Chapter 9
Emily Windsor's POV
So Luke owned Nightingale.
The realization hit like a lightning strike, shattering every carefully constructed defense I'd built.
Under the penetrating gaze of those ice-blue eyes, my composure crumbled.
I'd walked in thinking I was the hunter stalking into enemy territory—only to realize I'd been caught in his web from the very beginning. Every step calculated. Every move anticipated.
"Mr. Reed," I forced myself steady, nails digging into my palms hard enough to ground me. I crossed to the sofa opposite him, deliberately keeping distance between us, meeting his appraising stare head-on. "You've built quite the empire."
Luke's lips curved into an amused smirk. He set down his whiskey glass and picked up his phone from the coffee table, the screen illuminating his angular features.
His long fingers swiped across the display with casual ease before turning it toward me, voice carrying an edge of ice. "Miss Windsor, I think you have the wrong impression."
My breath caught.
On the screen: my phone's contact list—specifically the "Recently Deleted" folder. His name stared back at me.
My heart seized, blood turning to ice in my veins.
How did he know?
His people weren't just following me—they'd hacked my phone?
A bone-deep chill crawled up my spine.
"Mr. Reed," I said evenly, surprised by how steady my voice remained, "I'm afraid I don't understand. We're hardly close enough to exchange contact information."
"Is that so?" Luke's low chuckle was velvet over steel—the sound of a predator toying with its prey. He pocketed the phone and leaned forward, his presence engulfing the space between us.
"Miss Windsor," he murmured, voice dropping to something darker, more intimate, "how quickly you forget. That night, you seemed quite... satisfied with my services." His pause was deliberate. "Yet you left without paying. For such a meticulous lawyer, that's rather sloppy, wouldn't you say?"
Services? Payment?
He'd reduced that night—that loss of control—to a transaction.
Fury flared hot in my chest, but I couldn't afford to lose my temper. Not with someone like Luke. Any crack in my composure would become ammunition.
I drew a slow breath, pulled my checkbook and pen from my clutch, and placed them on the table with deliberate calm, sliding them toward him.
"Name your price, Mr. Reed." I met his gaze, my expression carved from ice. "I don't haggle."
Something flickered in those blue eyes—surprise, maybe. Interest.
His gaze dropped to my hand gripping the pen, knuckles bone-white, betraying the turmoil I was fighting to contain.
"Miss Windsor," Luke drawled, settling back into his languid sprawl, "you misunderstand. I'm not interested in money."
His eyes traveled slowly upward, finally locking onto my face with blatant, possessive intensity. "What I want from you... you may not be willing to give."
"If it's not about money, then why the theatrics?" I withdrew the checkbook, my tone sharp with guarded suspicion. "If this was just to mock me for deleting your number, congratulations. Mission accomplished."
"Emily." My name on his lips sounded different—less mocking, more serious. "Do you really think I had you followed just to keep tabs?"
I said nothing, dread pooling in my stomach.
"That parking garage." His voice softened, but the weight of it pressed down like a stone. "If my man hadn't been there, what do you think would've happened? This city's polished surface hides a lot of ugly truths, Emily. You think a few self-defense classes are enough to protect you from all of it?"
My face went pale.
So it was his man.
"I don't need your protection," I bit out.
"This isn't a discussion." Luke's tone left no room for argument. He cut straight to the heart of it. "You came to Nightingale for the Victor family laundering case."
My pulse spiked. Of course he knew.
"You're right," I said flatly. No point in pretending now. "Every lead points here. But I need hard evidence. I need to talk to key witnesses."
"Witnesses?" A flicker of derision crossed his face. "Miss Windsor, this isn't a courtroom. In my world, there are no witnesses—only the living and the dead."
His words doused me like ice water, extinguishing any lingering hope.
I sat in silence, finally forcing out, "What do you want from me?"
Luke studied me, emotions shifting in those unfathomable eyes—too complex to decipher.
He reached beneath the coffee table and produced an elegant envelope, sliding it toward me.
A gold-embossed invitation.
"Three days from now, there's a charity gala at the Astor Estate," Luke said, his tone neutral again. "Many of the people connected to the Victor case will be there. If you want a breakthrough, this is your only shot."
I stared at the invitation, hesitating.
This wasn't just an entry ticket. Accepting it meant crossing a line—stepping fully into his world with no way back.
"Why me?" I asked, voicing the question burning inside. "You don't lack for company."
Luke rose and moved to the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back to me—a tall, solitary silhouette against the glittering skyline.
His voice echoed off the glass, laced with something raw and unguarded. "Because you intrigue me, Emily."
He turned, those ice-blue eyes blazing in the darkness, burning with unmistakable possession.
"I'll pick you up the night of the gala." Another command, not a request.
I looked at him, then at the invitation lying on the table like a curse.
Refusing him had consequences I couldn't afford. Accepting meant aligning myself with the very world I despised most.
In the end, my hand moved forward. My fingertips trembled faintly as they touched the cool envelope.
"Mr. Reed," I said, tucking it into my clutch and standing, my voice hard as steel. "I expect you to keep your word. I'm only interested in the case."
Without another glance, I turned and walked toward the door, heels clicking sharply against the marble—each step like treading on knives.
"Emily."
His voice stopped me mid-stride. I didn't turn around.
"That dress suits you."
My body went rigid. I didn't respond, quickening my pace out of that suffocating room.
Only when the elevator doors slid shut, sealing him away, did I collapse against the cold metal wall, gasping for air.
I stared down at the gold-embossed invitation in my clutch. It felt like a lit fuse—a storm I couldn't predict or control.
'Luke Reed, who are you really? What's the endgame of this trap you've set? And what exactly do you want from me?'