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FORTY-NINE

NATALIE

The words make my spine steel. Rosenberg doesn’t look at me to see my reaction, he just keeps scrolling through his phone. I have a feeling that no matter how long I stand, he won’t look at me. This guy is used to ordering people around.

I walk to the door and lock it, taking a deep breath to fight the nervousness.

Rosenberg shifts, sitting up, so that there’s room between his back and the headboard. Without looking up from his phone, he taps his shoulder with his glass. “I need some work here.”

Phew . I almost laugh in relief. This asshole wants a massage?

I hesitate for a second, deciding what to do, then kick off my shoes and get on the bed behind him.

When my hands touch his shoulders—and thank god he didn’t remove his robe so there’s no skin contact—he grunts, then takes another gulp of his drink.

I cringe, massaging him slowly, meanwhile looking over his shoulder. He’s on social media. I can’t see his profile, but he’s scrolling through pictures of a model named Mariah Dove. I’m assuming she’s a model because she’s half-naked in most of the pictures—great body, luxury setting.

I keep massaging him, cringing at the fact that I’m sitting on his bed, and that’s highly inappropriate. But I keep stealing glances at his phone. Meanwhile, his drink gets emptier. The drug hasn’t had enough time to dissolve properly, because this guy chugs booze like air, and soon, he might see the leftover powder on the bottom of the glass.

“Another one?” I ask and, without waiting for a response, take the glass out of his hand, hop off the bed, and go to refill it.

“So, what’s the important business deal you have coming up, sir?” I ask when I bring him another drink.

“Shhh. Be quiet,” he tells me and keeps scrolling, taking big gulps of his drink until it’s empty again, and he passes it back to me.

I continue to massage him and feel his body slightly sagging. The sedative is working, so I try to start a conversation again.

“Tomorrow is an important day for you, isn’t it?” I ask carefully.

This time, Rosenberg stiffens.

“Let go,” he says curtly, shaking my hands off his shoulders, and turns to face me. “Who sent you?”

My breath hitches in my throat. “Pardon me? I’m just trying to relax you,” I murmur, managing a smile and patting the bed. “Why don’t you?—”

“Who?” Rosenberg snarls, snatching my wrist and leaning forward, his nostrils flaring. This sudden change in him is unsettling, causing my heart to pound. “ He sent you, didn’t he?” His eyes burn with hate. “To test me?” He reaches for me and grabs the back of my neck, yanking me closer. “I was wondering why you were so helpful,” he hisses, his face so close that I could get tipsy from his liquor breath.

“N-no, no-no-no. What are you talking about?” I ask, panic rising inside me. As gently as I can, I push his hand away and smile weakly. “I want to make you feel good, sir. You have to take it easy before tomorrow. Why don’t you lie down?”

Rosenberg blurts out an angry laugh. “He’s trying to get to me, isn’t he, fucker?”

Is he talking about the blackmailer? So he knows about him?

“He’s always harassing me.” Rosenberg fumbles and sloppily lowers himself onto his stomach. “It’s okay. I know what I’m doing.” He lazily stretches himself out and closes his eyes, muttering, “Eat shit, buddy.”

Heart in my throat, I shift to sit next to him and try massaging him, but he stops me. “Do it properly,” he slurs, without opening his eyes. “Straddle me and do it the right way.”

Not a freaking chance. “Yes, sir, in a second. I’m going to do your neck, loosen it up, then carry on as you please.”

I won’t. Because I know how the drug works. I was curious about Rosenberg’s temper, but it’s for the best that it doesn’t show. And it won’t, because two minutes later, the asshole is fast asleep.

Good.

I wipe my hands on my pants like I just touched something dirty and carefully reach for Rosenberg’s phone.

There might be cameras here. If I get caught, I’ll say I was curious and bored and was watching him sleep, making sure he’s okay. Stupid? For sure. But I can play stupid. Been there, done that. I’ll even cuddle up to him while I’m on his phone so I can hide it between us and take pictures of anything I find on it with my own phone and do research later.

Rosenberg’s phone is fingerprint-protected, and that’s just perfect. I knew that getting into his office computer would be impossible. No one ever has a chance at guessing a password to a stranger’s computer unless it’s 12345.

But the newest fingerprint protection is great. I gently pick up Rosenberg’s motionless hand and press one of his fingers to the phone. The screen lights up.

Excited and petrified at what I might find, I open the photo folder.

There are only twenty or so photos—Rosenberg in a restaurant, with other people, suits, ties, and evening dresses, probably investors, then a photo of the half-naked chick from social media, but this time, it’s not a professional shot but a selfie.

And that’s it.

Disappointed, I look for any other folders with documents, potentially fingerprint-secured, but there are none.

Huh.

I go to the message folder. The only messages on the phone are from someone called “My Dove,” which I assume is the model, and they are all from today. I read the chat, but it’s the boring “Miss you,” “When do I see you again?” “Want to play?” “How’s business?”—mostly from her, whereas Rosenberg responds in curt replies, “I’ll call you soon.”

Phone call history—none, except for today’s. There are several phone calls from “The Driver.” Must be Nick. Another one is from “My Dove.”

That’s it. The guy freaking cleans his history every day. Who does that? Unless they have something to hide. Or they’re hiding from someone. Unless… they’re up to no good and don’t want to get busted.

I open the IxResearch app. Rosenberg’s account is fingerprint-protected. I take Rosenberg’s hand and press his finger to the square with a prompt.

“Good evening, Mr. Geoffrey Rosenberg!” the screen says and shifts to the dashboard.

But the dashboard is not what I expected.

Crypto wallet—0.

Funds—0.

Trading score—0.

Transactions and invoices—none.

What the hell?

My mind scrambles to make sense of this. Something is very, very wrong with this scenario.

I go to Rosenberg’s social media. The first app goes straight to the log-in screen, but when I press Username , it doesn’t give me a prompt for the previous usernames used.

I go to the next app—same thing, like he’s never used it, or it was reset.

Next one—he’s logged in. Bingo! The picture is a black circle, username @JkllnHyde. If this is a reference to Jekyll and Hyde, it’s definitely on point. Most people Rosenberg follows are celebrities and notable public figures. His follower count is 0. Posts—0.

I open a web browser and search the history. There are multiple links, mostly news blogs, but the search history only shows today’s activity. Any IT tech could’ve pulled the scraped info off his phone to see what he deleted. But I’m not a pro.

I thoroughly go through his phone like a detective, checking every download folder, recent files, screenshots, including the caches and trash—nothing. I check the settings and see that the phone is not backed up to any server, doesn’t have the sign-in info, not even the service provider login.

This man has no trace of anything he’s done online. No digital footprint. This is hard to pull off these days. It’s especially bizarre because the guy is a genius in the digital world.

And that makes this discovery even more jarring—it looks like Geoffrey Rosenberg is a ghost…