I'm the Billionaires' Secret

In Pursuit of a Story

POV: Lana Sterling

--

Chasing danger is second nature to me, but tonight I wonder if I’ve gone too far.

I step out from the side entrance of the Grand Aurora Hotel, heart hammering against my ribs. A chilly gust of wind greets me, carrying with it the faint scent of car exhaust and a thousand unspoken secrets that lurk in Manhattan’s dark corners. My breaths come quick, clouds of condensation rising and dissipating under the streetlights. Behind me, the gala continues on, an opulent world of tuxedos and designer dresses spinning into the late hours without me.

Even out here, it feels like Damien Blackwood’s presence still clings to my skin. The courtyard encounter replays in my mind on an endless loop: his hand on my chin, the deadly calm in his voice, that intimate brush of air between our lips when he leaned in. My pulse thrums again, a conflicting blend of arousal and fury. I can’t shake the image of his intense gaze or the memory of his hard body so close I could practically feel his heat.

Damn it, Lana - focus.

I’m a journalist on a mission, not some naive thrill-seeker. Whatever magnetic hold he has over me, I need to break out of it if I’m going to see this through. This is bigger than a momentary rush of lust. It’s a matter of uncovering something that might reshape how the public sees the city’s golden boy. If the rumors are true, Damien is tangled in a mess of illegal deals that could c***k the very foundations of power in Manhattan.

Clutching my purse tighter against my side, I hurry onto the sidewalk. Yellow cabs and black cars stream by, headlights slicing through the gloom. I flag down a taxi, ignoring the anxious flutter still lingering in my stomach. Sliding into the back seat, I give the driver an address in the Lower East Side - my next lead. A secret contact who claims to know more about Damien’s rumored underworld connections.

The cab smells faintly of stale coffee and old leather. I sink against the worn seat and rummage in my bag for my phone. Checking messages one last time, I see a text from Jamie, my photographer friend:

You okay? Didn’t see you after midnight. Let me know if you need backup. Seriously, L, this is all shady as hell.

I thumb out a quick reply - I’m fine. Following a lead. Text you later. - then tuck the phone away, ignoring the uneasy pinch in my chest. Part of me wonders if I am fine. Tonight’s events swirl through my head. My run-in with Damien was more charged than any prior confrontation I’ve had with a subject, and I’ve covered plenty of dangerous men. But none have gotten inside my head the way he has. None have made me catch my breath in the middle of a conversation, or forced me to bite back a humiliating wave of desire in the face of real danger.

I catch my own reflection in the taxi’s side mirror: wide eyes, slightly parted lips, cheeks still flushed. It’s as though half of me remains at the courtyard, pinned under Damien’s penetrating stare. The memory triggers a hot flush that creeps down my neck.

This is getting ridiculous, I tell myself, raking a hand through my hair. Yes, he’s sinfully good-looking. Yes, there’s something about his measured control and raw power that lights me on fire in ways I didn’t realize were possible. But he’s also the man who might be orchestrating an elaborate, dangerous criminal web - money laundering, black-market shipments, hush money, and who knows what else. I’m not just after a tabloid scandal. This could be bigger than anything I’ve ever tackled.

The taxi merges onto a less populated street. Neon signs flash by: a late-night deli, a run-down bar, a fluorescent-lit pawn shop. Each passing building is a jarring reminder of the city’s dual nature - glitz at the top, grime underneath, secrets bridging the gap. My contact thrives on those secrets.

Eventually, the driver pulls to a stop in front of a dimly lit intersection. Rusted fences and graffiti-tagged walls set a stark contrast to the high-end gala I left behind. I pay the fare, step out onto the cracked sidewalk, and feel a wave of nighttime city energy wash over me - somewhere between gritty wariness and the thrill of possibility. The streetlamp overhead flickers, casting the ground in an anemic glow.

I walk half a block, scanning for a sign or landmark. Instead, I find a battered metal door behind a chained-off alley, right where my contact said it would be. A single buzzsaw of neon lettering from the building next door bathes the alley in pinkish light. My heels echo on the pavement, each step sending tension up the back of my legs.

Pushing aside an old wooden pallet leaning against the wall, I slip through a narrow gap in the fence. The stench of rotting trash hits me, but I press forward. My contact, “Rook,” insisted this was the only safe way in. Paranoid, yes - but then again, I’m the one who’s willing to traverse scummy backstreets at this hour.

