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Nestor has not accepted my offer to help, and I’m convinced it’s because he doesn’t realize that I am qualified and capable. I’ve been trying to think of a way to prove to him that I can be useful, and the only thing I’m aware of that he’s struggling with is his stepbrother, Miron. And Sergei.

He needs proof to show his mother, to open her eyes to what’s really going on.

It breaks my heart to think that Leticia is so in love with Sergei, and Sergei is just using her.

That isn’t fair, and she doesn’t deserve that.

I am as angry with Sergei and Miron as Nestor is.

I understand why it’s driving him crazy and why he loses his cool around Miron.

So, in an attempt to help him, I’m sitting at his laptop in his home office—sneakily, I admit—going through his files.

The private investigators and his head of security, Roan, have been sending him footage and information as they track Miron around the city. There is also footage of the car attack.

It’s all kept in one folder, and I happen to be brilliant at data analysis, so I’m excited to look through everything. I’m sure I can pick up something that the others missed.

I pull out a few blank pages from the printer tray and select a gold pen from the cup on Nestor’s desk. His work area is neat and minimalist, showing that he likes things to be in order and in the same place where he left them.

I’m the same when I work. I need a clear space because of the amount of information spinning in my head when I look at data.

I start with the first video, taking hours to watch each one and to read every single note or piece of evidence collected.

None of it is damning on its own, and Miron and Sergei have clearly been very careful not to directly implicate each other, but I have noticed a pattern of familiar faces, as well as time frames and interactions.

Something that’s quite interesting is that Sergei is being more careful than Miron.

He’s always somewhere public at the time of these attacks, or somewhere where a person is able to photograph him or verify his whereabouts.

Miron, on the other hand, is not as organized, perhaps doing the dirty work for both of them.

It might be why Leticia has faith in Sergei—he is often with her during the attacks.

It seems almost a waste of time to have someone tailing Sergei if Miron is the one playing out the operations.

I’ve seen him in a number of blurry, questionable images—talking to men who look the same as the men in footage of attacks, or men who have broken into Nestor’s properties.

That alone might not be enough to convince his mother, but it’s a potential link.

We need to start tailing those familiar faces as well.

If we can find a link, perhaps a payment of some kind, an exchange, between Miron or Sergei and the men carrying out the attacks—that would be all the evidence his mother could need.

I draw up several profiles on the anonymous men in the videos, searching each piece of footage for different angles to study them for tattoos, defining features, or unusual traits.

I make a note of everything, as well as times and places that they were seen.

It’s thoroughly detailed, and by the time I’m done, the entire day has disappeared, and my eyes are blurry from looking at the screen for too long.

It’s already five. Nestor will be home any moment.

I clean up his desk and slip my notes into a folder to present to him.

It’s a big risk because he might be furious that I was using his laptop and going through some very sensitive information, but I am hoping that this new perspective and fresh look at the data will be helpful and prove to him that I am capable of being useful.

I stand up, flexing my shoulders back as I stretch and let out a long yawn.

Goodness me, I forgot how intensely I get lost in analysis. I love it. It’s a puzzle, and my brain latches on to each piece, trying to fit it together. I see the bigger picture with ease as long as I have enough time to calmly look through each part of the whole story.

I’m rather pleased with what I’ve put together, and I’m hoping that the outcome, the value of it, will supersede any annoyance Nestor might have due to me taking the initiative.

Of course, he hires some very capable people, and it’s possible this might look like a school project in comparison to the reports he would receive from someone more qualified.

I hear the front door opening downstairs, and my stomach churns with nervous excitement.

It’s time.

I hurry downstairs to say hello, my body feeling tight with anxiety, which is getting worse the closer I get to showing him the information.

“Hello, little one,” he says, scooping me into a hug when I walk into the kitchen and find him opening a beer.

“How was work?” I ask, nuzzling into his chest and breathing in the scent of him. I can’t get enough of it. I could sleep wrapped in his clothes, and it would send me good dreams.

“It was alright, still struggling with this whole Miron mess. It’s driving me crazy that we can’t catch him in the act. We need a new angle. We’re obviously missing something big,” he huffs, then tilts his head back to take a long sip of ice-cold beer.

I step back from him, the folder feeling incredibly heavy in my hand.

