Blake escorts her out. The door clicks shut, leaving the room charged with a new, more complicated silence. Isabel didn't just deliver intel; she made a play for my asset right in front of me. I look at Lea, who watches me, her expression a carefully blank slate.
The game has just acquired another player.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
LEA
I wakeup in Nico's bed. His actual bed, in his private sanctuary. After the events on the yacht, he didn't return me to the guest apartment where I had been confined up until now. He brought mehere. The sheets smell of him—sandalwood and something metallic I refuse to identify. It's an act of supreme possession, and my first conscious thought is to look for the cameras.
My eyes scan the corners of the ceiling, the minimalist fixtures. There are none. No blinking red eyes watching my every move. In his own bedroom, it seems, The Diplomat allows himself the illusion of privacy. A crack in the fortress. A potential weakness.
The lake house feels hollow without his presence—less oppressive but somehow more ominous. I stare through the window as morning light glints off the water, replaying last night’s events in my mind: Isabel Vega’s sudden appearance, her predatory interest, and Nico's cold command for me to use that attraction as leverage.
“When you tire of being his beautiful asset, darling, you know who to call.”
Isabel’s parting words stay with me.Asset. The word is a perfect distillation of how they both see me. Not a person, but a resource. The walls of this beautiful prison seem to close in. But here, in this room, the watchful eyes are human, not electronic. Blake stands at attention near the door, a guard dog just as effective as any camera. I need space. I need him gone. I need to think.
An idea forms, desperate but necessary.
I turn from the window, setting my coffee cup down with a deliberate clatter. Blake’s eyes snap to me.
“I don’t feel well,” I say, letting my voice waver slightly. It’s not entirely a lie—my head is pounding, my body aching from last night’s punishment. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
Blake’s expression flickers with discomfort. Men like him, trained in combat, are often undone by the prospect of female vulnerability.
“Should I call for medical assistance?” he asks, shifting his weight.
I shake my head, adding a wince for effect. “No, it’s a migraine. I get them sometimes. I have medication in my bag on the yacht. The prescription bottle with the blue label.”
Blake hesitates, duty warring with discomfort. “Ms. Song, I’m not authorized to?—”
“Please,” I cut in, my voice cracking perfectly. “Nico wouldn’t want me suffering, would he? Not when he’s gone to so much trouble to keep me… comfortable.”
His face hardens at the mention of Nico’s preferences. I’ve struck the right chord. “I’ll retrieve it,” he finally concedes. “But I need to secure the room first.”
“Of course.”
Blake does a quick perimeter check before calling for a younger guard to stand watchoutsidethe door while he’s gone. As soon as his footsteps fade down the hall, my act drops. I have maybe fifteen minutes.
This room is Nico’s inner sanctum, the one place he might let his guard down. I move with a frantic, silent urgency, my journalistic instincts repurposed for a different kind of investigation. I’m not looking for a headline; I’m looking for a weapon. A key. A weakness.
I start with the nightstands. Nothing but a spare phone charger and a copy ofThe Prince. Of course. The walk-in closet is next. I run my hands over his impeccably tailored suits, checking pockets. Empty. I check inside his shoes, under the neat stacks of sweaters. Nothing.
My eyes land on the heavy mahogany dresser. I pull open the drawers. Perfectly organized socks, ties, watches. I run my fingers along the underside of each drawer, searching for anything taped there. In the bottom drawer, beneath a layer of winter sweaters, my hand brushes against something hard and cold.
I pull it out. It’s a small, heavy metal box, no bigger than a book, with a complex lock but no visible keyhole. A biometric lock, maybe? It's surprisingly heavy. I shake it gently. Something slides inside, a soft, muffled thud.
Footsteps in the hall.Blake.
There’s little time. I scan the room frantically for a hiding place. The bed? No, too obvious. That would be the first place he’d have his men search. The only safe place for his secret is right back where Nico left it.
I’m just getting to my feet after sliding the box back into the drawer and relocking it when the bedroom door opens. I turn, presenting a picture of miserable fragility as Blake enters, holding up an orange prescription bottle.
“This was the only medication in your bag.”
I reach for it with convincingly shaky fingers. “Yes, that’s it. Thank you.”
He watches as I dry-swallow one of the pills he brought me from the yacht, his gaze clinical. “Mr. Varela should be back within a few hours. He’s asked that you remain in the main house.”