At the far end of the alley, a slender figure with a hood pulled low over their face stands waiting. I pause, my heart pounding. This city is never short on criminals or creeps. But if Rook is who he claims to be, I need his intel.

“Rook?” I call out softly.

He nods, stepping into the faint light from the flickering overhead lamp. He looks younger than I expected - maybe early twenties, with nervous energy pouring off him in waves. His gaze flicks past me, scanning the alley for tails. Satisfied we’re alone, he jerks his chin for me to come closer.

“You’re Lana?” he asks, voice tight with tension.

I swallow. “Yes. You said you had information on Damien Blackwood.”

Rook snorts, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pockets. “I got more than information. I used to run with some folks who worked for him - unofficially, off the books. People who handle his shipping manifests and money drops. Shady s**t, you know? But that man covers his tracks well.”

I lean in, adrenaline surging. “I need specifics. Contracts, payment records, anything that proves he’s deeply tangled in the underworld.”

He exhales, glancing nervously at the alley’s entrance. “I can’t guarantee it’s enough to nail him. But I can point you in the right direction. For a price.”

My chest tightens. Of course. “I’m not exactly swimming in cash,” I say. “But if your intel leads to a big story, I can make sure you’re compensated. Or at least protected.”

Rook’s mouth twists. “f**k protection. I just want out. I want to disappear somewhere warm, far from this city’s bullshit. And if I can screw Blackwood in the process? Even better.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Sounds personal.”

“It’s always personal,” he mutters. Then, as if deciding to trust me, he rummages in his hoodie and pulls out a folded slip of paper. “This is a location. Warehouse on the East River. Late nights, they move cargo through the back. I’ve seen shipping crates with false bottoms - drug trafficking, stolen art, weapons, who knows. Some shipments get rerouted from Eastern Europe, and rumor is, Blackwood’s behind it. Not officially, of course.”

A thrill zips through me. This lines up with rumors I’ve been chasing for weeks. The clandestine shipments, the hush-hush deals, the sense of an entire criminal supply chain. If I can confirm it’s tied to Damien, I’d have the story of a lifetime - assuming I survive to print it.

“Thank you,” I whisper, carefully taking the slip of paper. My mind whirrs with possible angles. “Anything else?”

Rook glances at the alley mouth once more, shadows dancing across his face. “Yeah. Watch your back. Blackwood’s deeper in the underworld than you think. You cross him, he’ll find a way to bury you. If I were you, I’d vanish before he even catches wind that you’re sniffing around.”

A wry laugh escapes me. Too late for that. “I can handle him.”

His eyes narrow, flicking over my dress and the high heels I still haven’t swapped out. Maybe I look like a naive society girl, but I sense he’s noting the grit in my voice, or the glint of determination I refuse to hide. “Sure,” he says. “Just remember what I said.”

I nod, stashing the note carefully into a zippered pouch in my purse. My mind churns with questions. How exactly does Damien orchestrate these shipments? What hidden alliances let him move illicit cargo so freely? More importantly, can I gather enough undeniable proof to expose him?

I open my mouth to ask Rook another question, but the flicker of fear in his eyes warns me he’s already second-guessing this meeting. He steps backward, merging into the darkness at the far side of the alley. Within seconds, he’s gone - like a phantom of the night, leaving me alone with the distant thrum of city traffic.

A chill snakes up my spine, though the night air is relatively mild for Manhattan. Maybe I should have asked for more details. But pushing Rook too hard could spook him. I’ll have to make do with the warehouse lead and hope I can pick up a more tangible trail from there.

Clutching my purse and the precious scrap of paper, I exit the alley, stepping under the neon glow that stains the sidewalk a lurid pink. My phone buzzes again - this time, a call. I glance at the screen: Unknown Number. A spike of unease makes my skin prickle. Could it be Damien? Or one of his goons?

I draw a steadying breath and answer. “Hello?”

Static crackles, then a voice: “This is your official warning, Ms. Sterling,” the distorted tone says. “Stop poking around, or you’ll regret it.”

My heart stalls. “Who is this?”

Silence, then a click. The line goes dead.

I lower the phone, curses tumbling through my mind. They’re already on to me. I glance around, scanning every passing car, every shifting shadow. Of course Damien has eyes everywhere. It doesn’t necessarily mean the call was from him directly - he’s got enough shady associates who’d be happy to threaten me on his behalf.

But the part that unsettles me more is that I can’t be entirely certain Damien wouldn’t make that call himself. He’s used to controlling everything around him through intimidation and sheer force of will.