“I wanted to talk to you about that,” I say, my voice sounding small.

“About what?”

“Miron and Sergei.”

He tilts his head to the side, scrunching his nose in confusion and curiosity. “Okay?” he says, skeptical.

“I’m a data analyst. I’ve been doing it for years. I’m very good—I think I’m very good at it. It comes naturally to me.”

“Okay?” he repeats, leaning against the kitchen counter, one arm folded over his chest, the other holding the beer. His eyes narrow towards me.

I take a deep breath, trying to settle my racing heart.

“I put together a report that I created after looking over all of the information in the folder on your laptop,” I say it all very quickly, trying to get everything out at once before he starts shouting at me about privacy and minding my own business.

His eyes drop to the folder in my hands, his expression remaining neutral. His eyes lift to meet mine, and his stare is intense. I step forward, offering him the folder.

He sets his beer down on the counter behind him and crosses one leg over the other, still leaning back, but flipping slowly through the pages of my report.

I wait like a schoolgirl, anxious and scared, expecting to be lectured for my unimpressive work or overstepping boundaries.

Each time the tension rises in my stomach, I shove it back down and remind myself that I’m really good at what I do.

I watch Nestor’s face, wanting to be patient, but unable to stop myself when I ask, “What do you think?”

My voice betrays my nervousness and causes Nestor to look up at me with an unusual smile on his face.

I bite my lip.

Is that a good smile or a bad smile?

“How long did this take you?”

“Today. Most of the day.”

He closes the folder and sets it on the counter, picking up his beer again.

I hold my breath, making sure I wait without blurting out anything else.

He takes a slow sip as though he’s savoring my anxiety.

“Nestor,” I huff.

His laughter is mischievous. “Honestly, Lara, I’m taken by surprise.”

“Because I didn’t ask about looking at—"

“Because you’ve done a really good job of putting that together. I’ll go through it all properly tonight and then pass it on to Roan. I think it’s great. You clearly do have a natural talent for putting puzzles together, and it’s going to give us a new direction to add to our expanding search.”

“Really?” I say, almost too scared to believe him. He’s being so nice.

He steps forward and touches my cheek. “You know you’re good at what you do. Do you know how I know that?”

“How?” I ask, leaning into his touch.

“Because of the pride you took in putting that together for me. I’ve paid a lot of money for data analysis in the past, and it wasn’t even half as thorough and well presented as that. I mean it. I’m impressed.”

My cheeks skip the usual shade of blushing red and turn luminous pink as pride wells through me. “Thank you,” I mutter, looking away, smiling happily.

“Will you go to dinner with me?” he asks, catching me by surprise.

“Oh, I didn’t know we had plans.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “No, I’m asking you out, Lara. I want to take you on a date.”

A date? Like a date-date? My inner girl, the one who believes in love and happily ever afters, does a little somersault. But my logical, data analyst brain stops her mid-celebration and tells her to calm down because I can’t be reading into it.

I heard Miron whispering about me at the charity event, after Nestor and I had returned from our little adventure, and he was talking to a man about how I am a trophy wife for display purposes only.

Now I am fully aware that Miron is a snake. But the man he was talking to seemed to agree with him.

If that’s all I am, I don’t know. But I don’t want to get hurt by making this into something it isn’t.

I must remain level-headed and just enjoy my life, no longer plagued by debt collectors. I have a brand new friend, Ulyana. His family is all very sweet to me. If that’s what I get out of this, I’m happy.

Even though I really want more from him.

***

I change quickly, choosing a long, flowing dress in pale pink. It makes me look so pretty when I twirl in front of the long mirror in my bedroom. I choose flat white sandals and a small white purse.

The dress flows around me like water as I walk down the stairs towards Nestor, waiting near the front door.

“Wow,” he stammers, his mouth dropping open as he watches me.

When I arrive next to him, he takes my hand, lifts it above my head and spins me slowly around, admiring my dress from every angle.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” I grin.

“It’s not the dress that’s pretty, Lara. It’s you that makes it look so beautiful.”

“But,” I say, shaking my head, disagreeing with him.

“But what?” he knots his brows.

“It has pockets,” I exclaim, pushing my hands into them and showing them off.

Laughter rolls from his lips, and he pulls me towards him, kissing my forehead.

