Page 12 of Falling for the Grump Billionaire

I grab my phone and scroll through my messages, stopping at Kara’s last text:

Kara: Eva, don’t be stupid. You can’t report a story if you’re dead.

She’s right. Of course, she’s right. But the idea of backing off feels like a betrayal—not just to my instincts, but to the work I’ve poured myself into.

I hover over the keyboard, typing and deleting my response twice before finally settling on something simple:

Me: Still alive. I’ll call you later.

Her reply comes almost instantly:

Kara: That’s not comforting. Be careful, okay?

I smile faintly, setting the phone down. Kara has always been my safety net, the person who reminds me to take a breath when I’m teetering on the edge.

But this isn’t the kind of story you walk away from. Not when you’re this close.

I pull up Dominic Kane’s name, the familiar flood of articles and profiles filling the screen. His public image is unshakable: innovator, genius, untouchable. But I know better than to trust the PR-crafted narrative.

Kane Enterprises is a fortress, but even the strongest walls have cracks. Caldwell is proof of that. The leaks are proof of that.

A nagging thought takes hold as I skim the headlines. Kane warned me at the gala not to dig, but his tone was protective—like he wanted to shield me from something, not threaten me. Could he be aware of the dangers swirling around his company? Or is he part of the machinery working to silence me?

The possibilities twist in my mind, each one more unsettling than the last.

I close my laptop and stand, the tension in my shoulders making every movement feel heavy. I need air, something to clear my head. The apartment feels too small, the walls pressing in.

Grabbing my coat, I step out into the hallway, the morning light filtering through the narrow windows. The city hums to life around me as I step onto the sidewalk, the distant roar of traffic blending with the chatter of early risers.

But the unease from last night hasn’t left me.

I keep my steps brisk, my eyes scanning the faces around me. Every shadow feels like it’s hiding something. Every passerby feels like they’re looking just a little too closely.

The paranoia is suffocating.

I turn onto a quieter street, the crowds thinning as I walk toward the park. The crisp morning air stings my cheeks, but it does little to soothe the tension knotting my stomach.

A sudden sound—a sharp click of a camera—makes me stop.

I whirl around, scanning the street behind me. A man in a dark jacket stands near the corner, a camera slung casually around his neck. He looks away when our eyes meet, his movements too quick, too practiced.

It could be nothing. Or it could be Lang.

My chest tightens as I step toward him, my heart pounding in my ears.

“Hey!” I call out.

The man doesn’t respond. Instead, he turns and slips into the crowd, his pace deliberate but unhurried.

I hesitate for half a second before breaking into a jog, weaving through the morning foot traffic.

But when I reach the corner, he’s gone.

By the time I return to my apartment, my nerves are frayed. The encounter feels like confirmation—someone is watching me. Someone who doesn’t want me to know they’re there.

The text message, the shadowy figure, the man with the camera—it’s all connected. I’m sure of it.

I bolt the door behind me and lean against it, my breath coming in uneven bursts. The safety I felt within these walls has evaporated, replaced by a cold certainty: I’ve crossed a line, and there’s no turning back.

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