Page 19 of Hunt Me
Like the Phantom.
My laptop takes the brunt of my fury—I slam the screen down hard enough that the hinge cracks. Doesn’t matter. I’ve got twelve more scattered around my room, each one running traces that lead nowhere.
She played me.
Stood right in front of me, made clever conversation about cybersecurity consulting—Christ, the irony tastes like battery acid—while simultaneously orchestrating the most devastating breach we’ve had in years. Smiled at me. Asked probing questions about my work that I answered like a fool, too distracted by the curve of her neck.
And I fell for it.
Every. Single. Second.
The Frankfurt servers are still a disaster. Three weeks of damage control ahead, explanations to clients, assurances that their data remains secure when we both know it’s been compromised for months. She’s been inside our systems so long, she probably knows more about our operations than us.
I grab another laptop, fingers flying across keys. Cross-reference every guest list, every invitation, every possible entry point. But she covered her tracks too perfectly.
Professional doesn’t begin to cover it.
My hands shake. Not from exhaustion, though I haven’t slept since the gala. Not from the energy drinks littering my desk like casualties of war.
From rage.
She stood there and laughed at me. Made me think I was the one in control—the one asking questions, hunting for answers. When really, she was dissecting me in real-time, testing responses, probably gathering intel for her next strike.
From rage and something else I refuse to name.
My reflection stares back from the darkened monitor. Three days of stubble, hair that hasn’t seen a comb since Tuesday. I look like hell. Feel worse.
Because I can’t stop seeing her.
The way platinum blonde hair caught the chandelier light. How her dress hugged curves that had nothing to do with the conversation we were having. The small smirk playing at thecorner of her mouth when I mentioned security protocols, like she was holding back laughter at a private joke.
At my expense.
My jaw clenches hard enough to hurt.
Last night, alone in the dark with just the glow of monitors for company, I did something pathetic. Replayed those mental snapshots while my hand moved with increasing desperation. Imagined what she’d look like stripped of that elegant dress, those ice-blue eyes watching me with the same calculated assessment she’d used at the gala.
Came harder than I have in months, her name a whisper I hated myself for making.
I sat there after, hand still sticky, staring at the ceiling and wanting to put my fist through something. Through everything.
She’s the enemy. The Phantom, who’s been systematically destroying our security, exposing vulnerabilities, and making me look incompetent in front of my brothers. She used me. Manipulated me with practiced ease while I stood there like a teenager with his first crush, too busy noticing the way her collarbone looked under gallery lights to realize I was being played.
And I still want her.
Want to strip away every layer of deception until I find something real underneath. Want to match that brilliant, twisted mind with my own. Want to make her lose control the way she’s made me lose mine.
It’s sick.
I’m obsessed with my own destruction, circling it like a moth drawn to flame, knowing full well I’ll get burned.
My phone buzzes. Nikolai, demanding updates on the situation.
I ignore it.
Instead, I pull up every scrap of code she left behind, searching for patterns. For anything that might tell me who she really is.
Because Iris Mitchell—if that’s even her real name—made one critical mistake.
