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Marcus had me investigated. When? Why? Did he think I was some kind of con artist out to part him from his money? Was it because I was now moving in, a precaution to make sure I’m not a user like my mother?
But no, I realized halfway to my destination. I remembered the first-edition books he’d gifted me weeks ago—my three all-time favorites—and how he’d seemed to know exactly which flowers I loved. And the white scarf, the one that looked suspiciously like the one on my Amazon wish list—he’d even told me I should change my privacy settings there, admitted to knowing things about me from my social media.
I’d accused him of being a stalker then, but I’d had no idea.
I hadn’t even had a clue.
He kept calling me all through the ride up here, but I couldn’t bear to pick up the phone. Anger and betrayal are a thick knot inside my throat, my ribcage so tight it’s all I can do to take shallow, rapid breaths.
Marcus—the man I love, the man I’ve agreed to live with—had commissioned this horribly invasive report on me when we’d just started dating, and I can’t imagine why.
My fingers feel icy cold, my ears ringing as I leave the lobby and enter the conference area in the back. Alpha Zone Investment Conference, the placard in the middle of the main hallway states, with men and women in business attire milling all around. The Grand Ballroom is to my right, and I hurry there, ignoring the nauseating drumming of my pulse.
Deliver the flash drive and leave—that’s my mission. I can’t think beyond that, can’t look past the simple task of putting one foot in front of the other. Once the drive is safely in Marcus’s hands, I’ll worry about the next steps, about what this discovery means for us and the future of our relationship… if there can even be one.
It’s six minutes to eight, and the ballroom is already full to bursting, with cameras and news crews everywhere. All around me are bespoke suits and five-figure bags, men and women who control more wealth than kings of old. Under different circumstances, I’d feel intimidated, out of place in my casual jeans and sneakers, but right now, I couldn’t care less.
Marcus is by the podium on the stage, getting his mic attached, and my heart climbs into my throat at the familiar sight of his strong features, at the way his thick, dark eyebrows angle together as he talks to the technician in a low voice. I recall that deep, soft voice murmuring endearments to me last night, remember how warm and tender his lips felt as they kissed mine this morning, and the pain that arrows through me is so crippling that for a second, I can’t find the strength to move.
As if sensing my presence, Marcus turns and looks straight at me, his cool blue gaze locking in on me with preternatural precision. With a curt word to the technician, he unclips the mic and heads toward me, descending from the stage with long, determined strides.
The chill inside me intensifies until I’m shivering, the tremors running over my skin as I stand there, waiting for him to reach me. Even now, his presence is magnetic, his effect on me as potent as it’s ever been.
Marcus Carelli.
My boyfriend.
My lover.
My stalker.
Everything about him is achingly familiar, from the proud tilt of his dark head to the powerful breadth of his shoulders in that perfectly tailored suit. But do I really know him? Who is the man I’ve fallen in love with?
Has anything about us been real?
“Emma.” He’s now just a few feet away, and I see the lines of strain etched into his face, the guilt and worry in those intense blue eyes. He must’ve realized what I’ve uncovered, remembered what else is on the drive. Sure enough, as soon as he stops next to me, he says in a low voice, “Emma, kitten, listen to me. I can explain.”
“Here.” I shove the flash drive into his hand. “Good luck with the presentation and goodbye.”
And before I can either explode or shatter into pieces, I turn on my heel and run.
45
Marcus
Fuck. The flash drive burns a hole in my palm as I watch Emma flee, her bright hair like a ray of sunlight in a room filled with people dressed mostly in gray and black. To my right, a business acquaintance starts speaking to me; to my left, two reporters vie for my attention. But the words coming out of their mouths are white noise, as is the din of the audience waiting for my presentation.
I’ve never seen Emma so pale, so fucking wounded. It’s as if the life drained out of her, all her warmth and fire gone.
The moment I realized what happened, I wanted to hit rewind and forget all about asking Emma to bring the flash drive. I could’ve made do with the older version of my presentation; so what if a few slides wouldn’t have been as detailed as I liked? But all I could do was wait for her to arrive, and carry on with the preparations for my speech—as if I still gave a damn about the biotech stock or my reputation… as if my world wasn’t about to fall apart.
