Chapter 3: Cufflinks and Confessions

The penthouse door had barely clicked shut behind us when the tension snapped tight again.

I stood there in the sleek living room, borrowed cocktail dress still damp at the hem from the rain outside. My curls were pinned up in some expensive twist that was already coming apart, one stubborn strand brushing my cheek exactly where Griffin's mouth had been minutes ago in the elevator.

He watched me from across the marble island, dark eyes tracking every fidget. The city lights smeared across the rain-streaked windows behind him like neon blood.

"You clean up dangerously well," he said, voice low and smooth as the whiskey he'd poured me earlier.

I forced a smirk, tucking that curl behind my ear. "Flattery from a guy who looks like he stepped out of a boardroom wet dream? Careful, Harrington. People might think you're going soft."

His lips twitched. Not quite a smile. He crossed the room in that measured way of his, close enough that I caught the faint trace of his cologne mixed with rain.

The music from the charity gala downstairs filtered up through the floor—strings and low chatter from the event he'd dragged me to after those two insistent texts. I'd shown up ready to demand answers about the jacket. Instead we'd ended up here, on the edge of something I couldn't name.

He offered his hand, palm up. "Dance with me."

It wasn't a request. I set my champagne flute on the side table, the click loud in the quiet space between us. His fingers closed around mine, warm and sure, pulling me into a slow sway right there in the middle of his living room.

One hand settled at the small of my back, the other holding mine in a grip that felt both possessive and careful. We moved together, his steps confident where mine faltered once. I stepped on his toe.

"Sorry," I muttered, cheeks heating. "Journalist feet. Not built for this."

He drew me closer instead, breath brushing my temple. "I'd let you stomp on both if it meant keeping you here." His voice dropped. "Though I'd prefer you in my bed again."

My pulse kicked hard. The memory of last night—his sheets, his mouth on my neck—hit like a wave. I could feel the steady thump of his heart under my palm where it rested on his chest. Too close. Too real.

"About last night," I started, voice barely above the music drifting up from below. "We should probably talk about what happened."

His hand tightened on my back, fingers spreading wider. "Should we? Or should we admit that talking is the last thing either of us wants?"

I tilted my head to meet his eyes. Those dark depths held every secret I was chasing, even as my body leaned into his heat. My fingers itched for the Zippo in my clutch, but I kept them still.

My free hand slipped into the small bag. The cufflink felt cool against my fingertips—the one I'd grabbed from his nightstand that morning while he'd been in the shower, silver with a subtle H engraved on it. I pulled it out between us like a question mark.

"Lose something?"

His steps didn't falter, but I caught the way his shoulders tightened just a fraction. Those eyes flicked to the cufflink, then back to my face. Too controlled. No surprise. No denial.

"You have quick hands, Estelle." He spun me gently, then pulled me back in, closer than before. "Though I prefer when they're on me rather than in my things."

My heart hammered against my ribs. "This was in your bedroom. Next to where I found that jacket with the stain. Care to explain?"

He didn't answer right away. Instead his thumb traced a slow circle on my back, right over the silk. The touch sent sparks racing down my spine. We kept swaying, but the air between us had thickened, heavy with everything we weren't saying.

"Some things aren't meant for public discussion," he murmured, lips brushing my ear. "Especially not with half the city's elite downstairs."

I swallowed hard. The cufflink dug into my palm as I closed my fist around it. Part of me wanted to shove it in his face and demand the truth about the blood, the murders, the way his name kept surfacing in my notes. The other part wanted to forget the whole damn thing and just feel his hands on me.

"Then let's go somewhere more private," I said, steadier than I felt. "Your office. Now."

He studied me for a long moment, that perfect stillness settling over him. Then he nodded once, releasing me from the dance but keeping my hand in his. We slipped out of the penthouse and down a private corridor, his grip firm as he guided me toward the discreet door at the end.

The office smelled like leather and him. A massive desk took up one wall, bookshelves lined with first editions. I wandered toward them, running my fingers along the spines while my pulse refused to settle.

Griffin leaned against the closed door, watching. He straightened his cuffs once, the motion precise. That tell hit me square in the chest.

"You shouldn't have come back," he said quietly. But his eyes tracked my every move, dark and hungry.

I turned to face him, clutch still tight in one hand. "You texted me. Twice. Don't pretend this wasn't exactly what you wanted."

He pushed off the door and closed the distance in two strides. Suddenly he was right there, crowding me against the bookshelf without quite touching. The heat rolling off him made my breath go shallow.

"I wanted you to be smart enough to stay away," he admitted, voice low. One hand came up, brushing that escaped curl behind my ear. His fingers lingered on my jaw. "But you didn't. And now..."

His thumb traced my lower lip, slow and deliberate. My mouth parted on a shaky exhale. The pull between us felt inevitable, like the tide dragging me under.

I rose up and kissed him first. The response was immediate, a low sound in his throat as he backed me fully against the shelves. His hands framed my face, then slid down to my waist, pulling me flush against him.

