All Chapters of Undercover Hearts: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

SophiaI’ve never had my picture taken this many times in one night.The flashes start before we even make it out of the car. Marcus exits first, all angles and command, and then circles to my door like we’re royalty instead of whatever strange not-quite-something we are. When he offers me his hand, I take it, because I’m not strong enough not to. Because the cameras are watching. Because I want to.And then we’re on the red carpet.Marcus leans in just enough to murmur, "Smile for the press."The press. Right.Not smile because you’re breathtaking. Not smile because you’re with me.Just another reminder that this whole thing is performance art and not something real.Still, I smile. The dress Jamie picked for me is champagne silk with a slit high enough to count as a distraction tactic.My heels are tall enough to qualify as a security risk. And Marcus, in his tuxedo, is a lesson in inhuman self-restraint.Every inch of him says, nothing to see here.And yet everyone is looking."

SophiaThe gala is over.My feet hurt, my face aches from smiling, and I still feel like I'm vibrating out of my own skin.It’s past midnight when Marcus finally drops me off at my building. He walks me to the door, like a gentleman. "Thank you for coming," he says, low and careful. Because everything between us is fragile and sharp-edged."Thanks for inviting me."We stand there for a second too long. One of those charged silences where anything could happen.A kiss, a confession, a complete implosion. But instead, he just nods. His eyes flick to my mouth and then away so fast it’s as if he regrets the glance before it lands."Goodnight, Sophia."My throat is tight, but I manage not to sound too hoarse. "Goodnight."And then I’m inside, leaning against the door, champagne still fizzing in my veins and Marcus Blackwood haunting my pulse.I peel off my shoes and drop my clutch, already reaching for my phone. Two missed calls from Jamie And one text.You BETTER not have gone to sleep w

SophiaI’ve been pacing my apartment for twenty minutes, a glass of wine in one hand and my phone clutched in the other like it might ring if I stare hard enough.It doesn’t.Because Marcus isn’t calling.And I don’t know if that’s punishment or indifference.He hasn’t reached out since the gala. Not even a vague text or cryptic emoji. Just absence. Cold, precise, deliberate absence. The kind that feels calculated, like he knows exactly how much space to give without completely severing the thread.Which is its own kind of cruelty.Jamie walks in balancing two bags of takeout and a bottle of chardonnay.“That bad, huh?” he says, setting the food down and grabbing a wine glass from the cupboard.“I don’t know what it is,” I mutter. “He’s just… gone radio silent.”“He’s a man, Soph. They go radio silent the way some people ghost after job interviews. Emotionally stunted is not a plot twist.”I set my glass down and sink into the couch. Jamie joins me, nudging over a container of sprin

SophiaBy Tuesday afternoon, I’ve triple-checked my phone enough times to consider it an act of self-harm. There’s nothing. No missed calls. No cryptic text messages. Not even a thumbs-up emoji or a passive-aggressive period. Marcus Blackwood has gone full ghost. At first, I told myself he was just busy. Maybe buried in paperwork or lost in the bureaucratic hellscape that is running a matchmaking empire for the rich and emotionally unavailable. But then I remember what happened. Not just the kiss, the firestorm of a kiss, but what came before.When he called me Sophia Chen. He knows. And I have no idea what he plans to do with that information. I don’t know what stings more. His silence, or the creeping suspicion that I was just a moment of weakness. A spark of indulgence he’s since locked away behind steel bars. Was I ever anything more than a complication he was trying to contain? I try to stay focused. On my investigation. On the web of offshore accounts Jamie and I are mapp

SophiaPreston arrives in a vintage convertible that seems custom-made for his effortless magnetism. All golden-boy charisma without the tragic undertones that usually shadow men like him. He reaches over to unlatch my door, that trademark grin spreading across his face as naturally as breathing. He's picked a restaurant bathed in golden warmth. All rough brick and soft lighting that makes everything feel safe and uncomplicated. This is a place for easy laughter and shared stories, not hushed conversations about things that go bump in the night. It smells like truffle oil and hearth-fired bread, and for once, I don’t feel like I’m on the clock.The meal unfolds pleasantly. Preston navigates questions about my work with practiced curiosity, hitting that sweet spot between genuine engagement and respectful distance, as if someone coached him on the perfect level of intrigue without overstepping. His own stories flow easily. The startup, weekend hikes with his golden retriever, that u