Page 47 of Falling for Mr. Billionaire

She laughs as I hang up and swipe to answer the incoming call.

“Hey, Ben. I was just about to call you,” I lie, dragging myself upright against the pillows.

“Sure you were,” he deadpans. “Tell me you’ve got something real, Monroe.”

“I do,” I say, grabbing my laptop off the nightstand and flipping it open. “You remember that lead I was chasing with V Corp? The one buried in the early 2000 acquisitions?”

“Yeah. Ghost shell. No public board, no employee listings, scrubbed filings. You said they were tied to that block of evictions in Brooklyn.”

“They are,” I confirm. “But it’s more than that. I found new records showing they acquired six other buildings under similar conditions—hidden under dummy subsidiaries, all funneled through a blind trust connected to a private real estate group. Still trying to trace the top of the ladder.”

“Do we have a name yet?”

“Not yet,” I admit, clicking through the files. “But I’m close. There’s a trail forming. I’m working through the lease transfers, eviction notices, and utility shutoffs. Once I connect the trust to the parent company, I think we’ll have enough to call it predatory redevelopment.”

Ben exhales into the line. “That’s the headline. I want to run it next week. Can you get me a draft by tomorrow night?”

“Yeah,” I nod. “I’ve got someone sending me documents from the Carlton property. If they check out, we can tie V Corp to a repeat pattern. The same buildings. The same paper trail.”

“And the same victims,” he mutters. “People displaced under the radar while the city looked the other way.”

“Exactly,” I say. “But I need just a little more proof and to tie some pieces together to confirm who benefits at the top. Whoever’s behind the trust is keeping themselves squeaky clean on paper.”

“Speed it up, Monroe. This could blow the whole case wide open. I want a first draft by tomorrow night.”

“I’m on it.”

“Ivy,” he adds before hanging up, “if this is what you think it is—finish it. Because if you don’t, someone else will.”

“Got it,” I murmur. “I’ll get you something.”

He hangs up without another word.

I set the phone down, my stomach twisting. My brain spinning. My heart?

A mess.

I don’t even have time to breathe before it buzzes again.

Before I called Vanessa, Carter and I agreed it was best to separate for a while and actually get some work done. We both had calls to make, and the room was starting to feel… charged. Tense in a way that made focus impossible.

He took his laptop into the kitchen and set up at the small dining table—a hand-carved piece of art that looks like it belongs on the cover of Architectural Digest. It’s on the same level as the bedroom, which means it’s still dry even though the rest of the bungalow is slowly turning into a shallow indoor pool.

I call my brother first to check in on the case, but it goes to voicemail. I leave him a message, and after that, everything slides into a rhythm. Emails. Notes. Research. Just work… even if “work” is the last thing I can focus on with Carter in the next room, behind a closed door.

The phone rings a third time before I finally answer. “Hey, Jeremy.”

“Hey, little sis.”

His voice is rough, tired. “You good? I saw the storm report. Looked like Hawaii was about to get wiped off the map.”

“I’m surviving,” I say. “Still trapped. Still soggy. Still sore… for reasons we’re not discussing.”

A beat. “Jesus Christ, Ivy.”

I laugh. “Relax. I’m fine. Just… distracted.”

“You better be careful out there. Storms make people horny and stupid. Trust me, I’ve seen it. Vegas, ’09.”

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