Page 11 of Falling for the Grump Billionaire

The sky outside my window begins to shift from black to muted gray as the first hints of dawn creep in. The city is waking up, but I’m still wide awake, my thoughts tangled in the chaos of the last few hours.

The message on my phone feels like a living thing, its weight pressing against my chest.“You were warned, Ms. Stone. Walk away, or the next message won’t be so polite.”

It’s a threat, plain and simple. But it’s also a warning. Someone out there is watching me, monitoring my every move, and they’re not shy about letting me know it.

I pace the small living room, my notebook clutched tightly in one hand, the other scrolling through my phone. The shadowy figurefrom earlier, the blocked number, Caldwell’s cryptic warnings—it’s all spinning in my head, and none of it is adding up.

Could Dominic Kane be behind this? He warned me at the gala not to dig, but his tone felt like a man protecting his empire, not someone actively threatening me. Caldwell made it clear that Kane Enterprises has enemies—powerful ones—and they don’t play by the rules.

But why target me? I’m a journalist, not a hacker. I haven’t even published anything yet. Unless… they see me as a threat simply because I’m asking the wrong questions.

The thought doesn’t comfort me.

I sink onto the couch, flipping open my notebook. Caldwell’s words stare back at me, a jumble of paranoia and half-answers:Kane Enterprises is a fortress. Enemies on both sides of the law. People disappear.

I underline the wordfortress. That’s what Kane’s world is: carefully controlled, meticulously secured. So how does someone like Caldwell—a fired engineer who looks like he’s been living off vending machine dinners—fit into this?

And then there’s the leaks.

Caldwell hinted they might be coming from inside the company, but he stopped short of naming anyone. Is he afraid? Or is there more to the story?

The memory of his bitter smile flashes in my mind.“Someone needs to take Kane down a notch.”

Whoever sent me that message doesn’t just want me to stop digging—they want me to vanish, professionally or otherwise. I can’t let that happen.

I close my notebook and head to the kitchen, the clink of the glass against the counter breaking the silence as I pour a fresh drink of water. The apartment feels too quiet, the kind of silence that amplifies every creak of the floorboards and every distant hum of the building’s pipes.

My gaze drifts to the window, the faint orange glow of sunrise washing over the skyline. Normally, the view would calm me. Now, it feels like an illusion—a serene backdrop hiding unseen threats.

I set the glass down and grab my laptop, pulling it open on the counter. It hums to life, the soft blue glow spilling onto my notebook.

A quick search pulls up Caldwell’s name again, but the same scant details flash on the screen: fired from Kane Enterprises for breaching confidentiality agreements, no public interviews, no social media presence. It’s as if he’s tried to erase himself from the world.

I lean forward, digging deeper. An archived industry forum thread catches my eye, buried on the third page of search results. The comments are dated nearly six months ago, around the time Caldwell was fired.

User 1:“Big shake-up at Kane. Anyone know what happened to Caldwell?”

User 2:“He got too close to something. They’re saying it was more than just breaching an NDA.”

User 3:“Caldwell was working on something classified. He asked too many questions and paid the price.”

I highlight the text, copying it into my notes. Whatever Caldwell was involved in, it’s clear his departure wasn’t as simple as corporate politics.

I scroll further, catching another fragment of conversation:

User 4:“If Caldwell talked, Kane would have bigger problems than a few leaks.”

User 5:“He won’t talk. He knows better. People like him always do.”

A chill snakes down my spine. Caldwelldidtalk—to me. And judging by the warning text I received, someone doesn’t want me sharing whatever I’ve learned.

I sit back, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. The pattern is becoming clearer, but the motives remain elusive.

I glance at the clock. It’s just after six, and the rest of the world is stirring. Normally, I’d be winding down after a sleepless night, but the thought of closing my eyes feels impossible. My mind is racing too fast, connecting threads that shouldn’t exist.

The figure from the street lingers in my memory. Was he following me? Watching me? Or was it my imagination running wild?

The unease sitting in my stomach says otherwise.

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