Kiss Me Tomorrow

Chapter 5

Lena's POV

I didn't sleep.

Not properly, anyway.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the letter.

Three lines.

Three impossible lines written in my father's handwriting.

I didn't steal the money.

I was trying to protect you.

Don't trust the Vale family.

By six in the morning, I'd read them so many times that I could have recited them without looking.

Instead, I sat at my kitchen counter with a mug of coffee growing cold between my hands, staring at the city through my apartment window.

New York was already awake.

Traffic moved below.

Lights came on in buildings across the street.

People hurried toward subway stations with the same exhausted determination I'd seen every weekday for years.

The city didn't care that my past had suddenly returned.

I envied it.

My phone buzzed.

I looked at the screen.

A message from Adrian.

Did you get home safely?

I stared at it.

It was 6:18 a.m.

Who checked on someone at six in the morning?

Someone who had apparently spent the previous evening worrying about whether I had made it home.

I typed a response.

Yes.

I looked at it.

Deleted it.

Typed again.

I'm alive.

I deleted that too.

Finally, I sent:

Yes. Good morning.

His response came almost immediately.

Good.

I frowned.

That was it?

I waited.

Nothing.

I put the phone down.

Five seconds later, it buzzed again.

You should eat breakfast.

I stared at the message.

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.

Are you always this controlling?

His reply took longer this time.

Only when people ignore sensible advice.

I shook my head.

I'm at work by eight.

Then eat before eight.

I put my phone face down.

"Ridiculous."

My kitchen, naturally, offered no opinion.

I stood and went to the refrigerator.

There was half a container of yogurt, some fruit, leftover pasta, and absolutely nothing that resembled the kind of breakfast a responsible adult was supposed to eat.

I grabbed the fruit.

It was the easiest option.

While I ate, I tried to think like a professional.

That was what I was good at.

Problems had solutions.

Scandals had patterns.

People had motives.

My father's case was not an emotional mystery.

It was a problem.

And problems could be solved.

I finished breakfast, showered, dressed, and left for work.

By eight twenty, I was sitting at my desk with the letter locked in the bottom drawer.

I hadn't told Marcus about it.

Not yet.

I wasn't sure why.

Perhaps because I didn't know who I trusted.

That thought bothered me.

I'd spent years believing I was good at reading people.

Apparently, I wasn't as good as I thought.

I opened the Vale documents again.

The current scandal first.

Then the old records.

I needed to separate facts from emotions.

The current crisis involved suspicious transfers through several subsidiaries.

The old case involved missing funds and accusations against my father.

Two different events.

Eleven years apart.

And yet Adrian believed they were connected.

Or at least connected enough to make him investigate.

I pulled up the company records I'd found yesterday.

The dissolved company.

The mysterious legal representative.

I searched again.

This time, I found an archived business article.

MERCER DEVELOPMENT GROUP ANNOUNCES EXPANSION INTO MANHATTAN

The article was eight years old.

The company had apparently been involved in commercial property development.

Nothing unusual.

I kept reading.

Then I saw a familiar name.

Vale Industries provides financial backing for new development partnership.

I leaned back.

That wasn't necessarily suspicious.

Large companies invested in other companies all the time.

But something about the timing bothered me.

Eight years ago.

Three years after my father's disappearance.

I made a note.

Then I moved on.

For the next three hours, I worked.

No mysterious messages.

No anonymous calls.

No new threats.

Nothing exploded.

It was almost disappointingly normal.

And I was grateful for it.

At eleven forty-five, Mia appeared beside my desk with two coffees.

She put one in front of me.

"You look terrible."

"Good morning."

"I mean it lovingly."

"Thank you."

She sat on the edge of my desk.

"So?"

"So what?"

"Adrian."

I sighed.

"We're discussing the case."

"That's not what I asked."

"It's the answer you're getting."

She took a sip of coffee.

"Did you call him?"

"He called me."

Her eyebrows rose.

"When?"

"Last night."

"And?"

"He wanted to make sure I got home."

Mia stared at me.

I stared back.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"Your face did."

She smiled.

"He's worried about you."

"He's worried because someone sent me a threatening message."

"That's still worry."

"It's professional."

"Of course."

I rolled my eyes.

She laughed.

Then she noticed the expression on my face.

"What?"

I hesitated.

"Nothing."

"Lena."

I looked down at my computer.

"I don't know what to think."

"About the case?"

"About everything."

Mia became quiet.

I rarely admitted uncertainty.

"I spent years thinking I knew what happened to my father."

She waited.

"Now I don't know anything."

"Maybe that's okay."

I looked at her.

"How is that okay?"

"Because sometimes finding out that the story you believed isn't true is the first step toward finding the truth."

I smiled faintly.

"That sounded surprisingly wise."

"I contain multitudes."

"You contain gossip."

"Also that."

I laughed.

For a few minutes, we talked about nothing important.

A new restaurant near the office.

Her terrible dating life.

My refusal to date anyone who used the word alpha to describe himself.

It was ordinary.

Comfortable.

And exactly what I needed.

Then my phone buzzed.

I glanced down.

Adrian: Lunch.

I frowned.

Mia saw the message.

She slowly looked at me.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Stop saying that."

"Why is Adrian ordering me lunch?"

"Maybe because you didn't eat enough."

She pointed at the screen.

"He's definitely interested."

"He is not."

"Then why is he ordering lunch?"

"Because he's controlling."

"That's your argument?"

"Yes."

"That's a terrible argument."

I ignored her.

Another message arrived.

Don't argue.

I stared at it.

I typed:

I wasn't going to.

His response:

You were.

I smiled before I could stop myself.

Mia caught it.

"Oh."

I immediately stopped smiling.

"Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"You didn't have to."

She stood.

"I'll leave you to your billionaire lunch."

"He isn't a billionaire."

She paused.

"That was the part you chose to correct?"

I opened my mouth.

Closed it.

She laughed as she walked away.

I hated that woman.

---

At twelve thirty, a delivery arrived.

A restaurant I'd never heard of.

I opened the bag.

There was a salad, grilled chicken, fruit, and a small bottle of sparkling water.

No note.

I stared at it.

Then my phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Eat."

I smiled.

"You could at least pretend to be polite."

"I said please."

"When?"

"Just now."

"That doesn't count."

"I'll remember next time."

I leaned back in my chair.

"Do you order lunch for all your employees?"

"You're not my employee."

"Consultant."

"Exactly."

"So you don't do this for everyone?"

There was a pause.

"No."

I wasn't sure what to do with that answer.

I looked at the food.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Another pause.

Then he said, "How are you?"

I looked at my computer screen.

At the financial reports.

At the locked drawer containing my father's letter.

"Working."

"Lena."

"I'm fine."

"You don't sound fine."

"You've known me for two days."

"Long enough."

I smiled despite myself.

"You really don't know when to stop, do you?"

"No."

"That's probably your biggest problem."

"I have several."

"At least you know."

"I've always known."

I looked out the window.

The afternoon sun reflected against the glass buildings.

For some reason, talking to Adrian like this felt different from being in his office.

There was no conference table.

No reports.

No battle of wills.

Just two people having a conversation.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Working."

"On what?"

"The scandal."

"That must be exciting."

"It isn't."

"Then why do it?"

"Because it needs to be done."

I smiled.

"That's not much of an answer."

"It's the only one I have."

We were quiet.

Then he asked, "What do you do when you're not working?"

I blinked.

"Why?"

"I'm curious."

"About me?"

"Yes."

The honesty caught me off guard.

I looked at the lunch.

"I read."

"What?"

"Anything."

"Books?"

"Mostly."

"What kind?"

"Depends."

"On?"

"My mood."

He was quiet.

Then he asked, "And when you're not reading?"

"I cook."

"You cook?"

"Occasionally."

"That's surprising."

"Why?"

"I imagined you eating takeout while working until midnight."

I laughed.

"That's incredibly judgmental."

"Was I wrong?"

I looked at the untouched salad.

"Maybe."

"I knew it."

"Your turn."

"My turn?"

"Tell me something you do when you're not working."

"I don't."

I laughed.

"That's sad."

"It's efficient."

"That's even sadder."

He chuckled.

It was quiet.

Low.

Warm.

I stopped smiling.

I'd never heard him laugh before.

Not properly.

And for some reason, the sound stayed with me.

"You really don't do anything?"

"I drive."

"That's a hobby?"

"It is for me."

"Where?"

"Anywhere."

"Alone?"

"Usually."

"Why?"

"Because nobody talks."

I smiled.

"That explains why you like me."

He was silent.

I realized what I'd said.

My cheeks warmed.

"I meant—"

"I know what you meant."

His voice had changed.

Lower.

Softer.

I looked away from the phone.

"Good."

Neither of us spoke for a moment.

Then he said, "I have a meeting."

"Of course."

"Lena?"

"Yes?"

"Don't work too late."

I smiled.

"You really like giving orders."

"Maybe."

The call ended.

I stared at my phone.

Then I looked at the lunch again.

I hated that the gesture had affected me.

It shouldn't have.

It was lunch.

That's all.

I opened the container.

The chicken was actually good.

I hated that too.

---

By four in the afternoon, I had made progress.

Not enough to solve anything.

But enough to understand the shape of the problem.

The current financial leak wasn't random.

Someone was moving information in a way designed to make Vale Industries look guilty.

The question was why.

I printed several documents and arranged them across the conference room table.

Dates.

Names.

Transactions.

Company registrations.

I stepped back.

There was a pattern.

I just couldn't see it yet.

My phone buzzed.

A message from Adrian.

Still working?

I looked at the clock.

4:17.

Yes.

Come upstairs.

I frowned.

Why?

His reply came immediately.

Because you're staring at the same documents and missing something.

I stared at the screen.

Then typed:

How do you know what I'm doing?

Three dots appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Because I know how you think.

I stopped.

I'd known him for two days.

That shouldn't have felt as intimate as it did.

I grabbed my folder.

Then paused.

I didn't need to go.

I could continue working here.

I should continue working here.

Instead, I picked up my bag.

And headed for the elevator.

I told myself it was because the case mattered.

Not because I wanted to see him.

Definitely not because of the strange warmth that had settled in my chest after our lunch conversation.

When the elevator doors closed, I caught my reflection in the mirrored wall.

I looked normal.

Calm.

Professional.

Composed.

Exactly as I should.

But there was something different in my expression.

Something I didn't recognize.

Maybe curiosity.

Maybe attraction.

Maybe just exhaustion.

I decided it was exhaustion.

That was easier.

When I reached the Vale Industries executive floor, Adrian was waiting outside his office.

His jacket was gone.

His sleeves were rolled to his elbows.

For the first time, he looked less like the untouchable heir I'd read about in the newspapers and more like a man who had simply been working too long.

His eyes moved over me.

"You came."

"You asked me to."

"I know."

"Then why do you look surprised?"

"Because you usually argue first."

"I was tired."

A faint smile appeared.

"I noticed."

He opened the door.

"Come in."

I walked past him.

For the first time since meeting Adrian Vale, I didn't feel like I was walking into a battlefield.

I felt like I was walking into a conversation.

And somehow, that was more dangerous.

Because fighting with him was easy.

Getting comfortable around him might be the thing I couldn't afford.