Chapter 3 - Chapter 3: The Heat of the Hunt

Lila stood on the rooftop terrace, the ghost of Caspian Thorn's touch still searing her waist as the jazz faded into the night. The crowd swirled around them, oblivious to the current snapping between her and the man who'd just dared her to fall. His gray eyes held hers, unyielding, a challenge wrapped in that slow, lethal smile. She should've walked away—should've bolted for the elevator and the safety of her grimy little world. Instead, she stepped closer, heels clicking on the polished stone, and tilted her chin up."You think I'm scared of you?" she said, voice low, steady despite the wild thud of her heart.Caspian's gaze flicked to her lips, then back up, a spark igniting in those storm-cloud depths. "No," he murmured, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "I think you're scared of what you'll find."Her breath caught, but she masked it with a smirk. "Keep talking, Thorn. I've got all night."He laughed—soft, dark, a sound that slid under her skin and stayed there. "Careful what you wish for." Then he turned, melting into the crowd, leaving her with the echo of his words and a heat she couldn't shake.Lila drained the wine she'd been holding, the dry bite grounding her. She needed air, space, a plan—anything to wrest back control. She slipped through the throng, dodging a tipsy heiress and a guy in a tux who smelled like cigars, and found a quiet corner by the railing. The Hudson glittered below, a black mirror reflecting the city's excess. She pulled out her phone, thumbs flying as she texted Jamie: He's onto me. Audio's real. Need a deeper dive—Brooklyn permits, whistleblower history.A reply buzzed back almost instantly: You're insane. Digging now. Stay alive. Lila grinned, pocketing the phone. Jamie was a worrier, but she'd deliver. Always did.The night stretched on, the gala's energy peaking—laughter louder, champagne flowing faster. Lila kept moving, blending in, ears pricked for any scrap of intel. She overheard a snippet about "Brooklyn timelines" from a drunk exec, but nothing solid. Caspian stayed in her peripheral, a shadow she couldn't shake, chatting up investors with that effortless charm. Every so often, his eyes found hers across the room, a silent tether that made her skin prickle.She was mid-sip of a stolen martini when a hand brushed her elbow. She spun, expecting him, but it was a woman—tall, sleek, with platinum hair and a dress that screamed money. Her smile was all teeth."You're the gatecrasher," the woman said, voice honeyed but sharp. "Caspian's new toy."Lila bristled, setting the glass down. "And you are?""Vanessa Kane." The name landed like a stone. Caspian's ex, the socialite who'd once ruled his arm and his headlines. "I saw you dancing. Bold move, stepping into his orbit.""I don't step," Lila said, crossing her arms. "I storm."Vanessa's laugh was brittle. "Oh, you'll fit right in—until he breaks you. He always does." She leaned in, perfume cloying. "Walk away, little journalist. This isn't your game."Lila held her ground, voice ice. "Thanks for the tip. I'll send you a postcard from the winner's circle."Vanessa's eyes narrowed, but she turned on her heel, disappearing into the crowd. Lila exhaled, tension coiling tighter. Another player, another threat. She needed to move faster.By midnight, the gala was winding down, stragglers stumbling toward the elevators. Lila lingered, watching Caspian bid farewell to a silver-haired investor. He caught her eye one last time, a nod that felt like a promise—or a warning—before vanishing into a private lift. She waited five minutes, then slipped into the main elevator, heart pounding as she punched the button for the lobby.Back in Bushwick, she kicked off the heels and collapsed onto her couch, laptop open. Jamie had emailed—a goldmine of public records: permits fast-tracked for Thorn Enterprises' Brooklyn project, signed off by a city official with a history of "donations" from Caspian's company. No smoking gun, but a pattern. She cross-referenced the whistleblower angle—nothing concrete, just a name from an old article: Marcus Reed, a former Thorn exec who'd vanished after threatening to talk. Dead end, maybe dead man.Her phone buzzed—another unknown number. She hesitated, then opened the text: Roof was a nice touch. Check your door. Her stomach flipped. She crossed the room, peering through the peephole—nothing but the dim hall. She cracked the door, and there it was: a small black box, no note. Inside, a keycard, sleek and unmarked, and a slip of paper: 49th floor. Tomorrow. 8 p.m.Caspian. It had to be. A summons—or a trap. She turned the card over in her fingers, mind racing. The 49th floor was his private suite, a penthouse the press drooled over but never breached. He was pulling her deeper, and she'd be damned if she didn't take the bait.Sleep was a lost cause. She spent the night digging—Reed's last known address (a burned-out tenement), permit dates (too clean, too quick), and every profile she could find on Caspian. The man was a fortress: born to wealth, orphaned young, sister missing since '98, empire built on ruthless precision. No cracks, no scandals—until now.By morning, she was wired on coffee and spite, pacing her apartment. Jamie called at noon, voice tight. "Reed's a ghost—off the grid since he left Thorn. But I found a lead: his sister, Tara. Lives in Queens. She might talk.""On it," Lila said, grabbing her jacket. The subway to Queens was a blur, her mind on that keycard, on Caspian's voice in her ear. Tara Reed lived in a sagging rowhouse, curtains drawn. Lila knocked, and a woman answered—mid-30s, tired eyes, a kid wailing in the background."I don't talk to reporters," Tara said, starting to shut the door.Lila wedged her foot in. "I'm not here to hurt you. Marcus—he tried to stop Thorn, didn't he? I'm after the same thing."Tara froze, then sighed, letting her in. The house smelled of diapers and regret. "He warned them," she said, voice low. "About Brooklyn—shoddy buildings, cut corners. They paid him off, then he disappeared. I don't know if he's alive.""Who's 'they'?" Lila pressed."Caspian. His father's old crew. I don't have proof—just what Marcus told me before he went dark."It was thin, but it was something. Lila thanked her, slipping Tara her number. Back in the city, she hit a diner, scribbling notes: Reed, payoffs, Brooklyn collapse risk. The keycard burned a hole in her pocket. 8 p.m. was hours away, and she needed armor.She hit a thrift store, snagging a red dress—bold, fitted, a weapon of its own—and spent the afternoon prepping. By 7:30, she was in the Thorn tower lobby, keycard swiping her into a private elevator. It hummed upward, her reflection in the mirrored walls a stranger: sharp-eyed, defiant, a little scared.The 49th floor opened to a penthouse that stole her breath—marble floors, a wall of windows, art that screamed wealth. Caspian stood by a bar, pouring scotch, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up. He looked up, and the air shifted, heavy with intent."You came," he said, voice a low rumble."Couldn't resist," she shot back, stepping inside, heels echoing. "What's this about?"He crossed the room, handing her a glass she didn't take. "You're chasing ghosts, Lila. Reed, Brooklyn, my past. I thought I'd save you the trouble."She narrowed her eyes. "By what—bribing me? Threatening me?""By showing you." He gestured to a tablet on the bar, screen glowing with files. "Go ahead. Look."She hesitated, then grabbed it. Permits, emails, a memo signed by his father—proof of corner-cutting, dated years back. Her pulse raced. "Why give me this?""Because you won't stop," he said, stepping closer, heat rolling off him. "And because I want you to see me—all of me—before you decide.""Decide what?" Her voice wavered, just a fraction.He leaned in, breath brushing her lips, eyes dark with something raw. "If I'm the villain—or the man who burns it down with you."She didn't pull away. Not yet.