Eva

5

______

The coffee shop smells like burnt espresso and overripe bananas, a combination that would normally irritate me. Tonight, I barely notice. My eyes flick to the door every few seconds, scanning for anyone who fits the vague description Nathan gave me over the phone.

He said he’d be here at 6:30 sharp. It’s now 6:50, and there’s no sign of him.

I stir my tea with mechanical precision, the clinking of the spoon against the ceramic mug the only sound at my table. My instincts are screaming at me to leave. Something about this feels off—maybe it’s the public meeting spot, or the fact that Nathan hasn’t called to explain his delay. Or maybe it’s the prickling unease I’ve felt since last night when I was sure someone was watching me.

And then there’s the warning, still etched in my memory: “Stay out of this, or you’ll regret it.”

I glance at my phone again, scrolling through my messages. Nothing. Just the blank silence of a contact who’s either bailed or decided I’m not worth the risk.

The barista clears her throat behind the counter, startling me. I shake my head, annoyed at how jumpy I’ve become. I’ve handled worse than this. But tonight, every shadow feels sharper, every stranger more threatening.

By 7:00, I’ve had enough. I slip my notebook into my bag and stand, tossing a crumpled five-dollar bill onto the table for the tea I didn’t drink. Outside, the city hums with its usual evening rhythm—cars honking, distant laughter from nearby bars, the sharp whistle of the wind between buildings.

The subway station is crowded, the air thick with the mingling scents of hot pretzels and damp concrete. I swipe my card and step onto the platform, keeping my eyes on the electronic display counting down the next train. Two minutes. I lean against a pillar, my fingers tapping against my phone as I make a list of potential next steps.

But the unease doesn’t fade.

I glance over my shoulder, scanning the platform. Nothing unusual—just tired commuters and a couple of teenagers arguing over a playlist. Still, the sense of being watched lingers, prickling at the edges of my awareness.

The train screeches to a stop, and I step inside, gripping the overhead rail as it lurches forward. The ride is uneventful, but my thoughts churn, frustration and doubt tangling into a suffocating knot.

By the time I reach my apartment building, the familiar sight of crooked steps and peeling paint feels like a small relief. I climb the stairs, the sound of my keys jangling in my hand, already thinking about diving into my notes.

But as I approach my door, I stop short.

The door is slightly ajar, the chain hanging limply, as if it’s been forced open.

My breath catches, and I freeze, a dozen possibilities racing through my mind. Did I forget to lock it? No. I’m obsessive about that. Did someone break in?

The hallway is too quiet, the air heavy with a stillness that makes every sound sharper. My pulse pounds in my ears as I reach into my bag for my phone, my thumb hovering over the call button for 9-1-1.

But I don’t press it.

What would I even say? That someone might have broken into my apartment? What if it’s nothing—just a maintenance worker who forgot to close the door properly?

Swallowing hard, I push the door open, every muscle in my body coiled tight.

The living room looks exactly as I left it—books stacked on the coffee table, my half-finished cup of coffee still sitting by the sink. Nothing seems out of place, but the air feels wrong.

I step inside, my movements cautious, my gaze sweeping the space. The kitchen is empty. The bathroom door is open, the light off.

Then I see it.

My laptop sits on the dining table, the screen glowing faintly in the dim light.

I didn’t leave it like that.

My chest tightens as I approach, unease twisting into full-blown dread. The screen isn’t showing the document I was working on earlier. Instead, a blank text file waits, the cursor blinking expectantly in the corner.

And in bold, black letters:

“I warned you.”

I scan the room again, half-expecting someone to step out of the shadows. The silence presses against me, heavier now. My fingers hover over the keyboard, but I don’t touch it. Whoever did this—they’ve been here. In my space. In my life.

I click around, searching for my files, but they’re gone. Every note, every draft, every scrap of research I’ve collected over the past two weeks. The folders are still there, but they’re empty—wiped clean.

