Chapter 5: Velvet Lies and Paper Cuts

The Harrington Tower lobby gleamed under cold lights, marble and steel throwing my reflection back at me from every angle. My leather jacket still carried a faint trace of Griffin's cologne from the warehouse kiss last night, mixed now with the metallic tang of fear that had followed me since I found my apartment door ajar.

I flicked Dad's Zippo open and shut in my pocket, the click-click a small anchor against the way my hands wouldn't stop shaking. The replica lighter and that note still sat on my nightstand like a warning I couldn't ignore. Confronting Lila felt like the only move left that didn't end with me hiding under my covers.

Rain drummed against the glass outside, the kind that never really stopped in this city. My boots left wet prints as I marched to the elevators, pretending I belonged here. The break-in had changed everything. Griffin's touch, his warning, the way he'd kissed me like he was deciding whether to keep me or end me. It all felt immediate now. Personal.

The executive floor smelled like expensive coffee and sharper edges. The receptionist took one look at my damp curls and practical boots, then arched a perfect brow.

"Ms. Kensington is expecting you?"

"She will be," I said, flashing the smile that usually worked on beat cops. It didn't land. She murmured into her phone anyway while I tried not to stare at the security camera that swiveled my way like it knew my secrets.

Lila appeared a minute later, platinum bob sharp as a blade, power suit tailored like armor. No smile. Her fingers twirled that Cartier pen in tight circles, a tell I was learning to read.

"Estelle Tremaine. What an unexpected pleasure." Her voice could cool coffee at twenty paces. "My office. Now. Before you track harbor muck across my carpet."

I followed her down the hall, heels clicking military-precise while my boots squeaked. The abstract art on the walls probably cost more than my rent for a year. Her office overlooked the rain-slicked waterfront, cranes rising like bones against the gray sky.

She closed the door with a soft click that felt final, then perched on the edge of her glass desk, legs crossed.

"Let's skip the part where you pretend this is about waterfront permits," she said, pen twirling faster. "We both know why you're here. Griffin."

Heat crawled up my neck. I tucked a curl behind my ear, buying time. The replica lighter in my bag felt like it weighed fifty pounds. Both lighters mocked me now, real and fake, father and monster.

"I'm investigating a series of murders," I said, keeping my voice even. "Ones that seem to benefit Harrington Enterprises. The inspector. The bribes. The usual cheerful topics."

Lila's laugh cracked like thin ice. She set the pen down with deliberate care. "And yet you keep ending up in his bed. Or his office. Or wherever he decides to indulge this little... distraction."

My pulse jumped. The gala interruption. The warehouse kiss that still burned on my skin. I straightened, refusing to reach for my press pass even though my fingers itched for it.

"My personal life isn't your business."

"It became my business when you started poking around things that could ruin us." She leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Stay away from him, Estelle. From all of us. Or I'll make sure every editor in this city hears exactly what kind of journalist you really are."

The threat landed solid. Marcus's face flashed in my mind, that gruff worry in his eyes when he told me to drop this story. I swallowed hard, throat tight.

"You don't know me," I said. The words came out quieter than I meant.

"I know enough." Lila stood, smoothing her skirt. Her hands stayed steady. Mine didn't. "Women like you burn bright and leave ash. Griffin needs steel. Go home before you get exactly what you're chasing."

I left without another word, cheeks hot, the elevator dropping fast enough to make my stomach flip. Rain streaked the glass walls. My reflection looked back at me, curls frizzing, eyes too wide. Like a woman who'd already lost her grip.

Outside I ducked into a corner café, stole a sugar packet out of pure habit. The coffee burned my tongue but the small ritual helped steady me. Sort of. I clicked the Zippo open, watched the flame dance in the damp air, then snapped it shut.

My phone buzzed. Griffin. The text was simple: Penthouse. Tonight. We need to talk. No commands. No flirtation. Just that measured tone that made my skin prickle with equal parts dread and want.

