Page 12 of His Ruthless Match (Below #3)

EVA

T he glow from my desk lamp pooled over the chaos of my workspace, a battlefield of papers, legal pads, and hastily printed emails.

My laptop hummed faintly, displaying the damning photos of Genevieve yet again, as if mocking me for my lack of progress.

The yacht photo, especially, seemed to taunt me.

That vulnerable, private moment was plastered across the internet for public consumption.

Sighing, I flipped through the pages of the email I’d printed out.

The crinkled pages were covered in scribbled notes from my frantic attempts to identify who could possibly hate Genevieve enough to go this far.

A list of enemies, exes, even disgruntled former assistants stared back at me.

None of it felt right. None of them seemed the type to orchestrate a full-scale smear campaign, and none of them had enough motive.

The man in the yacht photos was a different matter.

Genevieve had reluctantly confirmed he was her ex, who had walked out of her life long before this scandal started.

He had refused to comment or answer my questions when I reached out, which in my line of work typically meant he knew he’d fucked up and didn’t want to admit it.

His divorce from his wife, a prominent physician in L.A.

, complicated matters. Dr. Marissa Hollings.

The polished, respectable name didn’t scream “vindictive saboteur.” Still, jealousy could drive people mad.

I jotted her name down and underlined it twice.

I’d dig into her later. Right now, I needed answers about the origins of this attack.

This was starting to seem far too organized to be a random series of leaks.

It felt like someone was following a playbook, systematically dismantling Genevieve’s reputation one blow at a time.

Grabbing my phone, I scrolled to Gabe’s contact info.

He was my fixer, my shadow agent. There was no line he wouldn’t cross, no firewall he couldn’t breach.

If anyone could track down the puppet master pulling these strings, it was him.

Any information he got me wouldn’t be admissible in court, but if I needed to know.

The phone barely rang twice before Gabe answered. “Eva.”

“Gabe, I need your help on this Genevieve Witt case. Full throttle,” I said, cutting straight to the point.

Gabe and I were used to each other’s directness.

“There’s been a social media smear campaign, and a yacht photo with a then-married man just surfaced in the tabloids—it’s deliberate, and I need to know who’s behind it. ”

“I’ve already been doing some digging,” he said. “The accounts posting this shit are protected by layers of VPNs and proxies. Whoever’s behind this knows what they’re doing.”

“Then you need to know more,” I said. “I need IP addresses. I need the person pulling the strings. Genevieve’s reputation is hanging by a thread, and all my research is coming up empty. I have a few leads I’m going to follow up on, but none of them feel right to me.”

“I’ve got you, boss. You know I always come through.”

I let out a slow breath. “I know. And I appreciate you, Gabe.”

There was a beat of silence, then he said, “I’ll call you when I’ve got something concrete. Try not to stress yourself into an early grave, yeah?”

I put my phone down and pinched the bridge of my nose. When was the last time I’d slept? Or eaten something that didn’t come out of a takeout box? My stomach rumbled at the thought of food, but exhaustion tugged at my limbs.

My gaze drifted to the bracelet on my wrist, the smooth metal catching the lamplight. I toyed with it absently, twisting it around and around. I hated this thing. I hated that it tethered me to Jareth. That infuriating feline had no boundaries.

And yet, I couldn’t deny the relief I’d felt that he’d been there at the courthouse. The paparazzi had been brutal, shoving and shouting, their cameras flashing like a firing squad. I might’ve been hurt if he hadn’t steadied me. I could still feel his touch on my waist.

Scowling, I shook the thought away. He wasn’t a hero. He was a nuisance. An uncivilized, arrogant, and obnoxiously smug nuisance.

I rested my head on my folded arms. Just a few minutes, I told myself. Just enough to let my brain stop spinning and my shoulders unclench. My eyes fluttered shut, and the hum of my laptop faded into the background.

But even as I teetered on the edge of sleep, I couldn’t stop thinking about the case. Time was running out. And I had no idea how to stop the clock.

I woke up with a start, a crinkled piece of paper glued to my face from where I’d drooled on it.

It was a humiliating amount—more than I thought one person could even produce.

I peeled the paper off, squinting at the faint imprint of my cheek on the ink-streaked surface. The text was entirely illegible now.

I glanced at my watch and groaned. Two hours. I’d been asleep for two whole hours. Unacceptable. Time wasn’t something I could afford to waste. Not with Genevieve’s case unraveling and my own career dangling precariously close to public scrutiny.

