Page 16

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Lea

I wake with a scream lodged in my throat, my body jackknifing upright as if pulled by invisible strings. My chest constricts, sweat plastering my thin tank top to my skin. The darkness of my bedroom feels oppressive, closing in around me as I gasp for air.

Mom.

The dream clings to me, my mother running through unfamiliar alleys, her face twisted in terror as someone pursued her. The details are already dissolving, but the raw fear remains, an ache spreading through my chest as if it’s my own lungs burning from the chase.

I press trembling fingers to my lips, trying to steady my breathing. It was just a dream. Just a nightmare. But deep in my gut, a cold certainty tells me it’s more than that. The panic feels too authentic, too visceral to be merely a product of my subconscious.

My fingers fumble for the lamp switch, bathing the room in a soft glow that does little to dispel the shadows lurking in the corners. The clock reads 3:17 AM. Too early to call anyone, too late to fall back asleep. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, the floor cool beneath my bare feet.

The buzzing of my phone startles me and I nearly knock it off the nightstand. The screen illuminates with a name that sends a different kind of shiver through me.

Nico.

My finger hovers over the screen. It can’t be coincidence that he’s calling at the exact moment I’ve jolted awake from a nightmare. Has he somehow sensed my distress? Or is it something more sinister? A camera hidden in my bedroom, watching my every move?

The thought makes my stomach clench, but I answer anyway, some part of me craving the steady anchor of his voice despite everything.

“Bad dream?” His voice slides through the speaker, low and intimate, as if he’s lying right beside me instead of wherever he is at this ungodly hour.

A chill traces. “How did you know that?”

“Your breathing.” He sounds almost amused. “It’s erratic. Panicked. And it’s the middle of the night. What else would have you so worked up?”

I glance around my bedroom, eyes darting to every corner, every shadow that might conceal a lens. “Are you watching me?” The question comes out more vulnerable than accusatory.

“Not at the moment, no.” His answer leaves room for interpretation, and I’m not sure if that’s worse. “Do you want to talk about it?”

I should hang up. I should be outraged at the invasion of privacy, at the cavalier way he admits to surveillance without actually confirming it. Instead, I’m sinking back against my pillows, my free hand clutching the comforter to my chest.

“I dreamed about my mother,” I confess, surprising myself. “She was running from something, someone. She was terrified.”

Silence stretches between us for a moment. When he speaks again, the usual hard edge is gone from his voice. “Dreams often manifest our deepest fears, not reality.”

“This felt different.” I close my eyes, trying to recapture the fading images. “It felt real.”

“I had nightmares as a child,” Nico says. “About drowning. My uncle would find me thrashing in my bed and tell me that fear was just the mind’s way of preparing for threats that might never materialize.”

The admission catches me off guard. A glimpse of vulnerability from a man who has built his entire existence around projecting strength and control. I try to picture him as a boy, frightened and small, before the world, and his uncle, shaped him into the dangerous force he is now.

“Did they ever stop? The nightmares?”

“Eventually.” There’s a hint of something darker in his tone. “Once I learned to control my environment, to eliminate threats before they could touch me.”

The implication behind his words sends another wave of cold through me, but there’s also something comforting in his brutal honesty. No platitudes, no empty reassurances, just the cold reality of how he’s chosen to face his demons.

“Your mother is a capable woman, Lea,” he continues, steering the conversation back. “More capable than perhaps you realize.”

My eyes snap open. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That she’s navigated complex situations for years. Academia can be its own kind of battleground.”

There’s something he’s not saying, something he’s withholding, and it makes my heart quicken again. But before I can press him, he shifts tactics.

“Focus on your breathing. In through your nose for four seconds, hold it for another four, then breathe out through your mouth for six seconds. Repeat. Slow and steady.”

I want to resist, to demand answers about what he knows about my mother, but my body betrays me; I follow his instructions, my breathing syncing with the calm, measured cadence of his voice as he continues to murmur directions.

“Better?” he asks after a minute.