I place a hand on my chest, the adrenaline thrumming beneath my palm. Despite the fear, a flicker of rebellious excitement lances through me. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like the edge, at least a little. Investigative journalism has always drawn me for that reason: shining a light in dark corners, dancing on the brink.

Yet, no matter how used to danger I am, I can’t deny the new tension coiled in my stomach. Because this time, the danger isn’t a faceless corporation or a corrupt politician. It’s a man who stares at me with lethal intent and makes my blood run hot with arousal. What the f**k kind of combination is that?

I’m about to hail another cab when my phone vibrates again - this time, a text from Jamie.

Call me as soon as you’re free. I’m serious, L. s**t’s going down at the gala - some guys were talking about you.

My chest tightens. What guys? Damien’s men? Possibly. The compulsion to let Jamie in on my location flares, but I can’t risk dragging her further into this. She’s good at what she does, but the circles Damien runs in might be more than either of us can handle. Still, maybe I should keep her updated…

I begin typing a response, I’m okay. Heard some stuff from Rook - , but a sudden wave of paranoia makes me stop. If Blackwood’s associates are reading my messages or tracking my phone, I need to be careful. Instead, I send a short, coded reply: “Got a lead. Let’s meet tomorrow. No calls.” She’ll get the hint that I’m worried about security.

Letting out a shaky sigh, I slip the phone back into my purse. My next step is to confirm Rook’s intel. The warehouse is a potential gold mine. If I can photograph illicit cargo or catch an exchange on video, that’s the kind of proof a real journalist would kill for.

At the corner, I spot an idling rideshare car, its interior light glowing. Perfect. I hustle over, open the door, and slide onto the seat. “East River docks,” I tell the driver, reading off the address Rook provided.

He casts me a skeptical look through the rearview mirror - this part of the city is less than savory, especially at this hour. But he shrugs, merges back into traffic, and we’re off.

As the ride progresses, the skyscrapers around me shift from the lavish high-rises of Midtown to the more industrial outskirts near the water. Street by street, the bustle thins out. The overhead lamps become sparser, and soon we’re passing warehouses, shipping containers, and chain-link fences topped with razor wire.

I can’t help but think how different this is from the shimmering gala. One moment, I’m surrounded by wealth and champagne flutes, the next, I’m in the city’s underbelly. Yet, in a twisted way, both worlds belong to Damien Blackwood. He has a foot in each: the polished front of philanthropy and the grim reality of crime.

When the driver stops at a deserted intersection, I realize we’re only a few blocks from the docks. “This is as far as I’ll go,” he says apologetically, glancing at me in the rearview with concern.

I don’t blame him. The road ahead is cloaked in darkness, and the faint odor of saltwater and industrial runoff mixes in the air. “That’s fine,” I murmur, paying the fare and stepping out.

The car’s headlights vanish into the night, leaving me alone under a single flickering streetlamp. My heels click on the uneven pavement as I make my way toward the looming silhouettes of warehouses. The East River churns faintly a few hundred yards away, its black surface rippling under moonlight.

I come upon a sprawling complex of corrugated-metal buildings. Most appear derelict - windows boarded up, doors chained. But a few show signs of recent activity: fresh tire tracks, scuffed loading bays, the occasional security camera glaring from a corner. My pulse picks up. If Rook’s tip is right, one of these is hosting clandestine shipments tied to Damien.

I set my phone to silent mode and begin to circle the perimeter, searching for vantage points or signs of life. My intention isn’t to break in right now - just to scope the place, maybe snap some photos to confirm suspicious activity. I’m stepping carefully, mindful not to let my heels echo too loudly against the concrete.

Halfway around the complex, I find a loading dock with a couple of trucks parked. No logos. The overhead lights are off, but a faint glow seeps from an interior lamp. Peering through a gap between the dock and a sheet of metal, I spot moving shapes - men, large crates, possible contraband. My heart thunders. This might be it.

I snap a few quick photos on my phone, cursing the low light. I can’t see faces, but the presence of unmarked crates at this hour is suspicious enough. If only I had Jamie’s camera. Still, any evidence is better than none.

A loud clang from inside makes me jump. Adrenaline spikes, fear dancing in my veins. I hold my breath, listening. Footsteps approach, but they fade away a moment later. s**t, that was close.

Backing off, I decide I’ve risked enough for one night. The next step is forming a plan - possibly returning with better equipment or alerting a contact in law enforcement I vaguely trust. I might also need an inside source to confirm the actual contents of those crates. Another potential meeting with Rook, or maybe a deeper infiltration.