“Get it together, Eva,” I muttered, throwing the ruined paper onto the pile of documents already swallowing my desk.

Coffee. I needed coffee. I trudged to the kitchen, then hit the button on the machine and waited as it spluttered and hissed. As I stared at the machine, I planned my next move. A hot shower. Then maybe I’d feel human again.

When the coffee was ready, I gulped a mouthful and burned my tongue in the process. “Fuck!” Still, it cleared some of the grogginess. I carried the cup to the bathroom.

The shower was blissfully hot, the heat bordering on scalding. I let the water beat down on the back of my neck, loosening the tension that had built up over the day. Steam swirled around me, easing some of my stress.

This was my sanctuary, where the rest of the world couldn’t touch me.

Until it did.

A sharp snap behind me broke the illusion of solitude. My eyes flew open, and I screamed.

Jareth was standing in front of me. He was covered in blood, clutching a knife, his expression wide-eyed and frantic.

My scream could’ve shattered glass. “What the actual fuck?!”

Jareth flinched, the knife slipping in his hand. “What the bloody hell is wrong with you?” he barked, his voice rising in pitch as if he was the one being wronged.

“What’s wrong with me ?” I shouted back, grabbing the nearest thing—my loofah—and swatting it at him. “You’re in my shower!”

“I didn’t mean to be!” he yelled, shielding himself from the barrage of soap suds. “I was mid-assassination!”

“Do your assassinations usually end in women’s bathrooms?” The loofah connected with his shoulder, and he staggered backward, slipping on the wet tile.

“I’m working!” he shouted, flailing to regain balance. But the slick floor betrayed him, and with a spectacular crash, he went down, landing hard at my feet. His head smacked against the wall.

My hands flew to cover myself, mortified, but not before I realized his head was now level with my— “Oh my god!” I shrieked, grabbing at the towel hanging nearby.

Jareth groaned, dazed, and his gaze—oh, God, his gaze—landed where it absolutely should not. His eyes widened. “Stop screaming,” he managed, scrambling to shield his face as I stepped over him in a panic.

In my rush, my foot connected with his groin. He gasped, curling into himself like a wounded animal. “Bloody hell! Are you trying to kill me?”

“Maybe!” I shot back, wrapping the towel around myself with trembling hands. “Serves you right for—” I gestured wildly around me. “What is wrong with you?”

Jareth tried to push himself up, but he slipped in the water pooling around him. “This—this wasn’t my fault,” he wheezed, clutching his stomach. “The bracelet activated. I thought you were in danger!”

“Does it look like I’m in danger?” I shouted, gesturing at my very naked, very furious self.

“Well, now I am!” he snapped, glaring up at me from the floor. His hair was plastered to his face, and blood smeared the tile. “Vivian is going to hear about this. These bracelets are a bloody disaster. Maybe if you could get your heart rate under control…”

“You think this is my fault?” I threw my hands up, the towel nearly slipping. “I’m not the one barging into people’s showers with a knife and getting blood everywhere!”

“I was mid-assassination!” he growled again, finally managing to stand. His shirt clung to him, soaked through, and he looked utterly ridiculous—half drowned rat, half serial killer.

“Whatever you were doing,” I said, stabbing a finger into his chest, “you can finish it somewhere else. ”

Jareth wiped water from his face. “Gladly. But I’m coming to your office later today to set up the wards.”

I rolled my eyes. “Fine. Just get out. Now. ”

He stepped out of the shower, dripping water and blood all over the floor. “You’re welcome, by the way,” he muttered as he grabbed a towel from the rack.

I scoffed. “For what?”

“For making sure you weren’t being murdered.” He smirked as he headed for the door. “Though honestly, you’re scarier than any would-be assassin I could face.”

With that, he was gone, leaving me standing there, wet and furious, the bathroom a complete disaster.

I downed my second—no, third—cup of coffee and glanced at the time. I was late. I was never late. My phone buzzed on the counter. Theo. He’d already sent me three texts.

Theo: Are you alive?

Theo: Also, I need to show you something. ASAP.

Theo: Don’t make me break into your apartment.

I sighed, grabbed my bag, and left for the office. The memory of this morning’s fiasco was still too fresh. Jareth. In my shower . I shuddered, willing the image out of my head. Stupid bracelet. Stupid overgrown cat.