If Looks Could Kill

Across the white tablecloth of Serafina, Bradyn Hubbard—Cara Lewis's boyfriend of three years—set his wine down and leaned forward. He pulled a thick, cream-colored envelope from his jacket and slid it across the table until it rested in front of her.

Cara looked down. The gold foil lettering was fresh from the press.

Engagement Gala

Groom: Bradyn Hubbard

Bride: Hailie Lewis

Venue: The Lewis Estate, Long Island. Next Saturday.

"Cara, let's be realistic," Bradyn said, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "Hailie is my ticket to the top. Marrying her is the only shortcut for a guy like me to get a seat on the board. I don't love her—she's just the ladder I have to climb for my career."

Cara stared at the card, then lifted her cold amber eyes to meet his. "So you're proposing what, exactly?"

Bradyn gave a smug, self-satisfied smile.

"We break up publicly. But in private? Nothing has to change. You funded my MBA and paid my rent for three years—I haven't forgotten that. Stay quiet, be my little secret on the side, and once I secure the Lewis assets, I'll make sure you're taken care of in luxury."

Cara stared at his shameless face, her voice dropping into a dangerous, silky calm. "You sold yourself as a kept man to my stepsister, and you expect me to be your dirty little secret?"

"Don't make it sound so ugly, Cara," Bradyn scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "That's how men get ahead in Manhattan. Be realistic, Cara. You're broke and you have no one. Who else is going to take care of you? Don't be stupid. Just take the deal."

Cara looked at him for one quiet second, her lips curving into a razor-sharp smile.

"In your wildest dreams, Bradyn."

Without a second's hesitation, Cara picked up her crystal tumbler and threw the cold bourbon and ice straight into his face.

The freezing liquor drenched his styled hair and soaked the collar of his designer shirt. Bradyn gasped, shooting up from the velvet booth in sheer shock, frantically wiping his stinging eyes.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" he snarled, glaring at her as neighboring tables turned to stare.

Cara set the empty glass down with a quiet, deliberate tap.

Without breaking eye contact, she reached into her Saint Laurent bag, pulled out a thick manila folder, and dropped it heavily onto his soaked lap.

"Open it, parasite," Cara said calmly.

Bradyn's hands shook as he ripped the folder open.

A thick stack of forensic-grade photographs spilled across the table. His breath caught in his throat—the photos showed him and Hailie completely naked, tangled in the satin sheets of a suite at the Baccarat Hotel.

Taped right behind the prints was a notarized invoice.

Columbia MBA Tuition & Fees: $186,000.00

Tribeca Penthouse Lease Subsidies: $94,000.00

Bespoke Wardrobe & Networking Tabs: $62,000.00

TOTAL REIMBURSEMENT DUE: $342,000.00

Bradyn's face turned an ashen, sickly gray. "You... you tracked me?"

"Three hundred and forty-two grand," Cara said, tapping the total with a manicured nail. "Wire it back to my account by Monday morning. If you don't, these photos go directly to Hailie's father and the Lewis board."

The shock on Bradyn's face instantly curdled into ugly fury. He slammed both hands on the table, leaning in with a desperate hiss. "You crazy bitch! You gave me that money willingly—that was trust money! You can't sue me for gifts!"

"I invested in a partner, Bradyn, not a freeloader," Cara said coldly. "You lived off my money for three years just to become my stepsister's leashed lapdog. Pay back every cent by Monday, or wear the collar in public."

"You fucking bitch—" Bradyn lunged forward, grabbing for her wrist.

Cara smoothly stepped back, out of his reach. She stood tall, smoothing the front of her tailored coat, looking down at him with absolute disgust.

Slowly, deliberately, she raised her hand and flipped him a clean, effortless middle finger.

"Congratulations on the engagement, Bradyn," Cara said softly. "You and Hailie deserve each other."

She turned on her three-inch heels and walked away.

Cara headed swiftly toward the exit, adrenaline still humming through her veins. As she rounded the private staircase leading down from the mezzanine, she didn't see the tall silhouette stepping into the foyer.

Her shoulder collided hard against a solid wall of broad, tailored muscle.

The impact pushed Cara back half a step, but the man didn't move an inch.

For an instant, Beck Greer's jaw tightened. For ten years, any physical contact with a woman—even an accidental bump in a crowd—triggered violent nausea and psychosomatic revulsion.

Yet as this woman collided against his chest, the expected revulsion never came.

There were no hives. No suffocating panic. Only the clean scent of rain and subtle vanilla, and the fierce, crackling heat radiating from her skin.

Beck looked down in arrested, quiet shock.

Cara caught her balance, her amber eyes flashing with irritation as she looked up.

"Excuse me, sir. Do you mind watching where you're walking?"

Beck looked down at her, genuine amusement flashing in his eyes. For the first time in a decade, physical contact hadn't made him sick.

"You're the one who ran into me," he said calmly.

Cara had zero patience to argue. "Then move."

A subtle smirk touched Beck's lips. Instead of taking offense, he stepped smoothly aside.

"After you."

Cara brushed past his towering frame without another word and pushed out into the crisp night air.

Behind him, Korbin Mckee rushed down the stairs, looking alarmed as he pulled a sanitizing wipe from his pocket. "Mr. Greer! Are you alright? Did she make contact? Do you need your medication—"

Beck held up a hand, stopping his chief of staff. He looked down at the lapel where Cara's fingers had grazed him, his eyes gleaming with dark, electric fascination.

"I'm fine, Korbin," Beck murmured, his voice low and raspy. "In fact... I've never felt better."

Korbin stared at him, bewildered. Clearing his throat, the assistant quickly brought up his tablet. "Sir... that was Cara Lewis, the disinherited daughter of Lewis International. Also, Dean Peterson from Auden Academy just called. Julian got into a fight on campus and injured a trustee's son. The board is demanding family representation immediately."

Beck didn't look at the tablet, his eyes still fixed on the glass doors as Cara disappeared under the rainy streetlights.

"Tell Peterson I'm on my way to the academy now," Beck commanded smoothly, a rare, thrilling hunger entering his tone. "And Korbin—pull Cara Lewis's full file. I want everything on my tablet before we arrive."

Outside on the sidewalk, the cold wind whipped across Cara's face.

She pulled out her phone to block Bradyn's number when a text message from Hailie slashed violently across the top of her screen.

"Bradyn just called me in a panic. Did you really think some cheap hotel photos and a pathetic invoice would scare us? Dad officially froze your mother's trust account ten minutes ago. You're completely broke, Cara. You don't have a single dollar left to pay rent, let alone hire a lawyer. Hand over those negatives tonight. If you beg nicely, maybe I'll let you attend our Long Island engagement gala next Saturday as a catering maid so you can actually eat."

Cara's fingers tightened on the titanium frame until her knuckles turned bone-white. A cold, lethal fury settled in her chest.

They thought stripping her of her mother's trust would leave her defenseless and force her to surrender.

Before Cara could hit reply, the entire display suddenly glitched with static and went pitch-black.

A glowing crimson icon began pulsing frantically over an encrypted backdoor protocol.

"Incoming Encrypted Call: Joker"

Cara blinked, the anger momentarily derailed.

Joker. Her anonymous gaming partner and top-tier hacker contact for the past two years. The kid had backdoor exploits into half the private mainframe networks in the country, but they had strictly maintained an encrypted, voice-only connection.

Cara tapped the screen and brought the phone to her ear.

"Nemesis, thank God—do not hang up on me," Julian Kensington gasped from the other end, his voice tight with raw, unadulterated panic.