Page 17 of Fated By Fire
Not only that—he’s the owner of the company I’m supposed to be investigating.
Caleb Craven isn’t just some hot CEO—he’s a complication I can’t afford.
But as I shove my hair out of my flushed face and hail a cab, the memory of his lips on mine lingers.
And I can’t help but wonder if I’ve just made the biggest mistake of my life—or started something I can’t walk away from.
Chapter 6
Elena
The trip home is a blur of neon lights and pounding rain. My mind races, replaying the kiss over and over like a broken record. What the hell was I thinking? Caleb Craven isn’t just my “mark.” He’s at least a thousand miles out of my league. And I kissed him. In front of his brother, my best friend, and two random women whose names I can’t even remember.
God, I’m such an idiot.
I fumble with my keys at the door of my apartment, my hands shaking. The loft is dark, the only light coming from the flickering sign outside. I kick off my heels and collapse onto the faded couch, burying my face in my hands.
What’s done is done. I can’t take it back. But I can’t let it derail me either. I have a job to do—a high-stakes, life-changing job. I can’t let a stupid, impulsive mistake ruin everything.
My phone buzzes again. It’s Mara. I silence it without looking. I’m not ready to deal with her yet—or her inevitable barrage of questions. Right now, I need to focus. I need a plan.
A plan that doesn’t involve the feeling of firm lips, of warm breath against my cheek. The promise of—
“The promise of nothing, you idiot! Geez, what’s wrong with you, Lennie?” I drag myself to the desk and flip open my laptop. The screen casts a pale glow over the room, illuminating the piles of papers and notes I’ve been compiling over the past week. The Craven Industries case is a tangled web of corporate intrigue, and I’ve barely scratched the surface. But I know one thing for sure: whatever is in the vault is the key.
My fingers hover over the keyboard as I pull up the files I’ve been sending to Blackthorn Consulting. They’ve been vague about what they’re looking for, but their latest email was clear: they want something meaty. Something big. And I’m starting to think whatever is in the vault is it.
But what is it? And why did that door feel… alive?
I shiver, remembering the way the air felt around the elevator that led to the vault, the way it seemed to hum and pulse. And then there’s the way Caleb reacted when he found me there. His eyes—those molten eyes—had flared with something dangerous. Something that scared me a little.
I shake my head, trying to clear the image from my mind.
Pull yourself together, girl.
Blackthorn said Mom would know the significance. What did they mean by that? It’s a question I’ve asked myself a thousand times in the past week, but nothing has jumped out at me.
I pull out Mom’s journal from the desk drawer, running my fingertips over the cover. The leather feels warm, almost alive, as if it holds secrets waiting to be uncovered. I flip through the pages, my eyes skimming over the familiar handwriting—her careful loops and curls, so full of life even now. My fingers pauseon a page near the middle, where the ink seems darker, more deliberate.
Something catches my eye. A word, nestled in the middle of a sentence, seems to shimmer faintly. I blink, leaning closer. The word “craven” glows softly, as if illuminated by some unseen light.
Craven?
I frown, brushing my finger over it. The faint glow doesn’t fade, but it doesn’t intensify, either. I’m sure I’ve read this page before, but I don’t remember this word standing out like this.
Maybe because now it seems significant.
The glow slowly dims until I begin to wonder if I imagined it. I stare at it for a moment longer, my heart beating a little faster, before closing the journal and placing it gently down on the desk. The word lingers in my mind, a quiet hum I can’t quite shake.
Craven Industries.
Caleb Craven…
Could there be a link? To Mom?
God… no, there’s no way. It makes no sense.
I pace the length of my small apartment, my bare feet padding silently on the worn carpet. The journal sits closed on the desk, but I can still feel its presence, like a faint pulse in the room. The word “craven” echoes in my mind, a whisper I can’t ignore. Mom’s handwriting, that faint glow—it’s too much of a coincidence. But how could she have known about Craven Industries? About Caleb?