“Yes,” I admit. My heart rate has slowed to a more normal rhythm, the panic receding like a tide pulling back from shore.

“Good. Now lie back and close your eyes.”

I comply without thinking, settling deeper into my pillows. “Are you always this bossy at three in the morning?”

A low chuckle rumbles through the line. “I’m always this bossy, period. You’re just more inclined to listen when you’re vulnerable.”

The observation stings because it’s true. In my current state, half-awake, rattled by nightmares, alone in the dark, I’m finding a strange comfort in his authoritative tone, in having someone else take control, even if just for a few minutes.

“Tell me about your first memory,” he blurts.

“What?”

“Your earliest memory. I want to know what shaped Lea Song from the beginning.”

I hesitate, but the request seems harmless enough, and the distraction is welcome. “We were in London. I was maybe three or four. My mother was teaching me to write my name in Korean. I remember the smell of ink and the way she guided my hand across the paper, her fingers warm around mine.”

As I speak, the tension continues to drain from my body. I tell him about the pride I felt when I finally got it right, the way my mother’s face lit up with a smile reserved just for me. It’s a simple memory, but tender, a glimpse of a time before life grew complicated, before I began questioning the woman who raised me.

“She’s always been your safe harbor,” Nico observes.

“Yes.” My voice catches. “Which is why this dream has me so rattled. I’ve never seen her afraid like that, not even in my imagination.”

“Dreams reflect our own fears more often than reality,” he repeats, but there’s less conviction this time, as if he too is considering darker possibilities.

We lapse into silence, but it’s comfortable. I can hear his steady breathing, the occasional soft rustle as he shifts position wherever he is. It’s strange to feel this connected to someone through just a phone line, especially someone who represents everything I should be fighting against.

“You should try to sleep now,” he says finally. “You have a long day tomorrow.”

“I do?” This is news to me.

“We’re attending a dinner. Senator Wright’s fundraiser. I’ll send a car for you at seven.”

The abrupt shift back to business catches me off guard. “Don’t I get a say in this?”

“You agreed to follow my lead, remember? Besides, the senator sits on the committee that oversees pharmaceutical regulations. His guests might provide valuable context for your article.”

He’s dangling access again, using my journalistic ambition as bait. The worst part is, it works. My mind begins cataloging the potential connections, the doors that might open at an event like this.

“Fine,” I concede, too tired to argue. “But I choose what I wear this time.”

“As long as it’s appropriate for the setting.” His tone, smooth but absolute, makes it clear he’ll have the final say, regardless.

I should push back, set firmer boundaries, but exhaustion is pulling me under again, my eyelids growing heavy. “Goodnight, Nico.”

“Sleep well, piccola.” His voice has that softer quality again, the one that makes my chest tighten with emotions I can’t, or won’t, name. “No more nightmares tonight.”

It sounds almost like a promise, a command to my subconscious. And strangely, as I drift back toward sleep with the phone still pressed to my ear, I believe him.

* * *

Morning light filters through my blinds, painting stripes across my rumpled sheets. I blink groggily, disoriented until last night’s conversation comes flooding back. The phone lies beside my pillow, battery drained from the hours-long call. I must have fallen asleep with Nico still on the line.

The lack of disturbance unnerves me.

I drag myself to the shower, letting hot water sluice away the remnants of my nightmares. But no amount of scrubbing can wash away the heavy weight that has taken up residence in my stomach. My mother’s terrified face keeps flashing behind my eyelids, along with Nico’s cryptic comments about her capabilities.

Forty minutes later, I’m dressed in jeans and a simple blouse, my damp hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. The clock reads just past nine, still early enough to catch my mother at her university office hours if I hurry.

* * *

The campus is buzzing with midweek energy when I arrive. Students hurry between buildings clutching oversized coffees, professors huddle in small clusters engaged in animated discussions, and tour groups wind their way across the manicured lawns. The Political Science building rises at the far end of the quad, its limestone facade weathered with age and academic prestige.

