MY FORBIDDEN BILLIONAIRE LOVER

chapter 4

Grace’s POVThe next week was not a normal week. I had sunk so deep into this confusion that I was utterly

disoriented.

I needed more evidence and fast if I wanted to pin this case, but the more I searched, the more

every digital door slammed shut; they brought down each site I clicked on.

Fuck…. there was only one way to get evidence.

Going to the source. So here I was, deep in the night, as I broke into his office.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this, but I needed answers, and he wasn’t replying to any of

my emails asking for a sit-down.

Fuck him. I was going to get the information I needed in my own way.

I was rifling through his desk when a voice cut through the silence.

“Enjoying yourself?”

I jumped, dropping the file I’d just pulled out. Peter leaned against the doorframe.

“f**k, I thought you would still be in jail,” I blurted out, my heart vaulting into my throat.

He smirked, the expression entirely too relaxed. “Billionaires don’t stay in jail, especially not

innocent ones.”

I straightened up, pulling my composure around me like armor. “You think you’re innocent? A

man was killed.”

“And you think I pulled the trigger?” His tone was sharp, cutting. “Careful, Grace. That kind of

accusation could get you put in prison.”

“I guess the truth hurts more.”

He stepped closer, forcing me back against the mahogany edge of the desk. His eyes flickered

down to my hands still gripping the folder. “You want the truth? Help me find it.”

I blinked, thrown off balance. “Excuse me?”

“You’re good at digging, I would say too good. Whoever set me up is still out there. So here’s my

offer: work with me and find out who is trying to frame me, and I’ll tell you everything about your

father.”

My breath hitched, a sudden, sharp intake of air. I blinked multiple times as if to clear a delusion.

“Everything?”

“Everything,” he said, his voice rough now, edged with something I couldn’t quite place. “But it

comes at a price.”

I narrowed my eyes, instantly suspicious. “What’s the catch?”

“You have to trust me.”

I laughed, a short, bitter sound that held no humor. “Trust you? You think I’m insane?”

His smile was razor-sharp, cutting through my defense. “I don't think you are insane, but you are

curious and desperate—that’s why you are breaking into my office at night.”

I hated that he was right. The desperation was a cold knot in my stomach.

“How did you even get past security?” I managed to ask, ignoring the accuracy of his

assessment.

“What if I say no?” I pressed, trying to regain control of the narrative.

“Then you’ll never know why your father died.”

My chest ached with an immediate, raw pain. My father’s face flickered in my memory, the

phantom image of the night he never came home.

I exhaled slowly, the tension draining out of me in defeat. “Fine. But if you betray me….”

He leaned in close, his breath, warm and scented faintly of expensive cologne, brushing my ear.

“You’ll shoot me, yes, I know.” He gave a low chuckle that didn't reach his eyes.

I shoved him back, the physical contact jarring. “Where do we start?” I asked, rolling my eyes to

mask the sudden vulnerability.

He handed me a slim, unmarked manila folder from an inner pocket of his coat. “With the name

Glass. Ever heard of it?”

“No.”

“You should have. It was your father’s code name.”

The room tilted violently on its axis. “What?”

Peter’s eyes were steady, obsidian chips reflecting the faint city light filtering through the

windows. “Your father wasn’t who you thought he was.”

Before I could process the seismic shift in my reality, the large plate-glass window exploded

inward.

A bullet hissed past my ear, the sound deafening, and buried itself with a sickening *thud* into

the heavy oak paneling of the far wall.

Peter moved without thought, shoving me down onto the expensive carpet. Glass rained down

around us as he dropped, his own weapon—a sleek, dark handgun—out and aimed at the

jagged breach in the wall in a single, fluid motion.

“Down!” he barked, the command raw and immediate.

I pressed myself flat against the floor, my heart hammering against the hardwood, a frantic

drumbeat signaling mortal danger. Outside, heavy footsteps pounded away down the adjacent

roofline.

