UNDER THE SPOTLIGHT Chapter 17

That evening, I went to Cassandra Shaw’s apartment, a high-rise in the heart of Seattle, where the floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city lights like a sea of stars.

She wore a silk robe, the neckline half-open, revealing a delicate collarbone and a deep, shadowed curve. Her hair fell loose, the edge of the office gone, replaced by a softer allure.

She handed me a glass of red wine, her smile layered with meaning:

“Liam Hart, bold move—coming to me to talk. So, what’s your plan?”

I took the glass; my fingers accidentally grazed hers, warm like a live wire.

I swallowed to hide my nerves:

“Ms. Shaw, I want to help Sara Reynolds keep the role, but I don’t want her at Mr. Dalton’s party. Do you… have a way?”

I tried to keep my tone steady, but the tension still leaked through.

Cassandra sat, long legs crossing, the robe sliding to her thigh to reveal pale skin.

She lit a cigarette, exhaled a ribbon of smoke, her gaze sharp enough to read my soul:

“Liam, do you know what you’re saying? Dalton isn’t someone you can provoke. One word from him and you’re done in Seattle—never mind saving Sara’s role.”

She paused, her tone softening. “Still, I have to say, that fire of yours is interesting. Tell me—how do you plan to fight him?”

I clenched my jaw and forced the words out:

“I want to find Dalton’s weak spot—or something else that makes him back off Sara.”

Even I knew how naive that sounded, but there was no way back.

Cassandra laughed, low, like she was mocking my innocence:

“Weakness? A man like Dalton has plenty. The question is, can you dig them up? This world isn’t won on passion—it’s won with brains.”

She stood, came to my side, and leaned to pick up the cigarette pack. The robe fell forward, the view across her chest unguarded, the outline of lace clear in the light.

I held my breath, my body stiff as wood.

She seemed not to notice, and went on:

“Dalton’s backed by the head of Starlight Group. He’s got leverage on more than a few people. If you want to move him, you need chips of your own. For example, he’s been negotiating with an overseas firm lately. Word is, there are things in that contract that won’t stand daylight. If you can get proof, he might think twice.”

I froze, my brain flaring like fireworks. “Proof? How do I get it?”

Cassandra sank back onto the sofa and crossed her legs; the robe slid to the top of her thighs, revealing even more pale skin.

“That depends on your skill. I can give you a phone number.”

Her robe pooled at the edge of the couch. The air was thick with her perfume—jasmine laced with musk—an invisible net tightening around my reason.

Her fingers traced my chest, her nails leaving a warm sting that set my blood on fire.

I tried to stay calm, but when she leaned close—soft curves pressing into me, warm breath in my ear—it ate at my restraint like poison.

“Liam, I’m doing you a big favor. There should be something in return, shouldn’t there?”

Her voice was low and nakedly teasing. Her bare foot hooked my calf, gliding, deliberately testing my limits.

I played dumb, my throat dry as sand:

“You’re joking, Ms. Shaw. I… I’ll work hard and repay you.”

She chuckled, amusement veiled in the sound, as if she saw straight through me.

The next second, she yanked hard and pushed me onto the couch, her long body covering mine. The robe slipped away entirely, baring a white shoulder and the faint edge of lace across her chest.

Leverage