I should have deleted it. Instead I typed back one word.

Fine.

The cab ride blurred past rain-streaked streets while I wondered when I'd become the kind of woman who ran toward the monster instead of away.

---

The penthouse door opened before I could knock, like he'd been waiting. Griffin stood there in a charcoal sweater and slacks, sleeves pushed up to reveal those forearms that still short-circuited my brain. No suit tonight. The casual look made him look more dangerous, like the polished mask had slipped.

"Estelle." His voice wrapped around my name, smooth but with something raw underneath. Dark eyes scanned me, catching the flush I hadn't shaken from Lila's office. "You look like you've had a day."

I stepped inside. The door clicked shut with soft finality. The space felt different now, less playground and more cage I'd chosen to enter. Rain lashed the windows, smearing the city lights into jeweled streaks. His first-edition books lined the shelves, spines gleaming under low light.

I kept distance by the kitchen island, fingers finding the Zippo again. Click. Snap. "Your vice president made it clear I'm not welcome in your world. Threatened to ruin me if I don't stay away."

His fingers twitched toward his sleeves even though the sweater had none. The tell was sharper tonight. My stomach tightened at the sight.

"Lila oversteps," he said quietly. He poured one glass of whiskey, then stopped himself, setting the bottle down with careful control. "She sees threats everywhere. Especially ones that look like you."

I didn't take a drink. Didn't move closer. The replica lighter in my bag burned between us like an accusation I couldn't voice yet.

"This has to stop, Griffin." The words came out steadier than I felt. "Whatever this is. The warnings. The gifts on my counter. The way you kissed me last night like you were measuring my throat for a blade. I'm not built for it. And I'm almost sure you're the one leaving CLEANSE on bodies."

He went still in that predatory way, the one that thinned the air. Rain drummed against glass. My heartbeat filled my ears. For a long moment he said nothing, just watched me with those eyes that saw too much.

His control frayed at the edges. I saw it in the way his shoulders tensed, the minute straightening of his already-straight posture. When he finally spoke, the words came clipped, like each one cost him.

"You think you understand what I am." He crossed the space between us in three measured steps, close enough that I felt the warmth coming off him. "But you keep coming back. Even after the break-in. Even after I told you to run. Why, Estelle?"

My breath caught. His hand rose, not quite touching, hovering near my jaw like he couldn't decide whether to pull me in or push me away for good. Heat followed the almost-contact, pooling low despite every alarm in my head.

"Because I'm an idiot," I whispered. My hands moved without permission, resting against his chest, feeling the too-steady beat there. "And because when you look at me like that I forget what I'm supposed to be chasing."

The confession felt ugly and true. His eyes darkened, pupils wide. For once the perfect control looked cracked, like my words had slipped past every barrier he'd built. His fingers finally brushed my throat, tracing the line with devastating care. Warmth spread from that single point of contact, making my pulse jump against his thumb.

"You make me want things I can't have," he said, voice rougher than I'd ever heard it. The cultured accent frayed at the edges, revealing something hungrier and more desperate underneath. "Peace. A life without the constant need to fix what others break. But you see too much. You make the need louder."

I rose up and kissed him before better sense could stop me. He met me with a hunger that felt raw this time, less calculated and more like surrender. His hands slid into my curls, tugging gently to tilt my head as the kiss deepened. Warmth flooded everywhere we touched, skin heating under clothes, breath mingling hot and fast.

We didn't make it to the bedroom. The leather couch caught us instead, a tangle of limbs and desperate hands. His sweater hit the floor. My jacket followed. Each brush of skin against skin pulled a soft sound from one of us, building that slow, aching tension until it felt like the air itself might ignite.

His mouth found my throat, breath hot and uneven against my pulse. I felt his heartbeat finally racing to match mine, the steady control giving way to something more human. More terrifying. In that moment I knew I'd burn every principle for this, for the way he made the world narrow to just us, just this fragile connection that might destroy us both.

