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Our systems were secure. One of the most impenetrable. Of course, no wall is un-scalable, no fortress unbreakable. That was just the reality of things.
But it took a level of skill.
There were tiers to professional hackers. There were kids who spent their time hacking into corporate servers. That was child’s play, but they were professionals. There were North Korea hackers who were wildly talented, but because they didn’t even have access to Facebook often lacked the social engineering and worldliness to make them great.
Geordie, on the other hand, was one of the best. My Rose had hacked into his systems before, and if I wasn’t mistaken, had hacked into them again.
Time to set the trap.
I started to type in Sophie’s name. I even clicked around and saved some of her photos from social media. She was a lovely woman, and her parents had often remarked how tragic it was that she and I didn’t stay together. We would have made a “handsome” couple.
I swear, I could feel the heat radiating off that little green light. As if Rose’s stare was burning a hole through my camera.
I tried to suppress the smile that crept onto my lips.
After thirty minutes of idle browsing and a little work, I couldn’t help myself.
I typed up a standard memo for Caledonia and as I was signing off with my name, my fingers typed out: “… Are you enjoying the show, little vixen?”
When I glanced up again, smiling at my little voyeur, the green light blinked off.
Well, well… my Rose was Jubilee.
Chapter 23
Rose
Hehadlookedstraightinto the camera with his smirk, and I had slammed my laptop closed.
Fuck!He knew.
I had watched him from the moment he and Hugo landed in Glasgow airport. One might even call what I did stalking.
I had gotten back into their system through a gardener, whose phone pinged the wi-fi. I had watched his laptop camera as the two of them entered their headquarters. They were still wearing their travel suits.
I had always wondered what kind of person wore a suit on a plane instead of pajamas. The answer? Pretentious pricks like Alastair Green.
The information I found about him was discouraging. He had a girlfriend, and name, Sophie Tudor, was as beautiful as she was.
She wasn’t just a pretty face, though. She was the singer. The famous, classically trained, singer-songwriter that showed up on the scene and swept the grammy’s two years ago. Her husband had tragically drowned near their home in Scotland and she channeled her pain into some of the most moving hits written in the 21st century. Her songs were already considered classics. She was the standard her contemporaries would be judged on.
I went through tabloid headline after headline -Is Sophie Tudor finally tying the knot? Who is her mystery man?It would show him looking dapper, staring off to the side with a hand in his pocket, looking desirable and comfortable among the flashing lights.
Sophie Tudor’s Secret Beau, seen on the beaches of Nice!Alastair was coming out of the ocean waves, his board shorts low on his hips showing his rippling adonis belt in the fading sunlight. He was the thing straight women’s lusty dreams were made of.
Now he was texting that same Sophie to ask her to dinner.
I was the other woman. I was an affair. Why would he do that? Why would he do that toher? If he had that at home, the world’s most desirable woman, then why would he ever look elsewhere?
But I knew the reason. The same reason that had haunted me with men, specifically white men, my whole life. I was a fetish. A flavor. A kink. It was an experience on a checklist before they settled for one of their own. Someone more suited for them. It was why I stuck to women whenever I could.
The knife that I took to wearing on my belt felt heavy on my waist. It was a reminder of how I had screwed up, yet again.
Brett came in, his leather boots squeaking on the hardwood floors. I closed out my screens before he could snoop.
“You alright, kiddo?” Brett asked me, laying his large hand on my shoulder and giving it a squeeze.
I faked a smile. “Yup.”
