Rain stung my face as I ducked into the alley, clutching the stolen file like it was my last breath. I wasn’t supposed to be here. Not at the Castellani Charity Gala, not playing this dangerous game. But then I saw him—Leo—with those sharp eyes scanning the crowd, looking for the woman he thought I was: an exposé writer named Lana Croft.

He grabbed my arm, voice low. 'You’re late. Did they follow you?' I should’ve corrected him. Instead, I nodded. One lie. That’s all it took.

Now we’re hiding in a service elevator, hearts pounding, as security radios crackle overhead. He thinks I’m fearless. He has no idea I’m running from my own blood.

The elevator dings. Two paths: the underground garage—escape now, explain never—or the penthouse suite, where a live broadcast could expose everything… including me.