Chapter 3

"You're persistent, Ms. Monroe," he said without turning around. "I like that."

Elena paused in the doorway, her instincts immediately on edge. The last time they'd met, he'd been distant yet controlled, as though he wanted to hold her at arm's length. But today? There was something different. A tension in the air, a deliberate intimacy in how he'd arranged this meeting.

"Persistence is part of the job," she replied, stepping into the room. She let her eyes scan the space, cataloging every detail: the minimalist artwork, the lack of clutter on his desk, the faint scent of cedar and leather. This wasn't just an office; it was a statement.

Nick turned then, his piercing blue eyes locking onto hers. For a moment, neither of them spoke. His gaze wasn't just looking at her-it was dissecting her, peeling back layers she hadn't even known she was wearing.

"Coffee?" he asked, gesturing toward a side table where a silver carafe and two porcelain cups sat waiting.

Elena shook her head, her voice steady. "No, thank you. I wasn't aware we had another meeting scheduled."

"We didn't," he said, taking a seat behind his desk. "But I assumed you'd be back. Ambitious women like you don't walk away from challenges."

Elena moved to the chair opposite him, her spine straight and her expression neutral. "And men like you don't leave much to chance. So, why did you really bring me here?"

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Straight to the point. I respect that. The truth is, Ms. Monroe, I'm curious about you. Most journalists come at me with the same tired questions, trying to trap me in soundbites. But you..." He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the desk. "You're different. I can see it in the way you watch me, the way you choose your words. You're not just writing a profile-you're looking for something."

Elena's pulse quickened, but she didn't let it show. "I'm doing my job, Mr. Hastings. If that makes me different, then maybe you've been dealing with the wrong reporters."

Nick chuckled, a low, warm sound that somehow made her more uneasy. "Maybe. Or maybe you're just better at hiding your intentions."

Elena felt the heat of his gaze, sharp and unyielding, and she knew this was another one of his games. He wanted her to flinch, to give something away. Instead, she met his stare head-on.

"My intentions aren't hidden," she said. "I'm here to understand you-your business, your methods, your story. That's what my readers want."

"And what do you want, Ms. Monroe?" he asked softly.

The question threw her for a second. It was too personal, too direct. But she recovered quickly. "I want the truth. Isn't that what everyone wants?"

"Truth is overrated," Nick said, leaning back in his chair. "People don't want the truth-they want a story they can believe in. Something that fits their narrative. But you know that already, don't you?"

Elena tilted her head, studying him. "And what narrative are you trying to sell me, Mr. Hastings?"

He smirked. "That's the beauty of it-I don't have to sell anything. People will believe whatever they want about me. Ruthless billionaire. Visionary leader. Villain. Hero. The truth doesn't matter when perception is king."

For a moment, Elena felt a flicker of doubt. Was she in over her head? Nick Hastings wasn't just a man; he was a force, a storm disguised as a human being. But she shook off the thought. She had faced powerful people before, and she wasn't about to let him intimidate her.

"Perception may be king," she said, "but facts still matter. And I have a feeling there are plenty of facts about you that haven't come to light yet."

Nick's expression didn't change, but she saw the faintest flicker of something-amusement, maybe, or intrigue.

"Careful, Ms. Monroe," he said, his voice low. "You might not like what you find."

By the time Elena left Hastings International, her head was spinning. Nick's words lingered, cryptic and unsettling. He was daring her to dig deeper, but she couldn't tell if it was a challenge or a warning.

As she walked down the street, she pulled out her phone and called one of her most trusted sources, a data analyst who had a knack for uncovering hidden financial trails.

"Eric," she said when he picked up. "I need you to run a background check on Nicholas Hastings. Everything you can find-business dealings, offshore accounts, lawsuits, the works."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "That's a tall order, Elena. Hastings is like Fort Knox. But I'll see what I can do."

"Good. And Eric?"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful. Someone's already watching me."

Another pause, longer this time. "Got it. I'll be in touch."

She ended the call and slipped her phone back into her pocket. Her instincts told her she was circling something big, but the closer she got, the more dangerous it felt.

As she turned the corner toward the subway, a black car parked across the street caught her eye. The windows were tinted, the engine idling. She quickened her pace, her heart pounding in her chest. Was she being paranoid? Or was someone really watching her?

By the time she reached her apartment, her nerves were frayed. She locked the door behind her, double-checking it before leaning against the wall.

She had chosen this life-digging into the secrets of the powerful, exposing their truths. But for the first time, she wondered if she was ready for what she might uncover. And worse, what it might cost her.