My hands tremble as I set down the champagne flute, the crystal catching the afternoon sun like a warning flare. One wrong move, one slip of the name tag, and it’s over. I’ve spent weeks perfecting the art of invisibility—Ingrid Voss doesn’t exist here. I’m just 'Greta,' the quiet intern from nowhere special. Then he walks in. Jordan Temple, sleeves rolled to his elbows, smile easy but eyes sharp, asking why I flinch when someone mentions New York. 'You’re not like the others,' he says, leaning close. 'You don’t belong here.' My pulse spikes. That’s the problem—he’s half-right. I don’t belong… but not for the reason he thinks.

Later, I find a crumpled article in the staff bathroom: 'Where Is the Elusive Ingrid Voss?' Someone knows. Or suspects. And when Jordan offers to help me 'unwind' with a private boat ride tonight, I realize the danger isn’t just exposure—it’s trusting someone who could destroy me with a single question.