Semua Bab Undercover Hearts: Bab 41 - Bab 50

SophiaThe note is waiting when I get back to my apartment.No envelope. No stamp. Just a single piece of heavy cream stationery slid under my door. Like whoever left it knew exactly how long I’d be gone and how little time I’d need to notice it.I stare at it for a full thirty seconds before picking it up.Black ink. Neat handwriting. No flourishes. No name.Some matches are dangerous to strike.That’s it.No threats, no blood, no signature scrawled in dramatic cursive. Just that one line, tucked into my apartment like a secret waiting to ignite.My stomach twists.I don’t panic. That’s not what I do. I’ve been followed, hacked, and sued by billionaires who’d rather pay lawyers than pay for their crimes. The timing seems very suspicious. As if someone has been following me.Because last night I let Preston kiss me. I allowed myself to feel safe. And for a few hours, I didn’t think about the fact that I’m lying to everyone. And someone out there clearly knows it.I sit down on the co

SophiaI wake up to the sound of birds.Not the sweet, melodic kind. The shrill, panicked chatter of city pigeons fighting over a crust of bread outside my window. It's jarring, disorienting. Until the memory of what happened last night comes flooding back in and a shiver runs down my spine.I can’t pinpoint whether it’s delight or foreboding. The sex was incredible, but there’s nobody on the other side of the bed.Marcus is gone.For a second, I think maybe he just stepped into the kitchen. Maybe he's making coffee and laughing at my ridiculous owl-shaped French press. But then I sit up, and reality hits like a sucker punch to the ribs. My apartment’s the size of a shoe box. I’d hear him moving around the kitchen. The only trace that he was ever here is the lingering scent of his cologne on my sheets.I get up and pad naked through my space. Looking in vain for a note.Surely that’s the very least of what he owes me after showing up out of the blue and fucking me passionately.But

SophiaThe hotel Preston booked is aggressively fancy in that way that makes you feel like you should be holding a martini and solving international incidents. All gleaming chrome and floor-to-ceiling windows that show off London being moody and gorgeous in the rain. The concierge team keeps using my name with the kind of reverence usually reserved for royalty or people who tip in hundreds.Everything here is designed to make you feel important. The butter-soft carpets that beg you to sink into them, lighting that makes everyone look like they're starring in their own romantic drama, luxury so intentional it's basically theater.We've got connecting suites with a door between them that's practically begging to cause problems. I've already made a mental note. Do not under any circumstances accidentally wander through that door in my bathrobe and slippers like some kind of rom-com disaster waiting to happen.I’m very fuzzy in the morning and I wouldn’t put it past myself to think tha

SophiaThe rooftop event is glam as hell. Champagne towers, live jazz floating through the summer air, a factory’s worth of fairy lights strung between rooftop trellises like constellations designed by a Pinterest board.But it's also weirdly warm. Not in temperature, but in vibe. People are laughing, not posing. Eating, not performing. Which is unexpected.Preston leads me through the crowd like he's lived on rooftops his whole life. Actually, he probably has. He greets everyone like they're old friends and introduces me like I'm someone worth knowing, not just the pretty date."Sophia Chen," he says, with a hand resting lightly on my back. "She's the most interesting person in the city, but don’t tell anyone. I’m still hoping to convince her to like me back."It should be cheesy. It should make me roll my eyes. But it doesn’t. Because he says it with the same easy charm he uses for everything, except there’s a flicker of vulnerability beneath it. Something not rehearsed.People lau

MarcusI’m six hours into combing through bank records when I finally find it.I nearly miss it at first. A transfer from Liberty-Anne Hoffman’s trust account to a firm called Mariner Holdings, LLC. It seems innocuous. But I’ve been doing this long enough to know when something smells like cologne covering rot. And the name, Mariner, rings a very distant bell in my head.I run it against our internal database, and there it is.