Page 46 of Bad Girl Dilemma

He hasn’t said a word since the gallery. I haven’t either.

But I’m not quiet out of obedience. I’m quiet because I’m calculating.

Because something shifted. And now, so will I.

Back in the penthouse, I head straight for the spare room while Dante disappears into his study. Calls to make. His voice is back to neutral, impassive. Professional.

I wait until I hear the low murmur of his voice through the door—then I move.

His room still smells like cedar and power. I walk past the bourbon decanter, the monogrammed leather folders. His sleek black laptop glows with soft light on the desk.

Unlocked.

Almost like he wants me to look.

I take the fucking bait.

Folder after folder appears on screen—financials, blackmail dossiers, offshore accounts under names I know and some I don’t.

And then I see it.

A file I’ve seen before. The one labeled “Vesper Syndicate: Access Protocol.” But just like the other one labeledWraithstopped me in my tracks last time, the one beneath this one freezes my blood.

My breath stutters. Another coincidence? No. Not here. Not now.

I stare at the folder like it might swallow me whole. I’ve walked into this trap before. But… fuck it. I pummel the firewalls for a quick minute for the Vesper Syndicate file. Enough to see what I’m working with.

Then I double-click.

Predictably, the screen flashes RED.

Unauthorized Access Detected. Lockout Sequence Initiated.

He knew I’d try. He let me find it. My pulse hammers. Baited me, first withWraithand now with my own name.

Specter.

The one I buried years ago, along with my mother. Along with everything soft in me. Until I resurrected it in her name. In her honor.

I click the file with my name.

Encrypted.

Of course. As if that would stop me.

I’m already halfway through the backdoor when I hear the door open. My heart jumps but my fingers don’t stop and I don’t look up. Not right away. Because I know whose blazing, lethal eyes are on me.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Dante’s voice is low, sharp as a blade.

I don’t flinch.

“I asked you a question.”

I keep typing. Calm. Careful. Failing. “I think the better question,” I murmur, “is whatyou’redoing with a folder named after my codename inside one named Vesper Syndicate.”

Silence. No movement. But I feel him there—tension radiating off his body like heat from a live wire.

When I finally lift my head, his face is a warzone—fury etched into every brutal line, his jaw clenched so tight it looks like it might shatter.

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