Her Mother's Killer
RONNY’S POV
I yanked back so fast the seatbelt buckle clanged against the side of the car. My fingers latched around the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping me grounded, knuckles whitening as if I could choke down the electricity still buzzing through me.
My throat worked once, twice, before I managed to force out the words.
“Sorry. That—” My voice cracked in the middle, rawer than I wanted it to be. I cleared my throat hard. “That was an accident. I didn’t mean to—”
I stopped. Breathed in sharp. My chest rose like a man surfacing from underwater, lungs desperate, head spinning.
Her voice slipped into that breathless silence, soft but deliberate.
“I don’t mind.”
I snapped my gaze toward her. She wasn’t blushing. She wasn’t flustered. She was watching me with those wide green eyes that seemed to peel every layer of armor off me without even trying. And worse—her lips curved upward, dangerous, knowing.
“Actually,” she went on, tilting her head ever so slightly, “it did feel good. Imagine how good it would feel if we really kissed. Not an accident. A real one.”
The muscles in my shoulders coiled so tight I thought they might tear.
I turned toward her sharply, every ounce of restraint I had fighting against the pull of her words. Her eyes locked on mine, steady, waiting, daring me. That’s when I saw it—the flicker. The tiniest shift in her expression that told me everything.
She’d done it on purpose.
That little tilt of her head, the so-called accident—she wanted me to feel it. To break.
My jaw clenched until it hurt.
“Miss Arthur,” I said, the title cutting like a blade between us, “our relationship is strictly professional. I agreed to play your boyfriend for the case. Don’t forget that.”
Her smirk deepened, lips pressing together like she was holding back a laugh, though her eyes sparkled like she’d already won something.
“Fine,” she murmured, drawing out the word like silk sliding across skin.
But she was still smiling.
And that smile was more dangerous than any bullet.
I forced my attention back to the windshield, flicked the ignition, and the engine purred to life. My grip on the wheel didn’t ease, though—I drove out of the underground lot with the kind of focus I usually reserved for tailing suspects. Every gear shift was mechanical, sharp, purposeful, as if precision could keep me from glancing sideways at her again.
It didn’t.
Every red light, every turn, my eyes betrayed me. The black dress. The legs crossed just enough to tease. The faint curve at her lips like she was replaying that almost-kiss over and over.
By the time we turned onto the long, sweeping driveway lined with trees, my chest was tight with more than just the pressure of the case.
The estate rose before us like something out of an old painting—grand, sprawling, its windows glowing warm in the dusk like watchful eyes. Not a home. A stage. Every shadow behind those walls whispered danger, secrets waiting to be unraveled.
I slowed the car as we approached the gate, the iron bars sliding open at our arrival. My pulse ticked faster. Every instinct in me went on high alert.
We were stepping into enemy territory.
I pulled into the circular drive, the fountain at the center spraying arcs of water that sparkled under the golden exterior lights. I cut the engine, but before I could even take a breath, her hand caught mine.
Her skin was soft, cool, trembling just faintly against my calloused palm.
“We have to make them believe we’re in love,” she whispered quickly, her words rushing out like a secret. Her grip tightened. “They can’t suspect you’re a private investigator. If they do, my stepmother will start—”
I turned to her sharply, cutting her off.
“Your stepmother?”
Her brows furrowed, eyes widening slightly as if she’d realized too late she’d said something she shouldn’t have.
“Yes,” she said cautiously.
Confusion sliced through me, but it wasn’t the harmless kind. It was the kind that knotted in my gut, sent alarms ringing in my head.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” My tone was low, hard. I stared at her, searching for cracks in her expression. “Your mother dies and your father remarries in six months? You don’t think that’s suspicious?”
Her jaw tightened, lips pressing together like she was holding back something sharp. “Of course I think it’s suspicious. That’s why I hired you. But I can’t just point fingers without evidence. If I accuse her without proof, my father will never forgive me. He already thinks I’m… unstable.”
The word hung heavy in the air, but I didn’t bite at it. Not yet.
I nodded once, curt, though my mind was already spinning with calculations, red flags stacking on top of each other like a house of cards ready to collapse.
She released my hand, smoothing invisible creases out of her dress, and reached for her clutch. I stepped out of the car, the night air cool against my overheated skin, then rounded the hood to open her door.
She stepped out gracefully, every movement rehearsed, poised—the perfect daughter coming home for dinner. But when she looked up at me, I caught it again.
The flicker.
Not fear. Not even nerves.
Determination.
If I was right, she was playing a game far bigger than she’d let on.
And as her heels clicked against the stone driveway, my voice cut through the silence, low and firm.
“If I’m right, Liliana…”
She glanced back at me, brows lifting slightly, her eyes catching the light like emerald fire.
“…your mother’s killer is here.”
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