Elizabeth

Rashford's gaze finally drifted away from me.

But my heart was still pounding.

He turned back to the counter, wiping the surface in slow movements. His jaw was tight. His shoulders tense. Like he was working through something in his head.

Does he know? Did I give myself away?

The uncertainty gnawed at me, eating away at what little composure I had left.

I couldn’t stay here with him looking at me like that.

“I should go home,” I said quietly, setting down the cup.

Rashford looked up. “I’ll give you a ride.”

“No, it’s fine—”

“Claire.” His voice was firm. “It’s late. I’m not letting you walk home alone.”

My phone buzzed in my pocket before I could argue.

I pulled it out, not even checking the screen. “Actually, my ride’s here.”

Rashford frowned. “Your ride?”

“Yeah. I... I called someone earlier.” I stood quickly, grabbing my bag. “Thanks for the coffee. And the warmth. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

I was halfway to the door when his voice stopped me.

“Claire.”

I turned.

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, studying me with those confused grey eyes.

“You’re strange sometimes. You know that?”

My throat went dry. “Strange?”

“Yeah.” He tilted his head slightly. “One minute you’re quiet and careful. The next you’re...”

He trailed off, like he couldn’t find the right word. “Different.”

Before I could respond, I heard the low rumble of an engine outside.

I turned toward the window. A motorcycle sat under the streetlight, sleek and black.

And leaning against it, arms crossed, was a man in a leather jacket.

He pulled off his helmet.

Red.

His crimson hair caught the light, and that infuriating smirk was plastered across his face.

I blinked. What the hell is he doing here?

Rashford noticed my stare and followed my gaze. His expression shifted immediately.

“Who is that?”

I swallowed hard. Think fast, Elizabeth.

“He’s my driver.”

Rashford’s brow arched. “Driver?”

“Yeah.” I grabbed my bag quickly, avoiding his eyes. “He was supposed to pick me up earlier, but I forgot.”

Rashford didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push further. His eyes flicked between me and Red, calculating something I couldn’t read.

“Right,” he said flatly. “Your driver.”

I moved toward the door before he could ask more questions. “Thanks again for the coffee.”

“Claire—”

But I was already outside.

Red was still leaning against the motorcycle, helmet dangling from one hand. He looked me up and down, grinning.

“Took you long enough.”

“What are you doing here?” I hissed.

“Saving you. Again.” He tossed me the helmet. “Get on.”

I glanced back at the café. Through the window, I could see Rashford standing there, watching us.

I quickly put on the helmet and climbed onto the bike behind Red.

He revved the engine. “Hold tight.”

Before I could respond, we shot forward.

The wind whipped past us as we sped through the empty streets.

“What were you thinking?” Red’s voice cut through the roar of the engine. “You can’t just slip up like that. ‘Why is it so bitter?’ Really?”

“I wasn’t thinking!”

“Clearly.” He turned a corner, and I tightened my grip. “Rashford’s not stupid, Elizabeth. He’s going to start putting the pieces together.”

“I know that!”

“Do you? Because you’re getting too comfortable. You’re forgetting who you are. And who Claire is.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but the words died in my throat.

Because he was right.

We pulled up to Claire’s apartment building. Red killed the engine and turned to face me.

“You almost revealed too much back there,” he said quietly.

“I didn’t want to cause trouble, that’s all.”

He glanced back at me briefly. “Just be careful. You’re running out of time.”

Relief washed over me. I’d dodged a disaster.

“Get some rest,” he said. “Tomorrow’s going to be interesting.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

But he just smirked, kicked the stand, and disappeared into the night before I could ask more questions.

I stood there on the sidewalk, staring after him.

What did he mean by interesting?

---

The next morning, I walked into Wakefield Industries. But the moment I stepped inside, something felt off.

I made my way down the hallway and stopped. Jason’s office door was closed. The lights were off.

He was always here by now, always at his desk, reviewing reports or taking calls.

But today, the office was dark.

Where is he?

My gut twisted. Something was wrong. Maybe it was connected to that board meeting?

I glanced around. The hallway was empty.

Before I could think better of it, I walked to his office and slipped inside.

The room was silent. His desk sat pristine, papers stacked neatly, everything in its place—

except for the locked drawer on the right side.

I crossed to the desk, heart pounding.

Don’t do this, Elizabeth. You’ll get caught.

But my hands were already moving.

Locked.

Of course.

I searched the desk surface, pens, papers, a coffee mug with the Wakefield Industries logo.

Then I crouched down, running my fingers along the underside of the desk. Nothing.

I checked the other drawers, rifled through papers, looked under the lamp.

Where would Jason hide a key?

My fingers brushed something taped to the back of the desk leg.

A small key.

Got you.

I peeled it off and unlocked the drawer.

Inside were files. Thick ones.

I pulled out the first folder.

WAKEFIELD INDUSTRIES – ACQUISITION PROPOSAL

My blood ran cold.

I flipped it open. Financial reports, projections, legal documents outlining a hostile takeover.

And at the bottom, Jason’s signature.

What the hell are you planning, Jason?

I grabbed another file, hands shaking.

INVESTOR AGREEMENT – CONFIDENTIAL

More documents. More numbers.

And then, a photograph.

My father. Mr. Wakefield. Standing beside Jason at some event.

Someone had drawn a red X over my father’s face.

My chest tightened.

Jason, what have you done?

I shoved the files back, but my hand hit something hard at the back of the drawer.

Something small.

It tumbled to the floor with a soft clatter.

I bent down, tucking my hair behind my ear, and picked it up.

A USB drive.

Plain. Black. No label.

I stared at it, my mind racing.

What’s on this?

I glanced at Jason’s laptop sitting closed on the desk.

Don’t do it. Don’t—

But I was already opening it.

The screen lit up. Password protected.

I tried a few combinations. Hiis birthday, the company name, nothing.

Then I remembered our anniversary and typed it in. The screen unlocked.

My breath caught.

I plugged in the USB drive, heart hammering against my ribs.

A folder appeared. Labeled: PHASE TWO – WAKEFIELD

I double-clicked.

Files began to load. Documents. Contracts. Emails.

And then, footsteps.

Outside the office.

I froze, hand hovering over the keyboard.

The footsteps were getting closer.

No. Not now.

I yanked the USB drive out, shoving it into my pocket. My fingers fumbled to close the laptop, to lock the drawer, to—

The door handle turned.

My breath caught.

I raised my gaze toward the door.

It opened.