Page 22 of Bad Girl Dilemma

But hate is sharp. Useful. It gives me just enough clarity to focus on what really matters: Escape.

Or if notescape… leverage.

I move back to the door, stop, listen. Then I step back out into the hallway and walk through the penthouse with a purpose. Barefoot. Silent.

He thinks I’ll go to bed like an obedient pet.

Newsflash, I’m afucking thief.

I return to the room and head straight for the desk. The laptop case is still there. Untouched.

A keycard opens it. Not a password. That was the first layer. I figured that out this morning. But now I see the second: a fingerprint reader.

And a tiny port at the back for an external interface.

Amateur hour, O’Driscoll.

I take out the hairpin I grabbed from the vanity in the room I suspect he made up for me. Use the spiral to trigger the latch on the case. It clicks open.

The screen lights up. A security prompt flashes.

Welcome back, D.

My lips curl. Cocky bastard.

I bypass the start screen with a cloned instance of his OS—a mirrored shadow shell I planted during my last heist. I only had a few seconds of proximity, but I got enough metadata to exploit. Enough to trick the machine into thinking I’m him—for five minutes max.

My hands fly over the keys.

Folder after folder. Financials. Blackmail. Offshore accounts.

One file named “Ironveil: Access Protocol.”

Another flagged “Wraith.” Encrypted.

That second name makes my stomach twist. It was my codename once.

From another life.

From before my mother died.

Before I started calling myself Specter.

Before I decided I’d rather hunt monsters than grieve like a good daughter.

Coincidence? Maybe.

I don’t breathe as my fingers hover, hesitating—but the urge to know is louder than the instinct to stay safe. Fuck it.

The screen flashesRED.

ALERT.

Unauthorized Access Detected.

Lockout Sequence Initiated.

Unsurprising but still…shit. The desk hums beneath my palm.

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