Zade woke up with a weight on his chest—not metaphorical, for once, but a real, heavy headache that pulsed between his eyes like a drumbeat.
Whiskey.
Not much, but enough. Just enough to dull his senses last night and leave him blinking against the morning sunlight pouring in from the corner windows.
He sat up slowly on the couch in his bedroom, running a hand through his hair. The blanket slid off his shoulders.
Blanket?
Zade stared at it, confused for a second, then realization hit. It smelled faintly like lavender and whiskey. Alex’s scent. Her doing.
His chest twitched with something unfamiliar.
A breath escaped his lips, and before he could stop himself, the corner of his mouth tugged upward. A smile—not smug, not cruel, but soft—threatened to form. He exhaled quickly and stood up, pushing the blanket aside.
No time for that.
The room was quiet, and Alex wasn’t there. The bed sat untouched except for the rumpled sheets. He glanced at the clock on the wall—well past seven. Typical. She’d probably gotten up at dawn, thrown herself into some to-do list, and vanished before he could say anything about last night.
Maybe that was for the best.
Zade headed downstairs.
In the kitchen, the smell of brewing coffee met him before anything else. He stepped into the room to find Andrea already there, barefoot, hair a mess, stirring sugar into a mug like it owed him money.
Zade didn’t speak.
Neither did Andrea—at first.
Then, just as Zade reached for a clean cup, his brother raised an eyebrow. “Rough night?”
Zade ignored him and poured his coffee.
Andrea chuckled under his breath and grabbed his mug. “You didn’t answer, which means yes.”
Zade finally glanced at him. There were dark circles under Andrea’s eyes. His skin looked paler than usual, and he had the twitchy energy of someone who hadn’t slept at all.
Zade narrowed his eyes but didn’t ask. Andrea would lie anyway.
Instead, he took his coffee and leaned back against the counter, reaching into his pocket for his phone. A habit.
The screen lit up with the last open chat—Alex.
Her name stared back at him like a dare.
His thumb hovered over the keyboard. He should say something. Should clarify. Should maybe even apologize. Or ask what the hell last night was about. Or thank her for the blanket. Or—
He dropped the phone facedown on the counter and let out a sharp breath.
What was there to say?
That he remembered the kiss? That it hadn’t left his head all night? That her fingers on his face, her lips on his, her voice begging him not to leave, had stuck like honey in his brain?
That it was messing with everything?
Zade stared into his coffee and swore quietly.
Nothing was going to plan.
He didn’t like this feeling. This blur between personal and professional. Between the mission and whatever the hell was happening between them. He liked to be precise. Efficient. In control.
But now?
Now, Alexandra Steel had kissed him and held his hand and told him not to leave—and he liked it.
God help him, he liked it.
He turned off his phone and left the kitchen.
He didn’t get far before Simon appeared at the end of the hall.
Their father looked as composed as ever—coat on, suitcase in hand, eyes sharp. But there was something rigid in the way he stood. Like he was waiting for this moment.
“Zade,” Simon said, cool and clipped. “I was hoping I’d get to see you before I left.”
Zade stood straighter, pulse rising slightly. “Didn’t know you were heading out today.”
Simon nodded once. “Flight to Brussels in two hours. But before that—I have a question.”
Zade tensed.
Simon continued, “Someone accessed the archive last night.”
Zade blinked. “Wasn’t me.”
“No?” Simon’s eyes narrowed. “Then it was Andrea.”
Zade’s jaw clenched.
Simon stepped closer. “You know how I feel about him poking around in things he doesn’t understand. Last time he touched the ledgers, we had to clean up a two-week mess with the Saudi client.”
Zade didn’t reply.
“I want you to check the records. Personally,” Simon said. “Make sure nothing’s been touched or taken.”
Zade gave a silent nod.
Simon lingered a moment longer, his voice dropping. “And—how are things with Miss Steel?”
There it was.
The real reason behind the conversation.
Zade kept his face blank. “Going according to plan.”
A lie.
Nothing was going to plan. Not anymore.
Simon gave him a long, unreadable look, then turned on his heel and walked away.
Zade didn’t move for a second. He stared at the empty hallway, then headed downstairs to the restricted archive level.
The room was cold, silent. The shelves towered above him like old giants, lined with boxes and black folders full of confidential contracts, backdoor deals, and decades of Hales’ blood-slicked legacy.
He walked the aisles slowly, checking that everything was where it should be. File codes aligned. Cabinets locked.
Then, near the far corner of the room, something caught his eye.
A book.
On the floor.
Zade crouched and picked it up, frowning.
He opened it.
Inside were records. Shipment logs. Disguised invoices. Names of shell companies. And clear, undeniable documentation that the Hale family had been selling restricted weaponry across borders, through illegal channels, for over a decade.
Zade went still.
This wasn’t just incriminating.
This was a ticking bomb.
Andrea? No. He would’ve taken it and locked it up in his room—or burned it for fun. But left on the floor, forgotten like this? No, that wasn’t his style.
And then it hit him.
Last night.
Alex’s sudden call.
The bar.
The stalling.
The hand-holding.
The kiss.
The exact twenty minutes she begged him not to leave.
It hadn’t been emotional chaos.
It had been a tactical distraction.
Zade stood there, holding the book, and instead of fury, something else bubbled up.
A slow, reluctant grin.
Then a soft laugh.
“Alex, Alex…” he muttered, shaking his head as he snapped the book closed. “Clever girl.”
And somehow, that didn’t make him angry.
It made him intrigued.
Deeply, dangerously intrigued.