บททั้งหมดของ Undercover Hearts: บทที่ 21 - บทที่ 30

SophiaI spot the unfamiliar woman the moment I step into the lounge.She’s standing near the espresso machine, exchanging cool pleasantries with Marcus.Elena is watching from behind her glass-walled office, arms folded across her silk blouse like she’s barely restraining a snarl. That alone tells me everything I need to know. Whoever this woman is, Elena didn’t sign off on her.The woman doesn’t look out of place exactly. But neither does she blend in seamlessly. She’s definitely not a client. She clearly can’t afford the $100 000 joining fee.Her clothes are professional, but bought off the rack. No timeless elegance and hefty price tag there. I’d guess her actual income is probably about the same as mine. She clearly doesn’t have a major publication bankrolling her deception.Something Sullivan keeps reminding me of when he gets in touch to demand updates.The way she’s dressed already sets her apart from the rest of the team, who tend to lean into subtle opulence. But there’

Sophia“I mean, just look at this man,” Jamie says, shoving his phone in my face like it’s a sacred artifact. “He windsurfs, Sophia. Windsurfs. Unironically. And somehow he doesn’t even look like a douchebag doing it.”I squint at the screen. Preston Haas, sun-drenched and golden, is slicing across blue water in some Greek island bay, grinning like he invented joy. Shirtless, of course. Gleaming. Offensively symmetrical. Sun-bleached hair blowing in the wind.“His abs have abs,” I mutter, reaching for my wine. “How much time does he spend working out?”“Right?” Jamie sighs, flopping back into the plush booth. We’re at a little wine bar near my apartment, all exposed brick and overpriced cheese boards. He insisted we come out tonight, to ‘process my romantic chaos over carbs and cabernet’. His words, not mine.“He looks like a sculpture,” I add. “The kind of guy who never stains his shirt or says the wrong thing.”Jamie points at me. “And that, darling, is why you need to go on th

SophiaThe car door opens and the city spills out in front of me. Glittering, golden, and just shy of theatrical. Like someone took a rom-com set and cranked the ambiance to eleven.Above me, the rooftop of Ember is lit like a fever dream designed by someone with excellent taste and unlimited funding. Standing at the far end of the terrace, flanked by candlelight and skyline, is Preston Haas.Dark slacks, open-collared white shirt, no tie. Casual, but in the way only the obscenely rich can pull off without looking like they rolled out of bed five minutes ago. When he sees me his face lights up like he means it."Sophia." He strides over, smiling wide, his presence warm and effortlessly charismatic."Wow. You look-""Like someone wearing an overpriced dress and desperately trying not to trip in these heels?" I offer, lips quirking.He laughs. Genuinely laughs, not that polite rich-person chuckle. "I was going to say stunning, but sure. Let's go with brutal honesty."The dress is s

SophiaJamie’s already halfway through a croissant when I slide into the booth at our usual spot. A cozy little café on Lafayette with mismatched chairs and excellent lattes. He looks up, eyes absolutely sparkling with the kind of manic energy that usually means trouble.“There she is! Platinum’s newest Cinderella. Give me everything. Was there a glass slipper? Or just a ridiculously hot billionaire trying to wife you up?” I blink at him, still mentally untangling myself from Marcus's office and the way his voice gets all low and careful when he's trying not to say what he's thinking. "You’re even more unhinged than usual this morning. How many lattes have you had?"He rolls his eyes at me. “Tell me about Preston Haas before I spontaneously combust from curiosity."I peel off my coat, half my brain still stuck on the way Marcus's jaw tightened when I mentioned Preston's name. "He's... nice."Jamie gasps. "Absolutely not. Don't you dare give me 'nice.' I want adjectives that make m

SophiaThe text lights up my screen while I'm in line for coffee, and I almost drop my phone.Company event Thursday night. If you're free, I’d be grateful to have you there as my plus one. You can meet more of our clients this way.I reread it four times. Then a fifth. It still says the same thing, but somehow it gets more confusing every time.I was expecting distance.After our meeting this morning, his chilly professionalism, the way he couldn’t even look me in the eye when he asked if I’d enjoyed myself, I figured we were in reset mode. The clean break I needed. Mission back on track. Zero room for ambiguous tension.But this is not distance. This is the opposite of distance. Is it a date? The way he worded his message leaves way too much room for ambiguity. A gala is fancy. Black tie. Photographers. Socialites. A place where people bring the people they want to show off.But is he showing me off as a date or a client?Jamie is already seated when I get to our corner table, sc