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This is not a date. Mitchell Knight wouldn’t look twice at someone like me for a date.

This is access. Possibly the best access I've had to a subject in my entire career.

Mitchell Knight doesn't invite journalists into his home. As far as I know, Mitchell Knight barely invites people into his home.

And if he wants to talk? I'm listening.

Every journalist dreams about this. The closed door opening. The impossible source deciding, for whatever reason, that you're the person they'll finally trust. The story nobody else could get.

My pulse picks up again, but this time it has nothing to do with the man sitting across from me. Mostly.

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“One drink.”

“Excellent.”

“And then you answer my questions.”

“Some of them.”

“All of them.”

“Let's not ruin a perfectly pleasant evening with unrealistic expectations.”

I narrow my eyes.

He smiles.

God, he's infuriating.

Twenty minutes later, I discover that calling Mitchell Knight's residence a house is roughly equivalent to calling the Atlantic a puddle.

The gates open before we reach them.

Long driveway.

Trees.

Land.

Lots and lots of land.

Then the house appears—mansion, actually. I lean toward the window.

“Oh, come on.”

Mitchell glances up from his phone.

“Problem?”

“You live here?”

“Sometimes.”

I turn toward him.