“I admit, I never knew a dress could be so powerful. It’s got pockets. It’s incredible,” he teases.

“Ha. Ha.” I roll my eyes at him. “If I showed Ulyana, she would understand.”

“I have no doubt,” he muses, leading me out to the car.

The restaurant he’s chosen for us is a seafood place, right next to the ocean. The views from our table on the rooftop are magnificent, and because it’s still summer, we are here in time to see the best part of the sunset, when the sky starts changing colors and turning orange and pink and purple.

Our food has arrived, but Nestor is staring at me with an intense look.

“What?” I ask.

“Come with me, I need to take a photo of you in that dress with the sunset behind you. It’s too perfect.”

My heart flips in wonder at this man.

He knows the right things to say to melt my heart. I can’t believe he wants a photo of me, and that he even thought of it.

Nestor guides me through the shot, telling me to turn a little left, lift my chin, hold my hand like this—we’re laughing while he’s directing, and when he shows me the photos he’s taken, I am absolutely blown away.

I look like I’m in a fairytale world of magic. It’s breathtaking. I can’t believe it’s me standing there in that gorgeous dress with such a beautiful backdrop.

“I really do look pretty,” I murmur in shock.

“I need one more photo, go stand there again,” he says, setting his phone down on a nearby empty table, pointing it toward where I am standing. He runs towards me, wraps his hand around my waist, and kisses me.

My heart flips again and starts racing as every cell in my body becomes alive beneath his touch.

He gently brushes his hand over my body, sensual but not inappropriate.

The kiss lasts much longer than a photograph would need.

When he pulls away, my lips are swollen from it, and my eyes are taking him in with a hungry need.

“How do you know the photo was taken?” I ask.

“It was a burst shot. It took about thirty shots with a little gap in between each one.”

I smile and shake my head. “Very creative.”

“Well, I think maybe it’s time to update my profile picture, or perhaps I’ll send it to my PR team and have them do a candid release.” He winks, slipping his hand around my waist as we walk back to our table.

The restaurant isn’t busy. It’s an intimate, calm setting, and it allows us to talk freely, enjoying our dinner together.

Nestor is attentive and sweet, reaching out beneath the table to leave his hand on my leg, pulling my chair closer, and letting our legs press together.

His warmth teases me. So do his eyes. Beautiful, deep, passionate eyes. The most gorgeous hazel. Green mixed with flakes of golden brown and yellow.

I could stare at them for hours, listening to him tell me stories.

On the way home, we are still chatting and happy as the conversation flows easily.

I’m so comfortable around him, it takes me by surprise sometimes.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt this comfortable around a man before.

My father wasn’t exactly a shining example of what a relationship should be like.

I was taken on a few dates in my life, but my mom was sick, and I didn’t have much time for it.

And then, after she passed away, I was drowning in debt and stress, and eventually, I just gave up looking for love or connection.

At home, Nestor leads me in through the front door.

“Would you like a nightcap or a cup of tea?”

“Hot chocolate. I’ve been thinking about it the whole way home,” I grin, standing on my tiptoes to kiss him.

“Even after the chocolate brownie?”

“Actually, I think it is because of the chocolate brownie. It’s a downward spiral now. I’ll go on a three-day chocolate bender, and if I can’t get enough of it, I’ll turn feral.” I wink at him.

He smirks. “I might hide the chocolate then. I would love to see you feral.”

“Sir.” Roan clears his throat loudly, stepping towards us.

“Roan, hi, what’s up?” Nestor says, still smiling from our flirtations.

“Sir, I have news for you. We just heard.”

“What is it?” Nestor asks, sounding tense in response to Roan’s tone.

“Sergei is dead.”

For a moment, neither of us moves, both staring at Roan in shock and disbelief.

“Dead?” Nestor mutters.

“Yes, sir. He was on his way home from an event outside of town, and there was what appears to have been an accident. He was killed instantly.”

“My mother—?” His throat is tight around the words; he can barely ask the question.

“She was not with him, sir. Your mother is home. Your sister is with her. I sent a few extra men to guard the house just in case there was something we missed.”

“I have to call her,” Nestor says, looking bewildered. “She’ll need me.”

“Yes, sir. Of course. I will let you know once my men bring me any more information. But from everything we’ve heard and seen, it was an accident.”