never has been and never will be. I’m smart enough to get what I want without using my body.

My phone buzzes with a text from Marcus: Still on for tonight? I have a few restaurant suggestions if you're having trouble deciding.

I stare at the message, fingers hovering over the keyboard. There's something almost thoughtful about it. Like he's genuinely concerned I might be stressed about picking a place rather than trying to take control of the situation.

Which is either very sweet or very calculated, and I honestly can't tell which possibility terrifies me more.

I text back: Already decided. Rosetti's on 47th. 7 PM. Don't be late.

Rosetti's is perfect for my purposes. It's upscale enough that Marcus won't think I'm trying to insult him, but intimate enough that people tend to talk more freely. Plus, I've been there enough times with sources that I know all the exits, the sight lines, and which tables provide the best acoustics for recording conversations.

Not that I'm planning to record Marcus. Probably.

His response comes back almost immediately. Interesting choice. I'll see you there.

No questions about dress code, no suggestions about wine pairings, no attempts to change the venue. Just acceptance. It's either refreshing or deeply suspicious, and knowing my luck, it's probably both.

I settle on a navy dress that’s sleek and understated, perfect for saying “I know what I’m doing,” without hiding that I’m also alive under the fabric.

Which is more honesty than I usually allow myself, but tonight seems like a night for calculated risks.

I'm putting on lipstick when my phone rings. Jamie, of course.

"Please tell me you're not actually going through with this," he says without preamble.

"Hello to you too, sunshine. And yes, I'm going through with it. It's called doing my job."

"Your job is investigating stories, not potentially getting murdered by handsome criminals."

I pause, lipstick halfway to my mouth. "Do you really think he's handsome?"

"I also think he's dangerous. Focus on the right thing."

"In my experience, the handsome ones are always the most dangerous." I finish applying the lipstick and step back to examine the results. "But that's exactly why this will work. He won't expect me to be suspicious of someone who looks like he stepped out of a magazine."

"Soph, what if you're wrong about him? What if he knows nothing?"Jamie’s clearly taking on the role of devil’s advocate now.

What if Marcus Blackwood is exactly what he appears to be? A successful businessman who happens to be ridiculously attractive and surprisingly perceptive.

"Then I'll deal with that when it happens," I say, which is what I always say when I don't want to think about something too hard.

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer I have right now."

Jamie is quiet for a moment. "Are you wearing the navy dress?"

"How did you-"

"Because it's your armor. You wear it when you're trying to convince yourself you're in control of a situation that's already spiraling." His voice softens. "Soph, maybe that's telling you something."

I look at myself in the mirror again. He's right, of course. The navy dress is my go-to for congressional hearings and corporate boardrooms and any other time I need to remind myself that I'm Sophia Chen, investigative journalist, not some scared kid who grew up in constant terror that no foster family would ever want to keep her around.

"I have to go," I tell him. "I'll call you after."

"Be careful. And Soph? If something feels wrong, trust your gut. Screw the story, safety first."

After I hang up, I stand there for a moment, staring at my reflection. The woman looking back at me is polished, professional, and completely in control. She's someone who can handle dinner with a potential criminal without breaking a sweat.

She's also someone who's about to spend the evening lying to a man who might be perfectly innocent, and that knowledge sits in my stomach like a stone.

But I've never backed down from a story before, and I'm not about to start now. Even if this particular story is starting to feel less like an investigation and more like a test of exactly how far I'm willing to go to get what I want.

I grab my purse, check that my phone is fully charged, and head for the door. Time to find out what Marcus Blackwood is really hiding, and whether I'm prepared for the consequences of discovering the truth.