Don't Go
RONNY’S POV
The card sat there on my desk like it owned the place.
Black. Silver lettering. Crisp edges. A stupid little rectangle that had managed to hijack every single one of my thoughts since this morning.
I’d tried. Hell, I’d tried harder than I had in a long time to focus on the pile of case files in front of me. I had missing persons, cheating spouses, and one very suspicious “accidental” warehouse fire to get through. The kind of work I could usually sink into and forget the rest of the world existed.
Not today.
Every time I picked up a file, my gaze slid back to the card. Like it was calling to me. Whispering my name.
And Liliana Arthur’s voice was still in my head.
I know you, Ronny. You’re a curious cat.
She was right. And I hated that she was right.
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling, telling myself for the hundredth time that I should throw the card away. Hell, I should shred it, burn it, scatter the ashes over the ocean just to make sure it never found its way back to me.
Instead, my hand reached for it. Like it had a pull I couldn’t fight.
The number was embossed, the kind of detail that screamed money. I didn’t think about it anymore—I just grabbed my phone and dialed.
One ring.
“Ms. Arthur’s office,” a woman’s voice answered. Not her voice. I knew it instantly. Too smooth, too formal.
“This is Ronny,” I said before I could stop myself. “I’d like to speak to Liliana.”
“I’m afraid she’s in a meeting right now, Mr Ronny,” the woman replied politely. “She’ll return your call as soon as she can.”
Her assistant. Of course.
“Right,” I muttered. “Thanks.”
I ended the call before I could say anything else stupid. The phone landed on my desk with a dull thud. My head dropped into my hands.
What the hell am I doing?
I told myself I shouldn’t have called. That it was a mistake. That Liliana Arthur was a complication I didn’t need in my life—or in my business.
So I buried myself in work again. I opened a file, made a few notes, dug through some photos. My brain didn’t care. It kept sliding back to the black card, to the silver eyes, to the way she said my name like she’d been practicing.
An hour later, my phone buzzed.
I didn’t recognize the number, but I didn’t need to.
The message was short.
‘It’s me. Liliana. 9 PM tonight. Silver Palace. Penthouse.’
No “hello.” No “see you there.” Just an instruction. Like she was sending for me.
I stared at the screen. The words pulsed there like they had weight, pressing against my chest.
Don’t go, I told myself.
But I already knew I would.
It wasn’t because of her looks, or the way she’d stopped me in the middle of the road like she owned it. It wasn’t even because she’d been in my head for two straight days.
It was because I needed to know.
And for a private investigator, curiosity wasn’t just a flaw—it was fuel.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze. I made a few calls. Checked in with a client. But all of it felt mechanical, like I was just buying time until nightfall.
By the time the clock hit 8:15, I was standing in front of my closet, debating whether to wear something that said business or something that said I don’t give a damn about your games. I settled for somewhere in between—a black button-down, dark slacks, and the kind of jacket that looked casual but had enough hidden pockets to make a smuggler jealous.
At 8:40, I was on the road.
The Silver Palace wasn’t the kind of place you just walked into. It was the kind of luxury hotel that had a waiting list just to get on the waiting list. Penthouse access? That was invite-only. And even then, you had to go through three levels of security before you made it to the top.
Pulling up, I half-expected someone to stop me before I even got to the front entrance. Instead, a valet in a sharp black suit opened my door like I belonged there.
“Mr Ronny?” he asked, already holding out a ticket for my car.
I frowned. “Yeah.”
“Ms Arthur is expecting you.”
Of course she was.
Inside, the lobby was all glass, marble, and money. The kind of money that didn’t have to try too hard because it had already won. I moved past the front desk, where another suited employee greeted me by name and directed me to a private elevator.
When the doors closed, I felt it—that subtle shift in the air when you’re heading into something you can’t quite see yet.
The elevator opened directly into the penthouse.
The first thing I noticed was the view—floor-to-ceiling windows spilling out over the city skyline, the lights shimmering against the glass. The second thing I noticed was her.
Liliana stood near the windows, a glass of red wine in her hand, wearing a silk dress the color of midnight. The kind of dress that didn’t need jewelry because the person wearing it was the statement piece.
She turned when she heard me, and that same slow, knowing smile curved her lips.
“You came.”
Log in with Google Account
Chapters
Favorite
Settings