Peter cursed under his breath, sweeping the area outside the window with intense focus.

I grabbed his arm, the adrenaline making my grip surprisingly strong. “Who the hell was that?”

His eyes snapped to mine, sharp and assessing. “Welcome to my world, Grace. You’re in it

now.”

My hands trembled as I pushed myself up, shoving shards of razor-sharp glass off my palms.

The sting was a welcome distraction, but not sharper than the cold realization clawing its way

through me: someone had just tried to kill me.

Peter’s hand clamped around my wrist, yanking me up with startling force. “We can’t stay here,”

he snapped, his gaze darting around the wrecked office, cataloging threats. He moved with the

precision of someone who had navigated ambushes countless times.

“Wait……….” I tried to protest, stumbling after him, but he thrust a black, heavy jacket into my

arms—his own—his movements fast, urgent.

“They’ll be back. That was a warning shot.”

“Warning shot? That nearly went through my head!” My voice cracked, disbelief spilling out of

me.

Peter’s mouth curved, but it wasn't amusement; it was grim recognition of shared danger. “If

they wanted you dead, Grace, you would be. That was a message.”

I clenched the jacket, my chest heaving, struggling to draw air into burning lungs. “A message

from who? And don’t you dare give me half-truths. You just dropped a bomb about my father,

Glass?” I spat the name, bitter and foreign on my tongue. “You can’t just….”

He strode toward me, his gun still held ready. “Do you think I wanted you here? Do you think I

wanted you in this? You made the choice to dig into things you didn’t understand. Now you’re in

it whether you like it or not.”

His words burned, stripping away my professional veneer, but beneath the anger, I recognized

the genuine spark of fear that drove him, too.

I forced myself to breathe, grounding myself in the immediate threat. “Then explain it. Who the

hell is Glass?”

Peter’s jaw flexed. For a suspended moment, I thought he’d revert to stonewalling tactics, but

then he sighed, a sound of profound exhaustion, and ran a hand over his hair. “Your father

wasn’t just an accountant, or whatever story you were fed. He was an operative, one of the

best. Glass was his code name, and someone out there wants the secrets he died to keep

buried.”

I froze, the room spinning again, the scattered glass catching the light like malevolent diamonds.

My father, the man who tucked me in at night, who missed birthdays because of 'business trips,'

who died in a supposed car accident—an operative?

“No,” I whispered, the denial hollow. “That’s impossible.”

Peter’s eyes softened, just a fraction, a fleeting glimpse of the man beneath the armor. “It’s the

truth, and whoever fired that shot tonight? They don’t want you finding out the rest.”

A siren wailed in the distance, growing rapidly louder, its pitch tightening the air. “Police?”

Peter shook his head dismissively. “Not fast enough. That sound is for show. Whoever’s

watching us is already gone.” He tucked the folder back into his jacket, snapping it shut. “We

have to move, now.”

I stumbled after him as he guided me toward a narrow maintenance door in the back of the

office. He kicked it open, and we descended a steep, narrow stairwell. The air smelled of dust,

mildew, and the metallic tang of panic. My heart thudded with each echo of our footsteps.

“This is insane,” I muttered, clutching his stolen jacket tightly. “I came here for evidence, not to

get shot at.”Peter glanced over his shoulder, his silhouette framed by the dim landing light. “And yet, here

we are.”

By the time we hit the rear alley, my nerves were shredded filaments. Peter’s sleek, black car

waited at the curb, its windows impossibly dark. He strode around and opened the passenger

door with a firm push.

I hesitated, the oppressive weight of the night pressing heavily on my shoulders. “If I get in that

car, there’s no going back, is there?”

Peter studied me across the roof of the car, unreadable. Then he leaned in close, his voice

dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “There was no going back the moment you touched that

file.”

For a beat, neither of us moved, suspended on the razor's edge of a decision that would

redefine my life.