All Chapters of Apex of Love: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

The QLine rattles past on Woodward Avenue, its wheels screaming against the frozen tracks. I'm planted on the platform with my suitcase throttled in one fist and my phone stone dead in the other. The December wind slashes through my coat, mean and wet, laced with diesel and the mineral bite of the river.I executed what I swore I'd execute. I walked.Julian is at the Packard Plant now, leading the rescue for Marcus's daughter. Elara's team surrounds him. The police surround him. He doesn't need me there. He needs to finish this without his attention divided by whether I'm breathing. So I departed, exactly as I pledged. I took the car, drove to the penthouse, stuffed a bag, and strode out.Now I'm marooned on a subway platform with no destination.The city sprawls around me, black and frozen and indifferent. The Christmas lights strung along Woodward bleed into ribbons of color through the tears I refuse to shed. The old Michigan Central Station squats in the distance, its hollow windo

The morning after I return, I sat in the kitchen with my laptop casting its glow across the marble and my resume blinking on the screen.Julian is still asleep in the bedroom, wrecked from the Packard Plant rescue, from the board confrontation, from the revelation about his father. I should be sleeping too. But I can't quit staring at the empty document. Six months. Six months of my existence compressed into a white void on a document that's supposed to represent who I am.What do I type? Live-in mistress to a billionaire? Contractual companion? A woman who dropped a pen and blew up her entire life?The coffee cools beside me. The Vernor's sign flashes gold over the frozen river. The Spirit of Detroit statue stands green and silent in the distance, its bronze arms stretched toward the sky, holding a family in one hand and a golden sunburst in the other. I've been drilling holes into this screen for two hours, and I haven't typed a single syllable."You're awake."I rotate. Julian fil

I don't take the job at Mercer & Dane.The text from Victor Croft sits on my phone like a lit fuse. I read it a dozen times, delete it, then pull it out of the trash and read it again. Julian is in his study, working the phones about his father. He doesn't know about the job offer. He doesn't know about the text. I have to tell him, but I need to think first.I pace the penthouse all morning. The Penobscot Building pulses its red rhythm over the river. The Spirit of Detroit statue stretches its bronze arms toward the gray sky. I think about Ms. Reeves and her condition. We need to know where your loyalties lie. They wanted me to pick a side. Julian's world or theirs.But what if there's a third path? What if I don't have to choose between my future and my heart?I flip open my laptop and hunt. Mercer & Dane isn't the only firm in this city. There are dozens of investment houses, consulting shops, and financial offices. One of them has to be looking for someone with my strange, sharp s

The office empties at six, and I'm still rooted to my desk.The Ann Arbor case stretches across three monitors, a mess of falsified invoices and shell companies that all lead back to Victor Croft's investment portfolio. I've been drilling into the same spreadsheet for an hour, the numbers smearing together, when Yvonne plants a fresh cup of coffee beside my elbow."Go home," she says. "The numbers will wait.""I'm inches from something. I can taste it.""You've been inches from something for three days. Go home. Eat something that didn't come from a vending machine. Sleep."I scrub my eyes. The Dequindre Cut sprawls dark beyond the window, its murals swallowed by the night, the old train line silent. "I need to crack this. Victor Croft has been slippery for decades. If I can prove he knew about the fraud—""Then you'll be the analyst who sank a billionaire. I know." Yvonne yanks her coat from the rack. "But you won't do it tonight. Go home. That's an order."I slam the laptop shut. Th

The Sterling Group boardroom reeks of old money and burnt coffee.I'm wedged at the conference table with Yvonne beside me, facing four executives who look like they haven't cracked a smile since the Reagan administration. The lead partner, Harold Sterling, flips through our report with hands mapped by liver spots."Blackmore & Associates," he says, his voice a dry scrape. "I've heard of your firm. Small shop.""We get results," Yvonne says."Apparently so." He drops the report onto the polished wood. "This is the most thorough forensic analysis we've seen in years. You traced the fraud back to our CFO, identified sixteen shell companies, and recovered nearly four million dollars in embezzled funds.""Ms. Marchetti did the heavy tracing," Yvonne says. "She cracked the shell companies."Sterling's eyes shift to me. "You're the analyst?""Yes, sir.""Impressive work.""Thank you, sir."He tilts back in his chair. "The board has discussed it. We want to retain Blackmore for ongoing foren