Lahat ng Kabanata ng Undercover Hearts: Kabanata 51 - Kabanata 60

MarcusElena shows up unannounced, breezing into my office like she owns the place. Which, to be fair, she partially does. I didn’t expect her back so soon. She took a few days off to go to Europe. She dropped some hints about possible expansion and new investments, but I assumed she just needed a break and didn’t want to admit that even she runs out of steam sometimes."You look like someone who's seen a ghost," she says, smiling as she walks in, her heels clicking with practiced authority.

PrestonSophia meets me on the museum steps, scarf trailing behind her as she comes rushing toward me.She’s dressed in all black except for a large silver pin at her collar, and somehow she makes it look like she was born to haunt 14th-century cloisters. I know I invited her to come and see the exhibition with me, but now I’m wondering if I’ve accidentally lured her into a medieval romance.“Have you ever been to the Cloisters?” I ask, offering her my arm.She loops hers through mine without hesitation. “Only in books. Usually the kind with curses or hidden jewels.”“Sorry to disappoint. No curses today. Just photography.”“That’s a huge disappointment, but I’ll stay anyway.”Inside, it’s like time decided to slow down just for us. The halls are quiet, lit with soft yellow light that bathes the tapestries and stone archways in a honeyed, romantic haze. We walk slowly. She keeps stopping to read the placards out loud, always with a little commentary tacked on, like she’s auditioning

MarcusThe FBI conference room smells like burnt coffee and dust. Same industrial carpeting. Same flickering fluorescent lights. Same sinking feeling in my gut.Agent Gillespie stands at the front, clicking through a PowerPoint like we’re in a high school civics class instead of debriefing a federal investigation involving at least three dead clients, one disappearance, and a billion-dollar financial laundering operation so tangled even the accountants have started crying.“We have a whistleblower,” she says, as if it’s a magic spell that will fix everything.Instantly, the room shifts. I lean forward. So does Ocampo. Even the guy from IT perks up. Rodriguez clearly already knew.“Former Bainbridge portfolio manager. Mid-level. Kept his head down for years. Says he started seeing unusual transfer patterns about eighteen months ago. Shell accounts, off-book payouts, trusts named after deceased clients.” She clicks again, revealing a pixelated photo of a man who looks like he sleeps in

JamieThe thing about photographing candles is that no one ever tells you how stupidly high-maintenance they are.One would assume they’re simple. Elegant. A minimalist dream. But no, they are delicate little drama queens who sweat under hot lights, refuse to burn evenly, and absolutely do not photograph well next to certain colors, textures, or, God forbid, eucalyptus.“Why is this one sweating again?” I ask no one in particular, gently dabbing a tissue against the glossy sheen forming on a rose quartz candle that is absolutely not supposed to glisten like a teenage vampire.“Maybe it knows you’re judging it,” Sophia offers, plucking a lint roller from my kit and smoothing out the backdrop like she’s done this a hundred times. She hasn’t. But she’s a quick study and she’s got the vibe of a woman who’d casually restyle an entire shoot just to spite a bad angle.“I am judging it,” I say. “Deeply.”We’re in the loft studio I sometimes rent for product shoots, and today’s subject is a su

SophiaWe meet at a little bistro in Tribeca that smells like rosemary and lemon. The kind of place where the waiters wear leather aprons and the menu has more adjectives than nouns.Preston's already there when I arrive, sitting at a corner table with a glass of something citrusy and a pair of sunglasses perched on top of his head like a crown. He stands when he sees me, like he's been waiting for me his whole life and not just the last seven minutes."Hey," I say, sliding into the seat across from him. "You look aggressively brunchable."He laughs, low and warm. "I woke up feeling like a man who needed expensive eggs and a small existential crisis."The server brings coffee. We order food. The kind that sounds deceptively simple but costs $24.Preston goes for poached eggs on sourdough with whipped feta and microgreens. I order ricotta pancakes because my inner child and current anxiety can both agree on carbs.For a while, we talk about nothing. The weather. A ridiculous story Jam