Tucking my phone away, I retrace my steps around the building, each breath a ragged whisper in the hush of the docks. I force myself to keep calm, mind racing through the potential breakthroughs this story could bring, as well as the hazards.

One block away, I relax slightly, heart beginning to slow. The area is quiet except for the distant rumble of a cargo ship and the occasional gull squawking over the water. The streetlamp above me flickers, plunging the sidewalk into momentary darkness before sputtering back to life.

I did it, I think, both triumphant and terrified. I have proof - maybe not ironclad yet, but enough to push forward. This is everything I wanted. So why does my chest feel so tight?

Because I can’t stop thinking about Damien. The man I just spied on, the man whose operation I’m gradually picking apart. My body still hums from the earlier confrontation, his low voice echoing in my ear. You’re playing with fire. Don’t be surprised when it burns.

A tiny voice inside me says maybe I want to get burned, if it’s by him. The realization makes my throat go dry. What the hell is wrong with me?

I brush off the thought, chalking it up to the adrenaline rush. Spinning on my heel, I head for a side street that should lead to a more populated area where I can call another cab. That’s when I hear it - footsteps, steady and too close for comfort.

My heart leaps into my throat. I pause. The footsteps pause. Carefully, I glance over my shoulder, but the darkness beyond the flickering lamp conceals whoever might be there. A jolt of alarm tears through me. Did someone from the warehouse follow me?

Swallowing, I quicken my pace, each click of my heels echoing in the silent block. The footsteps resume, matching my speed. My pulse hammers, and I fight an urge to break into a full sprint. I’ve been tailed before, but this time it feels more personal - like a predator stalking prey.

I reach the mouth of an alley, hoping to cut through to a better-lit street, but the darkness beyond is oppressive. My hands tremble. f**k. Where do I go?

Abruptly, the footsteps speed up. Panic coils in my stomach. Without thinking, I whip around, ready to confront whoever’s behind me. “Who’s there?” I demand, voice cracking only slightly.

A figure emerges from the shadows, the faint glow of the streetlamp catching on immaculate shoes and a crisp suit. My breath stutters as I recognize the broad shoulders, the unyielding stance, the carved planes of his face. Damien.

His silhouette is unmistakable, power radiating off him even in near darkness. My pulse skyrockets - equal parts relief that it’s not some random thug, and terror that it’s him.

He takes one step forward, expression shrouded in the gloom. “Leaving without a goodbye, Ms. Sterling?” His voice is low, dangerously calm, laden with the promise of confrontation.

My mouth goes dry, heart hammering against my ribs. How did he find me here?

“You - ” I stammer, gripping my purse as if it could shield me. “What are you doing here?”

A beat of silence. Then he laughs softly, a sound devoid of real mirth. “I could ask you the same.”

My mind reels, torn between fear, anger, and the undeniable spark of attraction that roars to life whenever he’s near. He can’t possibly know I was spying on that warehouse… or can he?

My body tenses, preparing for whatever his next move might be. The city lights play across his features, revealing only slivers - sharp cheekbones, the tense line of his jaw, eyes glinting with an intensity that makes my stomach twist.

Suddenly, I remember Rook’s warning, the call from the unknown number, the illusions of safety I clung to. Damien is no ordinary adversary. He’s more connected, more lethal. And right now, we’re alone, in the dark, far from the glitz of the gala.

Something like anticipation throbs in my veins, overshadowing the city’s noise. Even with everything at stake, a shiver of excitement runs down my spine. My mind conjures fantasies of how this night could end: pinned against a wall again, maybe on my knees, or him pressing me into the cold pavement while the tension between us ignites into raw heat. Stop, I warn myself, cheeks burning with shame. This is not the time or place.

Still, Damien seems to sense my inner turmoil. He steps closer, the dim lamp catching a wry curve of his mouth. “You look rattled,” he murmurs, voice softer now, though no less dangerous. “Maybe next time you’ll heed my warning.”

Anger flares, mingling with the unsteady flutter in my chest. “I’m not your puppet,” I snap, though the waver in my voice betrays me. “You don’t get to decide what I do or don’t do.”

He arches a brow. “No? Because from where I’m standing, you look like a journalist out of her depth, stumbling into places she shouldn’t.”

I stiffen, bristling. “I’ve handled bigger fish than you, Blackwood.”