This isn’t just a warning. It’s a declaration of war.

My phone buzzes on the table, and I grab it, my hands trembling. It’s a text—anonymous, like the warnings before—but this one has no words. Just an attachment.

I open it, and my stomach twists.

The first photo is of me, sitting in the coffee shop earlier tonight. The angle is high, like it was taken from a camera across the room.

The second photo is of me at the subway station, leaning against the pillar.

The third is of me standing outside my apartment building, staring at my door.

My breath catches.

They’ve been following me. Watching me. Every step, every move.

My earlier paranoia wasn’t paranoia at all—it was real.

For a moment, panic threatens to take over. My chest tightens, and my vision blurs as I grip the edge of the table, forcing myself to breathe. Whoever this is, they want me to feel vulnerable. Helpless.

But I’m not helpless.

I grab my bag and keys, locking the door behind me with shaking hands. There’s only one person who might have the answers I need.

Dominic Kane.

It’s reckless. Stupid. But as I step into the cool night air and hail a cab, one thing is certain.

Whoever sent the message thinks they can scare me.

They’re wrong.

The cab glides through the streets of Manhattan, the city alive with its usual nighttime energy. Neon signs blur past, their harsh glow flickering against the window. I barely notice. My focus is on the phone in my lap, my thumb hovering over the contact I’d saved for Dominic Kane’s assistant.

What am I even going to say when I get there? “Hi, your enemies are stalking me, and I think I might have pissed off someone who wants to destroy you. Help?”

A sharp laugh escapes me, humorless and bitter. The driver glances at me in the rearview mirror but doesn’t comment. Smart.

The cityscape changes as we approach the gleaming monolith of Kane Enterprises. The building stands tall and imposing, a beacon of power and precision against the night sky. Even now, long past regular business hours, its windows glitter with light. There’s no question that Dominic Kane is still here.

When the cab pulls up to the curb, I pay the driver and step out, the weight of my decision settling fully onto my shoulders. The air is colder than I expected, the kind of sharp chill that sneaks under your jacket. I pull mine tighter around me as I approach the entrance.

The revolving glass doors slide open smoothly, and I step inside the polished lobby. It’s everything you’d expect from a billionaire’s corporate headquarters—sleek marble floors, high ceilings, and the faint hum of efficiency in the air. Security guards flank the reception desk, their eyes sharp as they track my movements.

I hesitate for a fraction of a second before heading toward the receptionist. Confidence, . Confidence or nothing.

“Hi,” I say, forcing a smile that feels brittle at the edges. “I need to see Dominic Kane. It’s urgent.”

The receptionist, a young man with perfect posture and a tie that screams ‘too expensive,’ raises an eyebrow. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No,” I admit, leaning forward slightly, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial tone. “But he’ll want to see me. Tell him it’s about the leaks. Tell him Stone is here.”

His expression flickers, the surprise quickly smoothed over. For a moment, I think I’ve overplayed my hand. Then he nods, reaching for the phone.

“Wait here,” he says curtly, dialing a number.

The seconds stretch like hours, each one amplifying the pounding of my heart. Behind me, the guards shift subtly, their presence a constant reminder that I’m treading on thin ice.

Finally, the receptionist hangs up. “Mr. Kane will see you. Take the elevator to the top floor.”

Relief washes over me, mingled with a fresh wave of nerves. I nod, murmuring a quick thank you before heading to the elevators. The ride up is silent except for the soft hum of machinery. My reflection stares back at me in the mirrored walls, and for a moment, I don’t recognize myself.

I look tired. Frayed. Determined.

The elevator chimes softly as it reaches the top floor, the doors sliding open to reveal a sprawling office space bathed in warm, understated lighting. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking view of the city, the glittering skyline stretching as far as the eye can see.

Dominic Kane stands near the windows, his silhouette sharp against the backdrop of lights. He doesn’t turn as I step into the room, my heels muffled by the plush carpet.

