All Chapters of Undercover Hearts: Chapter 131 - Chapter 140

SophiaThe hearing is supposed to be procedural. A line item on a docket, a checkmark before the real trial machine kicks into gear.But the courthouse steps are flooded with cameras before dawn, a tide of microphones and umbrellas jostling for space. By the time Elena Vasquez emerges from the van, perfect posture, cream coat draped over her shoulders like armor, the crowd sounds like a stadium.I watch it all from Marcus’s couch, knees pulled to my chest, coffee cooling untouched beside me. Jamie sprawls on the rug with a bowl of popcorn like this is Netflix, and Marcus hovers behind the couch, arms crossed, body taut as wire.Elena doesn’t flinch at the flashes. She tips her chin and lets the cameras drink her in. The very picture of poise.Her lawyer walks at her side, gray-haired and silk-tied, voice smooth as he fields shouted questions.“Ms. Vasquez is a victim here. Years ago, she struggled with gambling debts. Bainbridge Global preyed on her vulnerability, coercing her into t

MarcusThe smear campaign doesn’t bother me the way it bothers Sophia.I’ve lived with people trying to discredit me since I put on a Bureau badge. Every enemy calls you prejudiced, every ally thinks you’ve gone too soft. That’s the game. What matters is tuning out the noise long enough to do your job.But watching Sophia absorb the body blows, her name slandered on cable news, her past splashed across forums like a scandal scrapbook, that makes something in me knot tight and dark.So I lean into what I know best. Control.By the time she wakes up the next morning, there’s a Bureau car idling outside my building. Two agents, vetted personally, to rotate day and night coverage. They’ll follow her everywhere she goes. I check the cameras myself, double the locks, run a sweep of her laptop for trackers she swears aren’t there.When she comes into the kitchen in one of my T-shirts, hair a messy halo, she blinks at me like she’s not sure what planet she’s landed on.“Why are there men out

JamieBy the time I get Sophia through my door, she looks like she’s been wrung out and hung up to dry. Court dates, Elena’s lawyers throwing mud, reporters shouting questions like vultures with microphones. It’s too much for one human to carry.Her shoulders sag as soon as the lock clicks behind us. She toes off her shoes, drops her bag like it weighs fifty pounds, and leans against the wall, eyes shut.I clap my hands. “Nope. None of that. We are not doing ‘tragic heroine crumpled against the plaster.’ Kitchen. Now.”Her eyes crack open just enough to glare at me. “You’re so loud and bossy.”“Correct. And proud of it. March.”She sighs, but I catch the flicker of relief when she follows me down the hall. Mission accomplished.Noah’s already there, sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted with flour, pulling a tray of bread from the oven. The kitchen smells like comfort. Yeast and rosemary and butter, and for a second even I forget the mess outside our four walls.Sophia stops in the doorw

MarcusI’ve seen false trails before. Half my Bureau career was spent sifting through fabricated ledgers, doctored phone records, carefully planted “anonymous tips.” It’s an old trick, but when the folder lands on the table in front of me and my own name blazes across the forged account logs, my stomach still knots.“Elena Vasquez is getting creative,” Gillespie says dryly, standing at the head of the conference table. Her tone is controlled, but I can see the tension riding her jaw. “Anonymous drop to three separate outlets this morning. All claiming Marcus Blackwood has been laundering through Platinum for years.”The room hums with irritation as the techs flip through glossy printouts. One of them taps the columns with a pen. “Dates are off. Transactions listed for months Platinum wasn’t even operational. Whoever built this didn’t bother aligning the corporate calendar with the supposed funds movement.”“Doesn’t matter,” another agent mutters. “The press doesn’t read timestamps.

ElenaThe courtroom is a stage.It always has been. The varnished wood, the hungry eyes watching from every angle. They think they’re here for justice, but they’re here for spectacle. For me.I sit at the defense table, posture perfect, every detail curated. Charcoal gray dress, sleek enough to command respect, soft enough to whisper victim. Minimal makeup, hair in loose curls down my back.I know the camera lenses in the hallway will drink it all in, even if the judge banned them from here. The public consume with their eyes.And me? I feed them.Marrin is still on the stand, stammering through questions he’s barely strong enough to answer. He sweats through cheap fabric, trips over half-truths, and clings to his “evidence” like it can shield him. Pathetic.The jury watches with that look. Eyes brimming with pity and disdain. The way people look at a man begging on a subway platform. They know he’s dirty. My lawyer only had to nudge, and already they’re questioning every word.I coul