Page 48 of Ruthless Arrangement

“Lea? Is everything all right?” My mother’s voice is clear but cautious.

“Mom, where are you right now?” I demand, skipping pleasantries.

“In my office, preparing for a department meeting. Why?”

There’s an odd reverberation in the background, like an announcement over a PA system. My journalist’s instincts buzz with wrongness.

“What’s that noise?”

“Campus construction,” she explains in haste. “They’re renovating the east wing. Don’t worry about it.”

It’s a lie. I’ve visited her campus office dozens of times over the years; construction announcements don’t carry through the building like that. It sounds more like an airport or train station.

“Mom, are you really at the university?”

“Of course I am.” Her tone sharpens with irritation. “Lea, what’s going on? Why are you questioning me?”

I hesitate, weighing how much to reveal. “Someone approached me today. They said you might be in danger.”

A pause…too long to be natural. “That’s ridiculous. You’re being paranoid again. I’m perfectly safe.”

“Are you sure? Because between this and Moretti’s comments last night?—”

“Lea, listen to me.” Her voice drops, turning urgent. “Stay away from Moretti. And be careful around Varela. Just get what you need for your expose, and then get the hell out. Their world isn’t a game, and no story is worth risking your life for.”

“But Mom?—”

“I have to go. We’ll talk later, I promise.”

The line goes dead before I can protest. I stare at my phone, frustration and fear tangling in my chest. My mother never used to keep secrets from me. After my father died, it was just the two of us against the world, a team.When did that change?

I imagine the worst, my mother being involved in something dangerous, something connected to both Nico and Moretti. But what? Her research is theoretical and academic. She studies power structures and political systems, not?—

Unless it’s not just research.

The thought hits me like a physical blow. What if my mother’s work is a cover for something else? What if her frequent international conferences aren’t what they seem?

Stop it,I tell myself.You’re spiraling. Eunji Song is a respected academic with a thirty-year career. She’s not some secret operative.

But the doubt has taken root, sprouting tendrils of suspicion that wrap around memories I’d never questioned before. The late-night phone calls in Korean, that stopped when I entered the room. The unexpected trips that never quite aligned with published conference schedules. The visitors who came to our house when I was a child—serious-faced men and women who spoke in whispers with my parents.

Drained and distracted, I finally head home, desperate to check my notes for any missed connections. Maybe there’s something in Nico’s business dealings that intersects with my mother’s research. Maybe the key to understanding all of this is buried in the files I’ve already compiled.

I climb the three flights to my apartment, muscles protesting after too many sleepless nights. The hallway is quiet, most of my neighbors at work or school. I dig for my keys, planning to make a fresh pot of coffee and spread my notes across the living room floor like I used to do in college when tackling a complex story.

The lock turns, and I push the door open, then nearly drop my keys at the sight that greets me.

Nico Varela is perched on my sofa, relaxing likeit’s the most natural thing in the world. He looks up from his phone as I enter, dark eyes opaque.

Anger and adrenaline spike in my veins, washing away my exhaustion. I slam the door behind me, dropping my bag on the floor with a thud.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I demand, voice trembling with a mixture of fear and outrage.

He rises in one fluid motion, tucking his phone into his pocket. “You weren’t answering your texts.”

“So you picked my lock?” I cross my arms, trying to steady myself. “What are you, a glorified stalker?”

Something flickers across his face, but it’s gone so quickly I might have imagined it.

---