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He looked guilty.

I throw off the blankets and sit up with a huff, running a hand through my hair. My apartment is quiet, too quiet, like the silence is conspiring against me. Every shadow seems darker, every sound amplified. I hate this, this feeling of being in the dark, of waiting for the next shoe to drop, of knowing something is coming but not knowing what.

I glance at my laptop, sitting on my desk across the room.

I already know I won't be able to let this go.

Sighing, I push off the bed, grab the laptop, and curl up on the couch, the screen casting a soft glow across my living room as I start typing.Vanessa Chase.

It's not like I haven't already looked her up. I did my homework before the gala. But now? Now I'm not just looking at the curated version of Vanessa. The high-society art dealer, the ruthless businesswoman, the woman who moves through elite circles like she was born to rule them.

No, I'm looking for what's beneath that. The cracks. The whispers. The things she doesn't want people to see.

And I find them.

Lawsuits—settled out of court. Former clients who disappeared from her roster overnight, their names wiped clean from her business history like they never existed. Partnerships that imploded, usually with Vanessa coming out on top.

And then, I find Liam's name. My stomach tightens as I click on the article. It's older, from a few years back, but the headline makes my pulse stutter.

HIGH-STAKES DEAL FALLS APART: WHAT HAPPENED BETWEEN LIAM CARTER AND VANESSA CHASE?

I skim the article, my eyes catching on words likebreach of contractandlegal disputeandhostiletakeover. There aren't many details—just vague mentions of a major development deal that went south, of how Vanessa and Liam were supposed to be working together on a project that, for reasons unknown, completely collapsed.

The official narrative? "Creative differences."

But something tells me that Liam walked away. And Vanessa made sure it cost him.

I stare at the screen, heart pounding.

Why didn't he tell me?

The pieces start clicking together in my mind, fitting into place in a way that makes my stomach turn. Vanessa isn't just some bitter ex. She isn't just a jealous woman trying to stir up trouble. She played him. She burned him. And now… now, she's circling back.

To what? To me? To him?

None of it makes sense, and the harder I try to untangle it, the heavier my eyelids become. Sleep tugs at the edges of my thoughts, blurring the words on the screen, turning every passing minute into a slow, weightless drift. After a few more moments of wandering through pages I won't remember, I surrender to the pull of sleep.

Morning arrives in a flood of light, too sharp, too insistent, breaking through the veil of dreams far sooner than I'm ready for.

Sunlight floods through my windows, cutting sharp angles across the hardwood floors, gilding the edges of my furniture like some kind of mockery. The warmth should be comforting, but it's not. It's irritating, invasive, and wrong. The sky outside is a perfect, cloudless blue, the kind of crisp, golden morning that belongs in a coffee commercial.

It doesn't match the storm in my chest.

I move slowly, my limbs heavy with exhaustion, my mind fogged from a night of restless half-sleep and too many unanswered questions. My laptop still sits open on the coffee table, the screen dark now, but I don't need to look at it to remember what I found.

Vanessa. The deal gone bad. The way she buried any real details under layers of red tape and PR spin.

And Liam, who knew all of this and still told me nothing.

With a groan, I arch my back, stretching out the stiffness that sleep left behind. The apartment is quiet, save for the distant murmur of the city—the occasional horn, the low hum of early morning conversations drifting up from the street below. It's familiar, the kind of background noise that usually fades into nothing.

But today, it feels different. Off. Like the silence is waiting for me to notice.

I drag a hand over my face and push toward the kitchen, rubbing at the dull ache in my temples. Coffee. That's what I need. Something warm, something strong, something to anchor me before the restlessness takes over—before I start pacing the floor, trying to make sense of the mess unraveling in front of me.

I set the kettle on the stove, the soft click of the burner igniting breaking the stillness. My fingers move on autopilot, measuring out coffee grounds, reaching for a mug. The familiarity of it, the rhythm, should be soothing, but my thoughts refuse to settle.

Liam is convinced—absolutely certain—that Vanessa isn't the kind of person you cross without consequences. But really, who is? Show me someone who takes betrayal with a smile, and I'll show you someone plotting your downfall in disturbingly creative detail.