The kiss went deep and urgent, weeks of suspicion and nights of want crashing together. Books rattled behind me. My fingers tangled in his hair, ruining that perfect style, while his grip tightened on my hips like he was afraid I'd vanish.

Griffin pulled back just enough to look at me, eyes darker than I'd ever seen them. "Tell me to stop," he said, echoing his words from last night. But his hands kept moving, sliding up my sides, thumbs brushing along my ribs in a way that made my thoughts scatter.

I couldn't. The words stuck in my throat, tangled with questions too dangerous to voice. Instead I pulled him back down, losing myself in the heat of his mouth and the solid press of his body against mine.

We broke apart when breathing became necessary, foreheads pressed together. Our breaths synced up, ragged and uneven. I could feel his heart racing under my palm where it had landed on his chest again.

"What are we doing?" I whispered, fingers trembling as I straightened his bow tie. A useless gesture.

Griffin's hand cupped my cheek, surprisingly gentle. "Something we both know we shouldn't." His thumb stroked my flushed skin. "But can't seem to quit."

I searched his face for any crack in that control. The cufflink dug into my other hand, a sharp reminder of why I'd really come. Evidence. Proof. But standing this close, the lines blurred until I couldn't tell where the story ended and I began.

"The inspector," I started, voice small in the quiet office. "The one with CLEANSE carved in his chest. Your properties were connected to his bribes. I need to know..."

His expression shifted. Not anger. Something deeper, a flicker of conflict that made my stomach twist. He straightened his cuffs again, the gesture sharp.

Before he could answer, the door handle rattled.

We sprang apart. I smoothed my dress down, wiping at my smudged lipstick with the back of my hand. Griffin adjusted his jacket, that perfect mask sliding back into place in seconds.

The door opened. Lila Kensington stepped in, platinum bob swinging like a blade. Her power suit was impeccable, eyes cold as they took in the scene.

"Griffin, darling." Her voice stayed clipped and professional, but the jealousy underneath cut sharp. "The board is looking for you. Something about the waterfront development speech."

Her gaze landed on me, narrowing. "And you are?"

"Estelle Tremaine," I said, lifting my chin. "Press."

Lila's lips thinned. She twirled a Cartier pen between her fingers, the motion precise. "Of course. The one who's been asking all those inconvenient questions."

Griffin stepped between us smoothly. "Lila, give us a moment."

She didn't move right away. Her eyes flicked from his messy hair to my flushed cheeks, calculating. The jealousy in the room felt like a third person.

"Don't be long," she said finally, turning on her heel. The door clicked shut behind her.

I let out a breath, hands shaking as I tucked the cufflink back into my clutch. The heat between us had cooled into something fragile and sharp.

Griffin turned to me, expression unreadable. "This conversation isn't over, Estelle."

"No," I agreed, meeting his eyes. "It isn't. But next time, maybe without the audience."

I headed for the door before he could reach for me again. My skin still tingled where he'd touched me, my lips still tasted like him. The moral compass I used to trust was spinning, no true north in sight.

"I should go," I said, boots too loud on the carpet.

He didn't stop me. Just watched with those eyes that saw too much. "Be careful out there. Some truths have teeth."

The warning followed me back through the gala's noise and lights. I wove through laughing socialites who had no idea what kind of darkness moved among them, then slipped outside into the coastal rain.

My phone buzzed before I could call a cab. Marcus's name flashed on the screen.

I answered, huddling under the awning as rain dripped onto my shoulder. "Hey. What's up? I'm kind of in the middle of—"

"Kid." His voice was gruff, edged with worry. "You need to hear this. Police just confirmed the latest victim. That inspector? He wasn't just taking bribes from Harrington developers. He was about to blow the whole thing wide open."

I leaned against the wet brick, cold seeping through my thin dress. "And?"

Marcus paused. I could hear the crinkle of a protein bar wrapper.

"They found something at the scene. A lighter. Silver. Old. Exact match to the one you carry, same scratches on the side. They're running prints now."

My blood turned to ice. The Zippo felt heavy in my grip, Dad's legacy suddenly tying me to a murder scene. My mind reeled, flashing back to Griffin's controlled reaction, to Lila's jealous stare, to the way my body still hummed from his touch.

"Kid? You there? This is bad. Really bad. You need to come in. Now."

I stared out at the rain-drenched street, high-rises blurring into shadows. Griffin was probably upstairs smoothing things over with Lila, straightening those damn cuffs. And here I was, caught between the man who'd made me feel alive and evidence that might destroy us both.

My thumb flicked the lighter open. The flame danced in the downpour, small and defiant.

"Yeah," I whispered, throat tight. "I'm on my way."

The cab pulled up, headlights cutting through the rain. I climbed in, leather seat cold against my legs. Through the window I caught a glimpse of Griffin on the balcony above, watching the street like he could sense me leaving.

Our eyes met across the distance. That pull tugged at me, dangerous and magnetic.

I looked away first. But the damage was done. The noose of secrets was tightening, and I wasn't sure if I wanted it to snap or keep holding me close to him.