I take the stairs two at a time, anticipation building with each step. My mother’s office is on the third floor, tucked away in the corner of the east wing. I’ve visited countless times over the years, finding comfort in its familiar smell of old books and the jasmine tea she always keeps stocked.

But today, something feels off the moment I round the corner. Her door stands half-open, which is unusual. She’s meticulous about privacy, always closing it fully during meetings and when she’s away. Through the gap, I can see the lights are on, but there’s no sound of movement or conversation from within.

“Mom?” I call out, pushing the door wider.

The office is empty. Not just of my mother, but of the usual tidiness that defines her workspace. Papers are scattered across the desk, a mug of tea sits half-drunk and long cold, and a drawer hangs open with documents threatening to spill out. It looks as if she left in a hurry, with no time to straighten up.

A chill runs through me, reminiscent of my nightmare. Eunji Song is many things, but disorganized has never been one of them.

“Oh! You’re Professor Song’s daughter, right?”

I startle at the voice, turning to find a harried-looking young man juggling an armful of papers and a tablet. I recognize him as my mother’s teaching assistant, though I can’t recall his name.

“Yes, I’m Lea. Is my mother around?”

“No, she left yesterday for a research trip.” He shifts the papers, nearly dropping them before regaining his balance. “Rather suddenly, actually. Asked me to cover her undergraduate lectures for the week.”

My insides twist. “Did she say where she was going?”

“She didn’t specify.” He shrugs, looking puzzled. “Just said it was an important opportunity that couldn’t wait. No details on location or duration.”

That doesn’t sound like my mother at all. She plans everything meticulously, especially academic travel. And she always, always tells me first.

“That’s odd,” I manage, trying to keep my voice casual. “She usually gives more notice.”

“Yeah, threw the entire department for a loop. Dean was pretty upset about it.” He gestures toward the office. “I was just coming to grab her lecture notes for tomorrow’s class.”

I step aside to let him enter, my mind racing. A sudden, unplanned trip. No communication. An uncharacteristically messy office. None of it makes sense.

While the TA rummages through a stack of folders on the desk, I edge closer to the open drawer. Through the gap, I can see the corner of a red folder marked with symbols, geometric shapes arranged in a pattern that looks almost like an insignia or logo.

Adrenaline surge as I lean against the desk, allowing my hand to drift toward the drawer. If I could just get a better look.

“Here we go!” The TA’s triumphant voice makes me jump. He waves a folder labeled “International Security Frameworks: Undergrad.” “Found what I needed.”

I straighten quickly, my chance lost. “Great. Listen, if you hear from her, could you ask her to call me? It’s important.”

“Sure thing.” He tucks the folder under his arm, then seems to remember his manners. “Oh, I should lock up when we leave. Professor’s orders.”

“Of course.” I grab a textbook from the desk, making a show of leafing through it. “Just give me a minute to check something for my research.”

He nods, stepping back into the hallway to reorganize his armful of papers. The moment he’s out of sight, I lunge for the drawer, sliding it open further. The red folder sits beneath a stack of academic journals. The paper feels thick and glossy under my fingertips. I lift it, flipping it open to reveal a single sheet of paper covered in what looks like a shipping manifest, columns of numbers and cryptic abbreviations that mean nothing to me.

But what catches my eye is the header: a stylized logo with Korean characters I can’t quite make out, alongside the English letters “NK Pharma Consolidated.”

A polite cough from the doorway sends me scrambling to shove the folder back and close the drawer. The TA stands there, keys jingling impatiently in his hand.

“Sorry,” I say, forcing a casual smile as I hold up the textbook. “Just checking a reference.”

He nods, though his expression suggests he’s not convinced. “I really need to lock up now. Department policy.”

I have no choice but to leave, my mind buzzing with questions. What could my mother be researching that involves pharma companies? And why the secrecy?

Outside, I stand on the steps of the building, trying to make sense of it all. I pull out my phone to call her again, but the call goes straight to voicemail. The dread in my stomach has grown into a solid mass.