Afterward we stayed tangled there, his arm heavy across my waist, my head on his chest listening to his heart gradually slow. Rain drummed on. His fingers traced lazy circles on my bare shoulder, but the quiet felt breakable. Like one wrong word could shatter everything.

I should have left. Instead I listened to him breathe, feeling safe and terrified in the same heartbeat. My press pass lay on the coffee table like a silent accusation.

"My father," I said quietly into the dark. The words slipped out before I could cage them. "You said you knew him. What did you mean?"

Griffin's hand stilled. His pulse jumped under my cheek. The silence stretched, tight as wire. When he spoke again his voice had gone clinical, colder, like he was fighting to pull the walls back up.

"He asked the wrong questions about the wrong people." Each word seemed to cost him. His fingers twitched again, the compulsion bleeding through. "Much like his daughter. The difference is... I didn't want to silence you. Not at first."

Ice slid down my spine. I sat up slowly, sheet clutched to my chest, suddenly aware of how exposed I was. "What are you saying, Griffin?"

He reached for me but stopped himself, hand dropping to the couch. The twitch toward his sleeves returned, sharper. I watched the fracture happen in real time, his careful mask cracking under the weight of whatever war he was losing inside.

"I'm saying some doors only open once," he murmured, echoing the note from my apartment. His eyes held mine, dark and conflicted in a way that looked painful. "And you've kicked yours wide open. I don't know if I can close it without... without doing what I do best."

The admission hung there, ugly and honest. My stomach churned with fear and something worse, understanding. The part of me that had lost everything to unanswered questions recognized the monster. And still wanted the man.

I slid off the couch, gathering clothes with shaking hands. He watched me dress, that stillness returning but fractured now. When I reached for my jacket he stood too, crossing to block the door. Our bare shoulders brushed, sending an unwanted spark through me.

"Estelle. Wait."

I met his gaze, heart hammering. "Tell me you didn't kill him. My father. Look me in the eye and say it."

His jaw tightened. The words seemed to scrape out of him. "I didn't. But I know who did. And why. The need... it doesn't stop just because I want it to. Especially not when you make me feel this much."

The confession broke something in my chest. I wanted to scream. To hit him. To pull him close and pretend none of it was real. Instead I pushed past, skin still carrying his scent, his warmth, the memory of how perfectly we'd fit.

At the front door I paused, hand on the knob. He hadn't followed. Part of me wished he had.

"This was supposed to be the end," I said without turning. My voice came out small. "I came here to walk away from you."

His reply drifted from the living room, low and rough. "We both know that's a lie. The question is how many more lies we'll tell before one of us ends up broken. Or dead."

I stepped into the hallway, the door clicking shut like a period on a sentence neither of us believed. The elevator dropped in silence. My reflection mocked me from every surface, flushed skin and kiss-swollen lips and eyes that had seen too much and still wanted more.

My phone buzzed as I hit the lobby. Marcus. A missed call, then a text that stopped my blood cold.

Kid, call me. New body dropped tonight. Alley off the waterfront. Arranged just like the others... but this one's got your press pass pinned to his chest like a fucking name tag. Police are looking for you. What the hell is going on?

I stared until the words blurred. The replica lighter in my bag suddenly felt heavier. Griffin hadn't followed me. Hadn't stopped me. But the timing of that text, the deliberate placement of my stolen pass while we'd been together...

The elevator doors opened to the empty lobby. Rain streaked the glass, turning the world into neon blur. My pulse roared as I stepped forward, one hand clutching the phone, the other finding the Zippo.

Click. Snap. The flame jumped, small and defiant.

I didn't know if I was walking toward answers or my own grave. But as I pushed through the revolving door into the storm, I realized with sick certainty that either way, I'd be doing it with Griffin's taste still on my lips and his warnings echoing in my bones.

The noose had just gotten tighter. And God help me, I wasn't sure I wanted to slip free anymore.