“You have an interesting way of requesting a meeting, Ms. Stone,” he says, his voice calm but edged with something I can’t quite place.

I square my shoulders, forcing myself to stand tall. “I didn’t think you’d respond to an email,” I reply. “And I needed answers.”

At that, he turns, his piercing blue eyes locking onto mine. The intensity of his gaze is enough to make me falter, but I hold my ground.

“Answers about what?” he asks, his tone unreadable.

“About the leaks,” I say. “About whoever’s trying to destroy your company. About why they’re watching me.”

For a moment, his expression doesn’t change. Then something flickers behind his eyes—an emotion too quick to name. Concern? Frustration?

“Watching you?” he repeats, his voice quieter now. “What do you mean?”

I pull out my phone, my fingers swiping through the gallery until I find the photos. Holding the screen out toward him, I take a step closer.

“They sent these to me tonight,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “They’ve been following me. They broke into my apartment, erased my files, and left me a message.”

Dominic takes the phone from my hand, his movements measured. He studies the photos in silence, his gaze narrowing slightly with each one.

“What message?” he asks, his tone sharper now.

I hesitate for only a second before meeting his gaze. “They said, ‘I warned you.’”

For the first time, his expression cracks. It’s subtle—a flicker of something dark and dangerous—but it’s enough to send a chill down my spine.

“You should have stayed out of this,” he says, his voice low.

“And you should stop pretending you don’t know what’s going on,” I snap, taking another step forward. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like someone is trying to destroy everything you’ve built. And now, they’re dragging me into it.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t immediately respond. Instead, he turns back toward the window, his hands clasped behind his back. The silence stretches, heavy and charged.

Finally, he speaks. “If they’ve targeted you, it’s because you’re close to something. Too close.”

My pulse quickens. “What am I close to?”

Dominic glances over his shoulder, his expression unreadable. “That’s what we need to find out.”

The weight of his words sinks in as I stand there, my heart hammering in my chest. “We”? The last thing I expected was for Dominic Kane to admit he needs me as much as I need him.

“You’re saying I’ve uncovered something,” I say carefully, trying to piece together his meaning. “Something you don’t even know about?”

Dominic’s lips press into a thin line. “It’s not a matter of what. It’s a matter of who. These leaks aren’t just corporate sabotage—they’re personal. Someone with access to my company. My life.”

“An insider,” I murmur, my mind racing. Caldwell’s warnings, the erased files, the cryptic messages—they all start to align.

“Yes,” Dominic says. His voice is colder now, sharper. “And if they’ve dragged you into this, it means they’re desperate. Desperate enough to use you as leverage.”

Leverage. The word sends a jolt of fear through me, but it’s quickly replaced by determination. I won’t let myself be a pawn in someone else’s game.

“So, what do we do?” I ask, folding my arms to steady myself.

“We don’t do anything,” Dominic replies, his gaze hardening. “I’ll handle this. You stay out of it.”

I laugh, the sound brittle. “Stay out of it? Are you serious? They broke into my apartment. They’ve been following me. I don’t get to stay out of it anymore.”

Dominic’s eyes narrow, his frustration evident. “You’re in over your head, Ms. Stone. These people aren’t playing games. They will hurt you.”

“Let them try,” I shoot back, taking another step forward. “I’m not afraid of them. And if you think I’m just going to sit back while they destroy my life, then you don’t know me at all.”

For a moment, we’re locked in a silent standoff, the tension between us palpable. Then, slowly, Dominic exhales, the fight draining from his shoulders.

“You’re reckless,” he mutters, more to himself than to me.

“Maybe,” I admit. “But I’m not wrong.”

He studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he nods.

“Fine,” he says quietly. “But if you’re going to be involved, you do it my way. No more solo investigations, no more risks. Understood?”

I hesitate, the weight of his words settling heavily over me. But I nod. “Understood.”

Dominic turns back toward the window, his silhouette sharp against the glow of the city. “Then let’s get to work.”