An expert of secrets was how Edward Reed liked to think of himself. Not only was what he had discovered about Lorna Jenkins scandalous, but it was also quite delicate. The kind of secret that, with the right delivery, could shatter a woman.
He leaned back in his penthouse office's leather chair and looked through the sealed documents he had obtained from a courthouse contact. a change of name. an order of restraining. a hospital stay while posing as someone else. Not only was her past tainted, but it had also been expertly buried.
He leaned back in his penthouse office's leather chair and looked through the sealed documents he had obtained from a courthouse contact. a change of name. an order of restraining. a hospital stay while posing as someone else. Not only was her past tainted, but it had also been expertly buried.
"Oh, Lorna," he whispered, his smile slow and knowing. "What are you fleeing?"
He tapped out a text message, attaching a blurred screenshot of the court order.
Then he sent it—to Michael Hudson—with a gleeful sense of satisfaction.
No name. No background. Just a terrifying caption and an unidentified number:
"Are you certain you know who she is?"
Staring down at the skyline, Michael stood in his private office on the 58th floor. Even though the city was glittering in the late afternoon sun, he couldn't stop thinking about Lorna and how easily she had adapted to his life.
It had happened gradually at first, and then suddenly.
She was more than just the woman who was rebuilding his life. The only thing that initially inspired him to rebuild was her.
He wasn't just functioning for the first time in a long time; he was dreaming once more.
Of mornings that didn't begin with loneliness and cold coffee.
Of a home that had the feel of a home.
of a life freed from the specters of the past.
His phone then buzzed.
He scowled at the unidentified number as he took it out of his pocket.
The text was like a kick to the stomach.
No name. No salutations.
"Are you still certain you know who she is?" is all that appears on a blurry court document.
He gasped. He read it twice. Three times. Then zoomed in on the image.
His stomach churned. Lorna, or someone going by her previous name. A sealed restraining order against a man named Mason Clark. Abuse allegations. Trauma. Psychological evaluation. Michael sat down, heart racing. This wasn't about passing judgment; he didn't fear her past, but her not telling him—after everything—made him wonder why.
At the same time, Lorna sat in a nearby café, drinking tea with a hand that was shaking. On the table was her phone, face down. Michael had not heard from her. Not yet. It never seemed to be the right moment. Or secure. or equitable.
However, the quiet now felt impenetrable.
She was sick of hiding.
"Tonight," she told herself.
She would tell him all tonight.
even if it meant losing the things they had just started to construct.
Michael stared at the phone in his office until Henry knocked once and came in. "You okay?" his best friend asked, observing the expression on his face. Michael handed him the phone slowly, and Henry looked at the picture before whistling softly. "Where did this come from?" "No clue," Michael said. "Anonymous number." Henry scowled. "And you think it's real?" Michael's jaw tightened. "I don't know. I want to believe she would've told me?
"Look, man—whatever this is, it's from her past. You have one, too. The difference is that she didn't throw yours in your face." Michael rubbed his temple. "What if this is someone trying to stir the pot?" "It's Edward," Henry said without hesitation. "Has his stink all over it." Michael looked out at the skyline once more. The sun was now dipping below the buildings, casting long shadows, and he couldn't get rid of the feeling that something more significant was happening behind the scenes.
He also needed to make a decision: would he run again?
Or was he at last prepared to confront love, regardless of how sloppy the truth might be?