Tessa Netting Broadway Novels & Stories

“Do it. But it’s more than that.” She flipped the next page and pushed it across to me. A contact web. One node circled. “That prepaid number sits in Tessa Rhodes’s orbit,” she said, voice flat. “Not her direct line. But close enough that if you tug it, her world shakes.” My eyes stayed on the page, but my focus shifted—past the paper, past the room, to the shape of the problem. Tessa wasn’t stupid. She was many things—ambitious, possessive, ruthless in the way she smiled while cutting—but she wasn’t reckless.

Her posture was relaxed, but her eyes were sharp, fixed on the screen with a calm that hid something deeper. “Lauren’s design is called the Flower God series?” Tessa asked, her voice low as she turned slightly to the staff standing beside her. “Yes, ma’am,” the female staff replied quickly, lowering her voice instinctively as though afraid of being overheard. “I heard many clients made bookings based on this design alone.” Tessa’s lips curved into a faint smile, but there was no warmth in it. “Lauren must be getting addicted to stealing,” she said quietly, her gaze returning to the stage.

Jonah said into her hair. Tessa stared at the ceiling. “I have a walk-up and a buzzer that hates strangers. If either of you texts the call sheet like this was networking, I’ll light your next room so you look like hell.” Jonah’s smile pressed to her nape. “No call sheet.” Elias kissed the inside of her wrist. “Two keys. You keep one if you want the door later. I fly anyway. That isn’t a speech. That’s a schedule.” She closed her eyes. The gala was orchids in a dumpster by now.