What have you gotten yourself into, Mom?

* * *

The senator’s mansion sprawls across a meticulously landscaped acre on Chicago’s North Shore, its limestone facade glowing warmly in the evening light. A line of luxury vehicles winds up the circular driveway, disgorging passengers in formal attire who ascend the broad steps with practiced elegance.

I tug at the hem of my midnight blue cocktail dress, self-conscious about my choice. It’s the most expensive piece in my wardrobe, a gift from my mother, but among these people, it looks like off-the-rack mediocrity.

“Stop fidgeting,” Nico murmurs. “You look beautiful.”

He’s resplendent in a tailored tuxedo that emphasizes his broad shoulders and lean waist. The fabric is so fine it seems to absorb light rather than reflect it, giving him an almost predatory sleekness.

“I feel out of place,” I admit as we hand our invitation to a white-gloved attendant.

“You’re not.” His voice is firm, brooking no argument. “You belong wherever I bring you, Lea. Remember that.”

The possessive edge to his words should offend me. Instead, they send a treacherous warmth spreading through my chest. I’ve spent the day distracted by worry about my mother, by the mysterious folder and her sudden disappearance. But now, with Nico standing as my silent anchor, I feel grounded in a way I can’t quite explain.

We step into a grand foyer where crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light across marble floors. The air is heavy with expensive perfume, cigar smoke, and the particular scent of old money, a blend of entitlement and aged whiskey that clings to those born into privilege.

“Senator,” Nico greets our host with a firm handshake. “Thank you for the invitation.”

Senator Wright is a silver-haired man with a politician’s perfect smile and eyes that calculate your value with every glance. “Nico! Delighted you could make it.” He looks at me, assessment giving way to curiosity. “And this lovely young woman is?”

“Lea Song,” I answer before Nico can, extending my hand. “Journalist with the Chicago Investigative Journal.”

If my profession surprises him, he hides it well. “A journalist! How refreshing to have someone from the fourth estate who isn’t shouting questions at me outside a committee hearing.” He chuckles, but there’s a new wariness in his eyes as he looks between Nico and me.

“Ms. Song is working on a piece about business leadership in Chicago,” Nico explains. “I’m one of her subjects.”

The senator’s eyebrows lift, but he doesn’t pursue it. “Well, please enjoy yourselves. Dinner will be served in half an hour. Until then, the bar is open, and the company is, I hope, stimulating.”

He moves on to greet other guests, and Nico steers me deeper into the gathering. The dining room opens before us: a lavish spectacle of crisp white tablecloths, gleaming silverware, and floral arrangements. Around the edges of the room, clusters of Chicago’s elite engage in the careful dance of networking, their laughter a little too loud, their smiles a little too fixed.

“Try not to look so overwhelmed,” Nico says, his lips brushing my ear. “These people can smell fear.”

I shoot him a glare. “I’m not afraid. I’m observing.”

A hint of a smile tugs at his mouth. “Then observe while looking like you belong. Tonight, you’re not an outsider looking in, you’re with me, which puts you at the center.”

Before I can argue, he’s threading his arm through mine, guiding me toward a group. Without missing a beat, Nico introduces me to each one, a federal judge, a shipping magnate, the CEO of a pharmaceutical conglomerate, as if I’m an integral part of his world rather than a temporary attachment.

What’s most unsettling is how seamlessly he moves between personas. With the judge, he’s deferential but knowledgeable about recent rulings. With the shipping magnate, he’s all business acumen and industry insights. With the CEO, he shifts to casual bonhomie, asking about the man’s recent fishing trip to Alaska.

Each conversation reveals a different facet of Nico Varela, yet none seems to capture his true essence. I’m watching him more than participating, fascinated by this chameleon-like ability to be whatever the situation demands.

“Lea Song?” A voice interrupts my observations. “I thought that was you.”

I turn to find Professor James Wong, a colleague of my mother’s from the Political Science department. His silver-rimmed glasses catch the light as he offers a polite smile.

