Page 2 of Falling for the Grump Billionaire

“Watch me,” I mutter, shaking him off.

I catch Dominic just as he’s about to exit the ballroom. “Mr. Kane!” My voice is steady, louder than I expect. It slices through the noise, and he pauses, turning to face me.

Up close, he’s even more intimidating. His eyes lock onto mine, sharp and assessing. “Who are you?” he asks, his tone clipped.

“Eva Stone, withThe Daily Focus.” I extend my hand. He doesn’t take it. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about the recent security breaches at Kane Enterprises.”

His eyes narrow slightly, the temperature between us dropping. “I don’t discuss company matters with the press. If you’ll excuse me—”

“Is it because you have something to hide?” The words slip out before I can stop them.

His jaw tightens. He steps closer, his presence overwhelming. “If you’re looking for a soundbite, Ms. Stone, you’re wasting your time. But let me give you some free advice—don’t dig where you don’t belong.”

His tone is calm, but there’s an edge to it—a warning wrapped in steel. My heart pounds, but I don’t back down. “I’m just doing my job, Mr. Kane.”

“And I’m doing mine.” With that, he turns and walks away, leaving me rooted to the spot, adrenaline coursing through my veins.

The night air is crisp, grounding me as I step outside. My phone buzzes in my hand, and a new message flashes on the screen:

“Stay out of this, or you’ll regret it.”

My breath catches. I glance around, scanning the street for anyone watching. The valet stand is quiet except for an attendant on his phone. A couple in designer evening wear laugh as they climb into a black car. No one pays me any attention.

Who sent this? How do they even know what I’m digging into?

I screenshot the message before it disappears. My fingers tremble as I type a reply:“Who is this?”

No response.

The bus ride home feels endless, each jolt of the old transit system rattling my nerves. Dominic’s warning replays in my mind, layered now with the anonymous threat.

By the time I reach my apartment, the familiar sight of my walk-up soothes me—if only for a moment. I lock the door behind me, twisting the bolt harder than necessary, and pour myself a glass of wine.

The glow of my laptop screen feels harsh, but I don’t bother with the lamp. Darkness feels safer, like a shield from the weight of the evening’s events.

I typeDominic Kaneinto the search bar, my fingers trembling just slightly. The results flood the screen: glowing accolades, polished profiles, and PR-crafted statements lauding his brilliance. Innovator. Genius. Visionary.

But beneath the surface, there are cracks. Whispers of sabotage. Financial discrepancies. Leaked blueprints.

A buried forum thread catches my attention:

“This isn’t just about corporate sabotage. It’s personal.”

“The cracks are already there—you just have to look.”

I scribble notes, underliningpersonalthree times. My phone buzzes again. A blocked number:

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Ms. Stone. Walk away while you still can.”

My breath catches, and I scribble the words down. Someone is watching me. Tracking me. And they’re not subtle.

But instead of stopping, I press forward. Because whoever this is, they’re scared. And that means I’m onto something.

The message glows on my phone screen like a taunt:“You’re playing a dangerous game, Ms. Stone. Walk away while you still can.”

My breath catches, but I force myself to exhale slowly, trying to steady the tremor in my hands. Whoever sent this isn’t bluffing, but I can’t afford to let fear take over. I press my phone against my chest, the sharp edge of the device grounding me.

What have I walked into?

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