My hands wouldn't stop shaking. I stared at the name in my notebook. Leonard Cruz. It looked less like writing and more like a scream on paper.
Just writing it felt like tempting fate. This wasn't some cute crush. This was a man who, according to the rumors I'd overheard in my past life, made problems disappear permanently. And I was his biggest problem waiting to happen.
A soft knock on my door made me jump. I slammed the notebook shut, my heart trying to punch its way out of my chest.
"Eva? Honey?" It was my mom. Her voice was all syrupy sweet, the kind she used when she wanted something. "Can I come in?"
I took a deep breath, trying to force my face into something that looked calm and dumb. "Yeah, it's open."
She glided in, all perfect hair and worried eyes. The act was so good, I almost believed it. Almost.
"We're all a little worried about you, sweetie," she said, sitting on the edge of my bed like she owned it. "That was… quite a performance downstairs."
I just blinked at her. "I didn't feel good. My stomach hurts."
She studied my face, looking for cracks. I kept my expression blank, like a clean, stupid slate. It was a skill I'd spent a lifetime perfecting.
"Tyler was just trying to help, you know," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "She knows how nervous these big events make you. We all just want what's best for you."
What's best for you? That was the family motto. It always meant what was best for them.
"I know," I mumbled, looking down at my hands. "I'm sorry. I guess I'm just… stressed about the gala."
Her face softened into a smile. It didn't reach her eyes. "Of course you are, darling. It's a big deal! Meeting Charles Hamilton… his family is very important to your father."
A cold knot tightened in my stomach. There it was. The setup.
"I know," I repeated, the words ash in my mouth.
She patted my knee. "Good girl. Now, why don't you go shopping today? Take my card. Buy yourself something pretty to take your mind off things. Something that will make Charles notice you."
She left the room, leaving behind a cloud of expensive perfume and lies.
I looked at the black credit card on my bed. My reward for behaving. My payment for my own betrayal.
An idea, crazy and dangerous, sparked in my mind.
If they wanted me to go shopping, I'd go shopping. But not for a dress.
I got dressed in a simple pair of jeans and a sweater, stuff that made me look like any other rich, clueless girl. I shoved the notebook into my bag, along with the credit card.
My first stop was a fancy electronics store downtown. The place was all glass and chrome, smelling like new plastic. A young guy with spiky hair and a name tag that said "Zack" looked up from his phone.
"Help you?" he asked, not really looking at me.
I put on my best airhead voice. "Hi! Yeah, I, like, totally dropped my phone in the pool. Again." I rolled my eyes like it was a cute joke. "I need a new one. And I need, like, the super-secret kind."
Zack raised an eyebrow. "The super-secret kind?"
"You know!" I leaned in, lowering my voice. "My dad's, like, a super important businessman. He says I need a phone nobody can listen to. Something… encrypted?" I said the word carefully, like I'd just learned it.
Recognition dawned on his face. He gave me a once-over, seeing the expensive bag, the designer shoes. He saw a spoiled brat, not a threat. Perfect.
"Right. Secure phone. I got you." He led me to a glass case. "This one's a beast. Encrypted calls, messages, the works. Basically spy-level stuff."
"Amazing!" I chirped, tapping the glass. "I'll take it. And I need you to set it all up for me. Like, right now. I have a yoga class in an hour." I flashed him my mom's black card.
Money talks. Twenty minutes later, I was walking out with a new, untraceable phone that couldn't be linked to me or my family. My hands were still shaking, but this time, it was from adrenaline.
This was it. No going back.
I found a quiet bench in a nearby park, my heart thumping a wild rhythm. I took out the new phone and my notebook. My mouth was dry.
How do you even call the devil? Do you just dial his number?
I didn't have his number. But I remembered something. In my past life, I'd heard my father ranting about a deal that fell through because Cruz's people used a specific, secure messaging system to communicate. He'd whined about the address, calling it "nonsense."
Iceman.IC.
It was a long shot. A crazy, stupid long shot.
I opened the messaging app and created a new account. My fingers hovered over the keyboard. What do you say? 'Hi, I'm from the future, wanna make a deal?'
I almost laughed. I'd be in a mental ward before lunchtime.
No. I had to be smart. I had to sound like I was already someone. Someone he'd want.
I typed the address: Iceman.IC.
Then I started to type a message. I deleted it three times. My palms were slick with sweat.
Finally, I just went for it. Simple. Direct.
Unknown User: Mr. Cruz. I have a business proposition. One that will interest you greatly. I can offer you a unique weapon. One your enemies will never see coming.
I hit send before I could chicken out.
I sat there for what felt like hours, staring at the screen. Nothing. The sun was warm on my face, kids were laughing nearby, and I'd just probably signed my own death warrant.
I was about to give up, my hope crumbling, when the screen lit up.
A single word. Cold. Direct. Exactly like him.
Iceman.IC: Who is this?
My breath caught in my throat. He answered. He actually answered.
I typed back, my fingers flying.
Unknown User: Someone who knows your rival, Alexander Kaine, is moving against your shipping interests in the south docks. He plans to hit warehouse 7B tomorrow night. Consider this a free sample.
I held my breath. This was it. This was the first real test. This was information I'd only learned months from now, after I was married, something my father had gloated about.
The typing bubbles appeared. Then it disappeared. Then it appeared again.
My phone rang.
The sound was so sharp and sudden I almost dropped it. The screen showed a blocked number.
I swallowed the lump of pure fear in my throat and swiped to answer.
"Hello?" My voice came out as a squeak.
There was a pause on the other end. A long, chilling silence. I could almost feel the cold coming through the phone.
Then a voice. Low. Calm. And so dangerously quiet it made the hair on my arms stand up.
"Free samples are for amateurs," he said. "Who. Are. You."
It wasn't a question. It was a demand.
And I had no idea what to say next.