“Professor Wong,” I greet him, pleased to see a familiar face. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Academic consultants occasionally get invited to the halls of power,” he says with a self-deprecating shrug. “Though I suspect it’s more for the university’s endowment potential than my insights on East Asia politics.”

I laugh, relaxing for the first time since entering the mansion. “How is the department? I stopped by my mother’s office today, but she wasn’t there.”

Something flickers across his face, concern, perhaps, or caution. “Yes, her sudden trip caught us all off guard. Very unusual for Eunji to leave without proper arrangements.”

“Did she mention anything to you before she left? Any hint about where she was going?”

Professor Wong’s gaze darts past me, and I realize Nico has stepped away to speak with the senator. We’re unobserved in the crowded room.

Leaning in, Wong lowers his voice. “Your mother’s recent work is more extensive than she lets on. She’s tapping doors few would dare to open.” His eyes hold a warning. “Be careful about the questions you ask, Lea. And perhaps more careful about the company you keep.”

My blood runs cold. “What do you mean? What doors?”

Before he can answer, a presence materializes at my side. Nico, radiating that quiet power that seems to bend the air around him. “Professor,” he says cordially, though his eyes are cold. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

Wong straightens, offering a tight smile. “James Wong, Political Science. I was just catching up with my colleague’s daughter.”

“How fortunate for us to have such distinguished academic representation tonight.” Nico’s tone is pleasant, but the message is clear: this conversation is over.

“Indeed.” Wong nods, already backing away. “If you’ll excuse me, I should pay my respects to the senator before dinner. Lea, always good to see you.”

As he disappears into the crowd, I turn on Nico. “That was rude.”

“That was necessary,” he counters, sliding his hand into mine and interlacing our fingers. The possessive gesture is both a comfort and a constraint. “Come, they’re seating for dinner.”

I want to pull away, to chase after Wong and demand answers about my mother’s mysterious “doors,” but Nico’s grip is firm as he leads me toward a table near the center of the room. The placement is deliberate, I realize, close enough to the senator to signal favor, but with clear sightlines to every entrance and exit. Always the strategist, even at a social dinner.

We’re seated with the pharmaceutical CEO and his wife, a federal prosecutor and her husband, and a state representative whose name I recognize from campaign signs. The conversation flows around me, healthcare policy, regulatory challenges, the upcoming election cycle, but my mind keeps circling back to Wong’s cryptic warning.

Under the table, Nico’s hand finds mine again, his thumb tracing small circles on my palm. It’s a simple gesture, but it sends a warm ripple through me, anchoring me to the present moment. Despite the opulence surrounding us, despite the power players and their purposeful conversation, that single point of contact feels like the most real thing in the room.

I lean into it, allowing myself to be steadied by his touch.

“You’ve been quiet,” he murmurs as dessert is served, a delicate chocolate confection that looks to die for.

“I’m taking it all in,” I reply, which isn’t entirely a lie. “This is quite a different world from the newsroom.”

“Is it so difficult to imagine yourself belonging here?” His eyes hold mine, searching for something I’m not sure I want him to find.

“Yes,” I answer. “I’m an observer, not a participant. That’s what journalists do.”

His lips curve into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “And yet, here you are, taking part. Wearing the dress, playing the role, enjoying the benefits of access.”

The observation stings because it’s accurate. I am playing a role, walking a dangerous line between observer and accomplice. And the most unsettling part is how natural it’s beginning to feel.

“It’s for the story,” I insist, as much to convince myself as him.

“Is it?” His voice drops lower, intimate in a way that makes my blood rush. “Then tell me, piccola, why have your notes become so selective lately? What happened to the ruthless reporter who was going to expose all my secrets?”

My cheeks burn with the realization that he’s been reading my notes, another violation of privacy that I should be outraged about. Instead, I’m more disturbed by the truth of his observation. My documentation has become selective, omitting details that might paint him in a damning light: the way he strong-armed that city contractor, his subtle threats to the judge who seemed reluctant to grant a specific motion, the network of informants that keeps him three steps ahead of his rivals.