A humorless chuckle rumbles from him. “Don’t lie to yourself. You don’t even know the half of what you’re dealing with.”

His certainty infuriates me, makes me want to push him until that smooth façade cracks. My heart roars in my ears, adrenaline flooding every inch of me. I want to tear down the barriers between us - professionally, so I can bring him to justice. Yet, I can’t deny that I also want to shred the tension in another, far more primal way.

We stand there for a moment, the city’s neon glow painting a fractured portrait of two adversaries locked in a silent battle of wills. I swallow hard, forcing myself to remain steady. “I guess we’ll find out who’s more prepared,” I say, summoning my last shred of defiance.

He doesn’t reply. Instead, he advances another step, until we’re close enough that I catch a faint whiff of his cologne - clean, musky, and maddeningly enticing. A swirl of heat floods my lower belly, remembering the way his half-erect c**k shifted beneath that tailored suit earlier.

I clench my jaw, hating how my body betrays me. This man is dangerous. He’s threatened me, spied on me, possibly orchestrated a ring of smuggling and corruption. Yet the moment he closes the distance, the heady swirl of fear and attraction makes my knees threaten to buckle.

Finally, he speaks, voice low: “You left in quite a hurry back there. Did you find what you were looking for tonight?”

His question pulses with subtext. Does he know about Rook? The warehouse? The photos?

I square my shoulders, refusing to show any sign of weakness. “I found enough to keep digging,” I say, each word clipped. “You won’t scare me off, Damien.”

Something flickers across his face - admiration, perhaps, or annoyance. Then he draws an exhale so quietly I almost miss it. “You have no idea what you’re playing with.”

“Enlighten me.”

A muscle in his jaw twitches. For a heartbeat, I think he might actually do it - confess, threaten, something. But he simply gazes at me, eyes dark and unreadable. The air between us crackles, full of unsaid words and unspent desire.

The city hums around us, headlights flicker, a distant horn blares, but we might as well be the only two people alive. Every nerve in my body is on high alert, waiting for him to strike or retreat.

Then, with a tight nod, Damien breaks the spell. “Go home, Ms. Sterling,” he mutters. “You’ll get yourself killed wandering around here at night.”

Despite the lingering tension, a laugh of disbelief spills from my lips. He’s telling me to go home? “I’m a big girl. I can handle myself.”

He huffs, gaze raking over me in a way that makes me want to either punch him or drag him closer. “Is that so? Let’s see how long you last.”

Before I can retort, he turns on his heel, vanishing back into the darkness as quickly as he appeared. I stand there, adrenaline still pumping, chest heaving with shallow breaths. My mind spins with a thousand questions - How long has he been following me? Did he see me near the warehouse? Is he protecting me or just mocking me?

Slowly, my heart rate begins to recede from its frantic gallop. I cast one last glance at the spot where Damien disappeared. This is insane. No other lead, no other story, has ever entwined me in such a twisted dance of desire and danger.

But I can’t turn back now.

Clutching the note from Rook in my purse, I force my legs to move, determined to reach a well-lit main road where I can hail a taxi and get the hell out of here. Every step echoes with the memory of Damien’s silhouette, the intensity in his voice.

Little does he know, each warning only spurs me on. If he thinks fear alone can deter me, he’s sorely mistaken. Because beneath that fear is a driving need to expose the truth - and, if I’m brutally honest, a curiosity about the man behind the mask.

As I finally spot a distant glow of a 24-hour convenience store, relief floods me. Civilization. Safety, at least relative to the shadows I’ve just left behind. Still, my pulse thrums, and the aftershocks of that confrontation linger in my veins like an electric current.

Chasing danger is second nature to me. But tonight, as the city envelops me in its harsh neon glare, I can’t shake the sense that I’ve stepped onto a path with no easy way out. Damien Blackwood stands at its center - a man of wealth, secrets, and a smoldering intensity that threatens to consume me in more ways than one.

And despite every logical bone in my body telling me to run the other way, I find myself wanting to meet him head-on.

--

Peering over my shoulder one last time, I swear I see movement in the distance - another glimpse of that tall, broad-shouldered figure. A jolt of anticipation surges through me, tinged with a spark of desire.

My heart clenches, breath catching in my throat. Because if he did follow me this far, it means he’s not done with me. And God help me, I’m not done with him either.

I turn forward, stepping into the fluorescent-lit store, my mind blazing with possibilities - and the sure knowledge that tonight was only the beginning.