A Deadly Game of Trust and the black surveillance van reeked of stale coffee and Alexander's barely contained fury. Isabella shivered as the technician adjusted the microphone taped just below her collarbone, his latex-gloved fingers brushing against the lace edge of her bra.
This is unnecessary, she hissed, pulling her blazer tighter around herself. The van's single overhead light flickered, casting long shadows across Alexander's face as he loomed over her.
Reeves doesn't invite assistants to The Vault for their sparkling conversation. His voice was a velvet-covered blade as he fastened a diamond tennis bracelet around her wrist the transmitter hidden among genuine stones. He wants leverage against me. And you're going to give it to him.
Isabella yanked her arm back, the bracelet catching the light. So now I'm bait in your corporate pissing contest?
Alexander's hand shot out, gripping her chin. You became bait the moment you corrected me in that boardroom. His thumb traced her bottom lip, the touch deceptively gentle. The only question is whose trap will you spring tonight?
The technician cleared his throat. We're live in three minutes, Mr. Sterling.
Outside, rain began pelting the van's roof like gunfire.
The Vault's private dining room was a study in old-world opulence—crystal chandeliers, blood-red velvet drapes, and the cloying scent of white truffles and deception. Reeves stood too close as he poured her a glass of '47 Château Lafite, his pinky ring glinting in the candlelight.
Alexander's greatest weakness is his inability to trust, the CFO murmured, his breath warm against her ear as he pushed in her chair. But you...you're different.
Isabella forced herself not to recoil as his hand lingered on her shoulder. How so?
Reeves smiled, revealing teeth too perfect to be real. You're the first person in ten years who's made him lose control in front of the board. He slid a manila envelope across the table. Sign tonight, and I'll ensure you never have to see Anchorage.
Inside was a $5 million severance agreement and photos of Claire, Alexander's previous assistant, boarding a plane to Alaska with a black eye.
Through her earpiece, Alexander's voice turned feral: Don't touch that envelope.
Reeves leaned in. Did he tell you what happened to Claire when she tried to wear a wire?
The transmitter burned against Isabella's skin.
Isabella's chair screeched as she bolted for the restroom. She barely locked the stall before ripping open her blouse to claw at the wire the bathroom door burst open. Reeves' Italian loafers appeared beneath the stall door. Leaving so soon, Ms. Monroe?
Her fingers found the bracelet. With one sharp jerk, she smashed it against the marble sink.
Static exploded in her ear then Alexander's voice, distorted but urgent:
ISABELLA, HE'S ARMED. THE SAFEWORD IS 'RUBY'
The stall door rattled. Reeves' voice turned singsong. Claire screamed that word too, you know.
The restaurant's fire alarm shrieked to life. Reeves cursed as blue lights flooded the bathroom the door exploded inward.
Alexander stood framed in the doorway, his Brioni suit jacket gone, shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with tension. In his hand: a black handgun leveled at Reeves' chest.
You have three seconds to show me your hands. His voice was colder than the rain lashing the windows.
Isabella watched as Reeves slowly reached into his jacket And pulled out a phone playing a recording: Terminate the Claire situation. Permanently. Alexander's voice.
The gun didn't waver. I never gave that order.
Then the NYPD swarmed in.