Page 3 of The Tracker

The shattered pane rattled again as security scrambled. Peter’s voice drifted down the hall—smooth, affable, rehearsing damage control.

Evangeline inhaled the scent of gardenias—sweet, heady, and undisturbed by the faint whisper of the silenced shot. “Text him.”

Keely sent the message. “Done. He’s already at the club.”

'The Club'—Evangeline knew she meant The Iron Spur, San Antonio's most famous and exclusive lifestyle club. Evangeline had always been intrigued by the images that arose when she thought about it but had never dared to cross over its threshold.

Stepping deeper into the shadows, Evangeline was no longer panicked but purposeful. Her silk gown whispered around her legs; her bare feet met the cold tile with a clarity she hadn’t felt in years. She’d always sensed there was something 'off' abouther engagement, but discovering it was nothing more than a PR stunt—and that the man she was supposed to love had just painted a target on her back—was almost too much to process.

Evangeline didn’t know exactly where this new path would take her—only that it pulled her fast and hard from the glittering lie of this life, from the diamond-studded future she'd never wanted. It led somewhere west, toward a man she hadn’t met, but whose name already whispered like a promise.

And for the moment, that would have to be enough.

1

EVANGELINE

Downloading proprietary company data while wearing a ballgown felt exactly as sketchy as it sounded. Her fingers trembled over the keys, tension vibrating just beneath her skin like a plucked string. The low hum of the server fans filled the silence, echoing too loud in her ears.

Evangeline's stomach churned with nerves—not just fear, but adrenaline that surged like liquid fire in her veins. Her palms slipped against the keyboard, sweat pooling where her skin met plastic. The flash drive glinted beneath the dim office lights, a slim, metallic lifeline trembling between her fingertips. It wasn’t just data—it was power, and she was one slip away from losing everything.

This wasn’t the kind of thing debutantes did between champagne toasts and merger speeches. This was the underbelly, raw and pulsing beneath the gloss of gala lights and stockholder smiles. And she was buried in it, silk gown sticking to her legs with sweat, adrenaline roaring through her veins. Her heart thudded so hard it shook her ribs, each beat like a countdown to detonation. The danger wasn’t theoretical anymore. It was here, in the air, electric and lethal. And she had never felt more alive.

But then again, she'd always known the tiara came with shackles—gilded and polished, but tight all the same. Expectations passed down like heirlooms. Smiles rehearsed, roles assigned. But tonight, she wasn't the princess. Not the prop. Not the prize.

Tonight, she was the thief breaking out of the palace. The saboteur inside the gates. And with every keystroke, every stolen byte of data, she wasn't just bending rules—she was tearing up the whole damn script.

Evangeline hunched over her desk, her navy silk gown hiked up and tucked into her waistband like some desperate battlefield maneuver. The absurdity of her couture-meets-cloak-and-dagger act wasn’t lost on her, but there was no time for irony.

Her fingers moved in a blur, the clack of keys too loud in the silence, syncing with the frantic beat of her pulse. The blue loading bar on the screen crept forward, maddeningly slow, each pixel another breath she held too long. Her breathing was shallow, heart thudding in her chest like it wanted to claw its way out. Sweat traced a path down her back, sticking the silk to her skin as if even her dress knew how dangerous this moment was.

Every second felt like an eternity. Her thoughts ran wild: what if Peter came looking? What if someone already knew? Her palms slick on the keyboard, her stomach fluttering with panic—and beneath it, something sharper. Anticipation. That dangerous, heady thrill that only came from doing something she absolutely wasn’t supposed to.

She was terrified. And she was alive.

"Ten percent. Come on, you overpriced memory stick."

Keely chuckled, lounging near the window, heels dangling from her fingers, chewing gum like she was tailgating insteadof committing corporate espionage. “Why do you even need a backup? I thought you had access to the master system.”

“I do. But if I log in from an outside IP now, they’ll know something’s off. This is cleaner. Local. Safer.”

Keely nodded like she was following, then popped her gum. “Nerd speak makes my brain itch.”

Evangeline rolled her eyes, a tight laugh threatening at the corner of her mouth, but the tension in her chest loosened by an inch. The sound of Keely's gum pop and deadpan sarcasm was a lifeline—proof they weren’t drowning yet. If Keely could still crack jokes, then they hadn’t crossed fully into catastrophe. Not yet. Not quite.

Evangeline glanced over. “You lick USBs for fun.”

“For your information,” Keely said, hopping onto the edge of the desk, “it was an HDMI cable, it was just the one time, and I was very drunk. These days I confine all my licking to Jesse—most often his very large dick.”

Evangeline snorted. “Semantics.”

The door creaked open. Both women froze. A uniformed guard stepped in, expression bland but curious.

“Oh it's you Ms. Shaw? Mr. Rhodes was asking for you.”

Evangeline straightened slowly. “Was he?”

“Yes, ma’am. He was concerned. Asked us to keep an eye out. I can walk you down.”

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