When lunch concludes, Mr. Kang shakes Nico’s hand, then turns to me. His eyes hold a new, almost pitying look. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Song. Your mother speaks highly of your intelligence.” He pauses. “She will be disappointed in your choices.”
The comment is a slap, but before I can react, Nico intervenes. “Ms. Song makes her own decisions, Mr. Kang. As we all do.”
Mr. Kang nods once, then leaves.
As soon as the door closes, Nico turns to me, his eyes dark and unreadable. “You did well,” he says, sounding almost surprised.
“Did I have a choice?” I ask, my voice devoid of emotion.
His lips quirk in what might be amusement. “No. But you could have made it difficult. You didn’t.”
“What was the point of bringing me here? To use me as proof that you’ve turned my mother’s daughter against her?”
“Precisely,” he says, without a hint of apology. He guides me toward the door, his hand once again a firm weight on my back. “Kang now believes I have leverage over your mother’s operation. Having her daughter at my side, seemingly compliant and informed, is the most visible and undeniable form of that leverage.”
As we walk through the restaurant, I feel the eyes of the other patrons on us. The power couple. The notorious businessman and his beautiful companion.
If they only knew the truth.
The privacy partitionof the Bentley is up, sealing us in a cocoon of rich leather and tense silence. Nico sits beside me, a statue of controlled power, his attention fixed on the encrypted messages scrolling across his phone. He hasn’t spoken since we left the hotel, but I feel the weight of his presence, the low thrum of energy that always radiates from him.
I stare out the window, but the blur of Chicago’s Gold Coast is meaningless. My mind is in turmoil, replaying the lunch with Mr. Kang on a sickening loop.
NK Pharma Consolidated.
The name burns behind my eyes. The same logo I’ve seen on the folder in my mother’s office. It isn’t just a random connection; it’s a direct link. My mother, the respected academic, is tied to a shipping consortium that Nico Varela is threatening.
And Nico… he uses me. Effortlessly, cruelly. He put me at that table not as a companion, but as a prop.Ms. Song is fully aware of her mother’s activities. In fact, she’s been instrumental…The lie is so smooth, so believable, that it likely sealed Mr. Kang’s decision to cooperate.
And Mr. Kang’s last comment regarding my mother: “She will be disappointed by your choices.”
Fuck.
The walls are closing in. I’m trapped in an impossible triangle of power. On one side, Nico controls my every move, and his touch sets my body on fire even as his mind plots against me. On another note, my mother, a North Korean operative, moves pieces on a global scale with me as her unwitting asset. And then there’s Moretti, the violent wild card, circling us all, waiting for an opportunity to strike.
A wave of cold despair trembles over me. I am all alone. Every powerful figure in my life is a manipulator. Every relationship is transactional. There is no one to trust, nowhere to run.
Amidst the chaos, one name offers a flicker of hope: Sienna. My anchor to a world that still makes sense. If I can just get a message to her…
My mind, now in full investigative mode, works the problem. The lake house is a fortress. I need a phone, and a direct call is impossible. An opportunity.
An image surfaces, sharp and clear, from two days ago. Nico, standing in the library on a tense call. He’d unlocked a drawer in the heavy mahogany desk, the one he never uses. For a brief second, I saw what was inside: a neat row of identical black burner phones. He’d taken one, locked the drawer again,and dropped the small, ornate key into a porcelain dish on the mantelpiece before leaving the room.
The memory sparks a plan, cold and sharp and dangerous.
Getting into the library is the first step. Later that afternoon, I tell the guard posted at the end of the hall that I’m tired of the books in the bedroom and would like to find something else. He follows me, watching as I browse the shelves. My heart hammers as I move toward the fireplace, pretending to examine a row of leather-bound classics. My body shields me from his view as my hand snakes out, fingers closing around the cold, small key in the porcelain dish. I palm it in one smooth motion.
The next part is the riskiest. "I think I'll read here for a while," I say, gesturing to the imposing desk. "The light is better."
I settle into the large leather chair by the desk, acutely aware of the security camera in the corner of the room. I open a heavy art book, its pages wide enough to create a substantial screen. With the book propped open, I let one hand drop into my lap, into the shadows beneath the desk. My fingers find the keyhole, the cold metal a stark contrast to my sweating palm. The key slides in. I turn it, praying the lock won't make a sound. It gives with a faint, oiledclickthat seems deafening in the quiet room, however I mask it with a sharp cough.
I slide the drawer open a mere inch. Working by feel, my fingers brush against the smooth plastic casings of the phones. I grasp one and slip it from the drawer, hiding it in the waistband of my pants at the small of my back. I close the drawer, lock it, and slide the key into my pocket. The entire operation takes less than a minute, but it feels like an eternity. I don't dare move, forcing myself to turn a page in the art book, my breathing shallow.
After a few minutes, I close the book. On my way out, I pause at the fireplace again, ostensibly to admire a painting, and slip the key back into the dish. The guard, none the wiser, follows me back to my room.
The burner phone is a hard, cold secret against my skin. Now, I have my weapon. I just need the right moment to use it.
The opportunity: the camera blind spot in my bedroom. The four-and-a-half-second window I timed with my watch. The message has to be perfect. Innocuous if intercepted, but a clear S.O.S. to Sienna. The memory of our old inside joke surfaces:Blink twice if you’re being held hostage.It’s perfect. I compose the text in my head:Remember that old Journal party photo? The one where I blinked twice? Thinking of you. Coffee soon.