When did I start protecting him?

“I’m still gathering information,” I say. “Building a complete picture.”

“Of course.” His smile tells me he sees right through the excuse. “And when this picture is complete, what then? Will you write about the monsters or the men? The systems or the individuals caught within them?”

It’s a question I’ve been avoiding, one that grows more complicated with each day I spend in his world. The black-and-white morality I arrived with has dissolved into countless shades of gray, and I’m no longer certain where to draw the line, or if lines even matter in a world where everyone seems to have their own version of right and wrong.

“I don’t know,” I admit, the honesty surprising us both.

His hand tightens around mine, a gentle pressure that feels like approval. “That’s the first true thing you’ve said all night.”

The moment is broken by the tinkling of a spoon against crystal, signaling the senator’s closing remarks. As attention shifts to our host, I’m left with the uncomfortable awareness that I’ve crossed some invisible threshold. My journalistic objectivity is compromised, my moral compass spinning without a clear north.

And the most terrifying part? I’m not sure I want to find my way back.

* * *

My apartment feels smaller than usual when I return, the walls closing in with the weight of unanswered questions. I kick off my heels, wincing as my feet throb from hours of standing on marble floors and pretending to belong among the wealthy and powerful.

The dress joins a growing pile of laundry in the corner, another aspect of my life that’s fallen into disarray since Nico Varela entered it. I slip into an oversized t-shirt and pajama shorts, then pad to my desk where my laptop waits, screen dark and accusing.

With a sigh, I open it, pulling up the document that has become both my salvation and my damnation:

Varela Investigation—CONFIDENTIAL

The file has grown to over thirty pages of notes, observations, recorded conversations, those I could sneak without detection, and cross-referenced connections between Nico’s various associates.

I scroll through it, eyes catching on phrases that leap from the screen:

Primary source confirms Varela’s involvement in mediating territory dispute between Ukranian and Polish factions.

City contract awarded to GreenSpace Development, suspected Varela shell company, despite three lower bids.

Judge Hernandez’s son’s DUI charges mysteriously disappeared following a private meeting with Varela.

But what strikes me most are the omissions, the details I’ve chosen not to record. I’ve left out how Nico intervened when one of his club employees was being stalked by an ex, ensuring the man was arrested on outstanding warrants before he could cause harm. I’ve omitted the way he funds a shelter for trafficked women, requiring absolute anonymity for his donations.

I’ve said nothing about the genuine concern in his voice when he called me during my nightmare, or how it anchored me when panic threatened to pull me under.

These are the complexities that don’t fit into the narrative of “criminal empire builder” I set out to expose. They’re the inconvenient truths that challenge my preconceptions and blur the lines I thought were so clearly drawn.

With growing unease, I realize I’m censoring myself, protecting Nico from the very exposure I promised to deliver. The journalist I was when this assignment began would be appalled at my selective reporting, my willingness to look away from certain truths while highlighting others.

I close the laptop without adding a single word about tonight’s dinner, about Professor Wong’s warning, or about the pharmaceutical connection I discovered in my mother’s office. These threads are beginning to weave together into a pattern I’m afraid to see clearly, one that might implicate not just Nico, but my own mother in something darker than I’m prepared to face.

The question that gnaws at me now isn’t just about Nico’s world and how deeply I’ve sunk into it. It’s about whether I’ll be able to extricate myself at all when the time comes. And more disturbing still: whether I’ll want to.

Because the truth, the one I can barely admit even to myself as I curl up on my couch, phone clutched in my hand as if expecting another late-night call, is that I’m starting to crave the complexity of his world. The power, the danger, the inexplicable safety I feel when his hand finds mine under a table full of criminals and politicians.

What kind of person does that make me?

The question hangs in the darkness of my apartment, unanswered, as I drift into a fitful sleep haunted by dreams of my mother running through endless corridors, a red folder clutched to her chest, never quite escaping the shadows that pursue her, or the ones that have taken root in my heart.