“I told him my dreams were already plenty interesting, thanks to you,” he said, his eyes twinkling as he squeezed my hand.
The rest of dinner was like that. Easy, fun, and blessedly normal. We talked and laughed, the outside world and its complications fading away until it was just us in our little candlelit bubble.
Later, in the taxi heading back to my place, I leaned my head on his shoulder, the comfort between us feeling both wonderful and terrifying. This was what it felt like to fall in love, I realized. This effortless connection, this feeling of being completely, utterly seen. And it scared the hell out of me.
“What happens after this?” I asked quietly, the question slipping out before I could stop it.
Sean turned his head, his lips brushing against my hair. “What do you mean?”
“I mean… after this,” I said, gesturing vaguely. “After Garrett is dealt with, after… everything. You live in California, Sean. Your whole life is there. I’m just… a temporary project in New York, who’s really from Glasgow.”
He was quiet for a long moment. The only sound was the hum of the taxi’s engine. I felt my heart sink. I’d been right. Thisdidhave an expiration date.
Then he lifted my chin with his finger, forcing me to look at him. His eyes were serious, intense. “You are not a project, Beth,” he said, his voice firm. “And you are not temporary. I don’t know what will happen after this. I don’t have a five-point plan. But I know this.” He brought my hand to his lips,pressing a kiss to my palm. “I’m staying close. We’ll figure it out. Together.”
I looked into his eyes, and I actually believed it might be true. But as the taxi pulled up to my Brooklyn brownstone, the fear still lingered, a quiet, insistent whisper:In my dreams.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
SEAN
The lineof readers snaked through the aisles of the Strand bookstore in Manhattan, a humbling and gratifying sight. I was in my element, in my public persona: Sean McCrae, the man with the answers, the guy who could help you unlock your best self. I smiled, I signed, I offered words of encouragement. It was a well-oiled machine, an easy performance. But underneath the practiced charm, my mind was a churning mess of strategy and anxiety, every thought a homing missile pointed directly at Beth.
Danny was managing the line, a perfect mix of hype-man and friendly bouncer. “Alright, folks, just one book per person for personalization, but Mr. McCrae is happy to sign any others you have!” he announced, his voice booming with practiced enthusiasm.
I was signing a copy of The Architect of You for a young woman with bright, hopeful eyes when my phone, tucked screen-down on the table beside me, buzzed with a specific,discreet vibration I’d set just for this call. My heart gave a hard kick against my ribs.Fury!
I finished my signature with a flourish, handed the book back to the woman with a smile that felt a million miles away, and looked up at Danny.
“Hey, man,” I said, keeping my voice low as the next person stepped up. “I need five. My bladder is staging a rebellion.”
Danny, ever the pro, didn’t miss a beat. “Folks, Mr. McCrae is going to take a brief five-minute break to stay hydrated! He’ll be right back to sign more books. Feel free to browse the store!” He gave me a subtle nod, and I escaped through a side door into a back-of-house hallway that smelled of old paper and dust. I found an empty stockroom, closed the door, and answered the secure call.
“Talk to me,” I said, my voice all business.
“The dossier is ready,” Fury’s voice came through the line, sharp and devoid of any of his usual swagger. This was business. “It’s being encrypted and can be sent to your secure email as we speak. But I’ll give you the highlights now.”
“I’m listening.”
“My executive assistant, Jules, did a workup on Garrett Reeves’s professional history. He’s clean on paper. Good reviews, steady promotions. A rising star in the non-profit development world. No official complaints filed against him at Hillsdale or his previous two jobs. The guy is careful.”
A knot of frustration tightened in my gut. “So, nothing.”
“I didn’t say that,” Fury corrected, a dangerous calm in his tone. “I said he was clean on paper. My tech guy, Gianni, who’s more a magician than a hacker, took a different approach. He didn’t look at HR files; he looked at his life.”
I leaned against a stack of boxes, my entire body tense with anticipation. “And?”
“And he found the motherlode,” Fury said. “Gianni peeled back his digital life like an onion. Financials first. Found a recurring pattern of payments to a private account belonging to one Kyra Monroe, the gala committee head. Not just any payments. Payments that perfectly correspond with hotel bookings and first-class air travel receipts from his expense reports over the past two years. The trips he took ‘alone’ to Miami, to Chicago, to a cozy little ‘donor retreat’ in the Hamptons? Kyra was always in the same city, at the same time.”
My knuckles were white where I gripped my phone. “So they’re having an affair.” It wasn’t a question.
“A two-year affair, to be precise. Gianni got into their old email server. Found a treasure trove of… correspondence. Explicit doesn’t even begin to cover it. These two weren’t just screwing; they were running the gala committee like their own personal slush fund, using foundation money for their romantic getaways.”
The sheer audacity of it was breathtaking. But the next part was what I was really waiting for.
“And the balcony photo?” I asked, my voice low.
“That,” Fury said, and I could hear the grim satisfaction in his voice, “was the smoking gun. Gianni traced the digital source of the anonymous tip sent to the tabloid. It came from a burner email account, but the account was confirmed from a Gmail account. An account that was created from the same IP address as Kyra’s. And the photo itself? The metadata shows it was taken on an iPhone 14 Pro Max. The same model Kyra registered with the foundation’s IT department. She sent it herself.”
