Page 4 of Falling for the Grump Billionaire

The comment is vague, but it’s enough to send a thrill through me. What could be so dangerous that even Kane, with all his resources, would want to suppress it?

Before I can dig further, my phone buzzes again. Another message.

“You’re persistent. That’s going to get you hurt.”

The words freeze me in place.

My mind races, replaying every moment of the gala. Did someone follow me? Were they watching me at the diner? A wave of paranoia sweeps over me as I glance around my apartment. Everything looks normal, untouched, but the sense of being watched is suffocating.

I type a reply with shaking hands:

“Who are you? What do you want?”

The response is almost immediate:

“Stop asking questions, and you’ll stay safe.”

Safe? The word feels like a mockery. If they think threats will stop me, they don’t know me at all.

Hours later, the city is fully awake, and so am I. I toss on a blazer and scarf, grab my bag, and head to the address I found tied to Caldwell’s last known appearance.

The building is nondescript, sandwiched between a laundromat and a shuttered bookstore. Its facade is faded, the kind of place people overlook.

Inside, the air smells faintly of mildew. I climb the stairs to the second floor, my footsteps muffled by threadbare carpet. Apartment 2B is at the end of the hall. I knock twice, my pulse pounding in my ears.

For a moment, there’s silence. Then, shuffling from the other side.

The door cracks open, and a man peers out—a man who matches the grainy photos I found online. Caldwell. His eyes widen slightly when he sees me, but he doesn’t open the door further.

“Who are you?” he asks, his voice low and cautious.

“Eva Stone. I’m a journalist.”

His face hardens. “I don’t talk to reporters.”

“I’m not just any reporter,” I say, holding his gaze. “I’m the one who knows why you left Kane Enterprises.”

That gets his attention. He glances down the hall, then opens the door enough for me to step inside.

The apartment is sparse, almost sterile. A single chair, a folding table covered in papers, and a laptop that looks like it’s seen better days.

“What do you want?” he asks, crossing his arms.

“The truth,” I say simply.

Caldwell snorts. “The truth gets people killed.”

“I’m not scared,” I lie.

He studies me for a long moment, then shakes his head. “You should be.”

The conversation that follows is stilted, full of half-answers and evasions. But one thing becomes clear: Caldwell knows something big. Something that terrifies him enough to live like a ghost.

He hints at a project calledAegis,something revolutionary in the tech world—but refuses to elaborate.

“I’ve already said too much,” he mutters, pacing the small space.

Before I can press further, there’s a sharp knock at the door. Caldwell freezes, his eyes darting to me.

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