Chapter Three

Mr. Clark’s instructions arrived by internal email, copied to the entire Investigations department. The final line was plain:

“...Given the significance of this exclusive interview and to ensure flawless execution, Evelyn Ross will assist Scarlett Conti with background research and on-site coordination.”

Sophia practically teleported to my desk as soon as she saw it. She yanked me into the break room and shut the door.

“How can he do this?” she hissed, fury tight in her voice. “‘Assist’? That’s humiliation. Those dock leads that almost got us killed, the threats, the scar on your forehead that still hasn’t faded—everything you did was building to this. And now the parachute hire picks the fruit, and you’re supposed to be her assistant?”

I looked at Sophia’s eyes, bright with anger, and some of the cold knot inside me loosened. I patted her arm. “Calm down, Sophia. At least it means my work still matters. They need my ‘experience.’” I tried to sound lighter. “And if we’re being optimistic, it proves I’m not out—I’m still at the table. More importantly,” I said, meeting her gaze, “it shows me who my real friends are. In this building, that’s rarer than a title.”

Sophia glared at me, then finally sighed, shoulders sagging. “You’re always like this, Eve. But I’m watching her. I swear.”

On interview day, my role was “on-site coordination.” Which meant checking the equipment list, confirming procedures with the club, arranging waiting zones for other media—every important edge task. I moved like a ghost in the shadow of a glossy stage.

The interview was held at *Oak Heart*, a private club on a downtown top floor, entry by special invitation only—widely known to be closely tied to the Moretti family. The interior was heavy dark wood, low crystal chandeliers, velvet drapes; the air smelled of cigars, leather, and power.

I checked the audio recorders and cameras in the interview area ahead of time, then retreated to the side corridor—close enough to observe everything without standing inside the spotlight.

Soon, Vincent arrived. A perfectly tailored charcoal suit, moving through space like a quiet current, two silent escorts behind him. His gaze swept the room out of habit—quick, efficient—and when it passed the shadow where I stood, it didn’t pause at all.

Scarlett came right after. She wore an ivory suit today, her blond hair pinned up with careful precision—professional, luminous. A calm smile sat on her face.

“Vinnie, is the lighting and angle okay over here?” she asked, stepping forward with easy familiarity.

Vincent gave a slight nod. His low voice carried clearly in the quiet room. “It’s fine, Cara. Let’s begin.”

Cara. That intimate old nickname.

I leaned against the cold wall and felt the word turn into a tiny ice splinter.

A few reporters from other outlets gathered not far away, their whispers drifting over.

“...Did you hear that? ‘Cara.’ They’re definitely not just ‘acquainted’…”

“Isn’t Moretti already married? This Miss Conti…”

“With people like that, what’s surprising…”

The buzzing annoyed me like mosquitoes. I turned toward the small group. My voice wasn’t loud, but it was clear—and cold. “If you want to walk out of *Oak Heart* with your recording equipment intact, I suggest you put your curiosity somewhere more useful. Spreading unverified rumors here”—I paused, letting my gaze skim their suddenly embarrassed faces—“especially about certain ‘families,’ is rarely smart.”

They shut up immediately and dispersed.

The interview itself was formal and dull. When the prearranged questions ended, Scarlett motioned for the camera to stop, then stood and offered her hand. “Thank you again, Mr. Moretti. This interview is invaluable.”

Vincent shook her hand. And at that moment, a young photographer on the outer edge—maybe too eager to seize a chance—suddenly raised his voice.

“Mr. Moretti, sorry to interrupt! Are you and Miss Conti old friends? You seem to work together with incredible chemistry today!”

The air seemed to freeze. People who had been preparing to leave paused mid-motion.

Vincent turned to the questioner. His expression barely changed. His gaze seemed to flick—extremely fast—past the corner where I stood, or maybe it didn’t. Then he answered in that steady, unquestionable voice:

“Miss Scarlett Conti is someone important from my youth.”

Someone important.

The phrase sent a suppressed, knowing ripple through the room. I saw Scarlett’s smile deepen by a fraction.

“Let’s go.”

I picked up the now-empty equipment case and murmured to Sophia.

“This show isn’t for us.”