Page 29 of Ballrooms & Blackmail

Maybe she doesn’t know it’s me. It’s not like we’ve exchanged numbers. I got hers from Pascal. But my text should have made it clear?—

“Fuck it,” I growl, calling her a third time.

It rings once before disconnecting.

Something cold ripples through my insides and I call her again.

Straight to voicemail.

Not right. This is not fucking right.

I shove up from my desk, grab my keys, my coat, and turn for the door. My assistant knocks at the same time, pushes open the panel of glass and metal.

“Mr. Wilkenson,” he says, poking his head inside.

“Yeah?” I reply gruffly, shoving my arms into my jacket.

“Some preliminary reports have come in. I sent them to your data room”—like a Google Drive, but significantly more secure…and expensive—“so you can review them at your convenience.”

“Great,” I clip out. “I’m leaving for the day.”

“I’ll cancel your afternoon.”

I nod, start to push past him.

“Uh, sir, before you go?”

I pause, glance back, lift my brows in question.

He holds out a legal-sized envelope. “This was just delivered via courier for you.”

Icy cold terror consumes me but I manage to keep my hand steady when I reach out and take the envelope, as I tear it open.

But the photograph inside? It nearly sends me to my knees.

As I’m still reeling from the horror of that glossy eight-by-ten, my phone buzzes in my hand, and, automatically, my gaze goes to the screen.

Unknown number.

Every muscle in my body locks. I swipe my finger across the screen, answer the call. “Hello?”

Silence.

Then a voice.

But it’s not River’s.

Instead, it’s male.

Calm.

And too fucking familiar.

“You should leave work.”

My grip tightens around the phone hard enough the case protests. “Who is this?” I growl.

A soft chuckle. “You know exactly who this is.”