Wednesday morning felt like walking through a minefield blindfolded.
I'd spent the night staring at my ceiling, running through every possible scenario for when Daniel discovered the Golden Dragon mix-up. Would he think I was crazy? Would he assume I was playing games with him? Or—and this was the scenario that kept me awake—would he start wondering why someone would lie about something so simple?
The espresso machine seemed to sense my mood and decided to have a complete breakdown. Every shot came out either burnt or weak, and by nine AM I was ready to throw the entire contraption out the window.
"Machine giving you trouble, or is it something else?" Marcus appeared at my elbow, wearing his knowing smile.
"The machine hates me today," I muttered, dumping another ruined shot down the drain.
"Couldn't have anything to do with your admirer from yesterday, could it?"
I froze with the portafilter halfway to the trash. "What admirer?"
"Daniel Morrison. Came by around three yesterday asking all sorts of questions about you. Your schedule, your background, whether you were seeing anyone." Marcus leaned against the counter, clearly enjoying himself. "Man looked like he'd been hit by a truck full of feelings."
The café door chimed before I could figure out how to respond.
Daniel walked in like he was approaching a wild animal that might bolt. His usually perfect hair stuck up at odd angles, and his tie hung loose like he'd been pulling at it all morning. But it was his eyes that worried me—focused and determined in a way that meant trouble.
"Morning, Emma."
"Morning." I kept my voice steady, professional. "Your usual?"
"Actually, I was hoping we could talk for a minute." He glanced at the empty café, then back at my face. "About last night."
"Last night?" I gave him my best confused look. "I went home after work and watched Netflix. Pretty exciting stuff."
"Really? Because I could have sworn I had drinks with you at Hendrick's. We talked about your ex-boyfriend, your fear of playing it safe." Daniel's voice was casual, but his eyes never left my face. "You borrowed my phone to call for a ride."
I let confusion morph into concern. "I think you might have me confused with someone else. I don't really go to bars, and I definitely don't have an ex-boyfriend to complain about."
"My mistake then." Daniel pulled out his wallet and extracted a business card. "In that case, let me introduce myself properly. Daniel Morrison. I work upstairs."
"Emma Chen."
The name hung in the air between us like a question waiting for an answer. Daniel repeated it slowly, like he was tasting each syllable.
"Chen. That's Chinese, right?"
"My father was Chinese-American." I turned back to the espresso machine, needing something to do with my hands. "My mother's side is Irish."
"What line of work was your father in?"
The question sounded casual, but there was something underneath it that made my skin prickle.
"Finance. Investment stuff." I kept my answer vague, the way someone who didn't really understand their parent's job might.
"Here in the city?"
"Daniel, you're holding up the line." Marcus materialized beside me, nodding toward the growing crowd of caffeine addicts behind Daniel.
"Right, sorry." Daniel stepped back but didn't leave. "Emma, would you have dinner with me tonight? Nothing fancy. I just... I'd like to get to know you better."
This was what I'd been working toward, but my stomach was doing strange flips that had nothing to do with strategy.
"I don't usually date customers," I said, playing hesitant.
"Technically, I think I'm more of a regular than a customer. And I promise I'm not some creep who hits on baristas for fun." His smile was self-deprecating, almost shy. "One dinner. If it's terrible, I'll go back to just ordering coffee and pretending we've never spoken."
I let the pause stretch long enough to seem genuine. "Okay. One dinner."
The smile that spread across Daniel's face was bright enough to power the building's lighting. "Great. I can pick you up around seven?"
"I'd rather meet you somewhere. First date precautions."
"Smart. How about Russo's? It's—"
"Two blocks from here. I know the place."
Daniel wrote his number on the back of his business card and slid it across the counter. "In case you need to reach me."
After he left, I stared at the card like it might burst into flames. Direct access to Daniel Morrison's personal phone. Just like that.
The rest of my shift crawled by with the speed of geological time. Every customer seemed determined to order the most complicated drink possible, and the espresso machine continued its campaign of sabotage. But my mind was elsewhere, rehearsing conversation topics and calculating angles.
By closing time, my nerves were wound tight enough to snap.
I went home and spent an hour staring into my pathetic excuse for a closet. The dress Sarah had loaned me was too obvious. My work clothes screamed 'coffee shop employee.' Finally, I settled on dark jeans and a sweater that looked put-together without trying too hard.
Russo's was exactly what I'd expected from Daniel's description—intimate lighting, checkered tablecloths, and the kind of atmosphere that suggested generations of family recipes. Daniel was already there, studying the wine list with the concentration of someone trying to solve a complex equation.
"You made it," he said, standing to pull out my chair like we were in some old movie.
"GPS makes everything easy these days." I accepted the menu he offered, noting how his fingers brushed mine. "Nice place."
"Been coming here since college. Tony—the owner—makes everything from scratch, including the pasta." Daniel settled back into his seat, and I caught him studying my face again. "You look beautiful, by the way."
The compliment hit differently than I'd expected. Warmer. More personal.
"Thank you." I buried my face in the menu to hide whatever expression I was making. "What's good here?"
We ordered—penne arrabbiata for me, seafood risotto for Daniel, and a bottle of wine that probably cost more than my monthly metro card. While we waited for food, Daniel asked all the standard first-date questions, and I gave him the carefully crafted answers I'd rehearsed.
"So business school," Daniel said, twirling pasta on his fork. "What got you interested in that?"
"My father, I guess. He used to talk about the markets at dinner, explain how different investments worked. I found it fascinating how money could grow just by making smart choices."
"Past tense. He's not around anymore?"
The casual way he asked it made something cold settle in my stomach. "He died three years ago."
"I'm sorry." Daniel's voice was softer now, genuinely sympathetic. "What happened?"
"Heart attack," I lied smoothly. It was easier than explaining suicide, and definitely easier than explaining murder.
"That's rough. Were you close?"
"Very. He was... he was everything to me." For once, I didn't have to fake the emotion in my voice.
Daniel reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "I lost my mom when I was twelve. It never really stops hurting, does it?"
"No. It doesn't."
We sat in comfortable silence for a moment, his thumb tracing patterns on my knuckles. It should have felt calculated, part of the game. Instead, it felt like the first genuine human connection I'd had in years.
Dangerous territory.
"So what kind of business interests you most?" Daniel asked, releasing my hand to pour more wine.
"Investment management, actually. Portfolio theory, risk assessment." I shrugged like it was just casual interest. "I read the Wall Street Journal sometimes, try to understand how the market works."
"Most people find finance incredibly boring."
"Most people don't realize how much power financial institutions have over ordinary people's lives." The words came out sharper than I'd intended, carrying more passion than Emma-the-barista should have possessed.
Daniel leaned forward, suddenly alert. "What do you mean?"
I caught myself before I said too much. "Just that investment firms make decisions that affect millions of people, but most of those people have no idea what's happening behind closed doors. Sometimes I wonder if the decision-makers really understand the consequences of their actions."
"You think they don't care about consequences?"
"I think some of them care more about quarterly profits than human cost."
Daniel was quiet for a long moment, swirling wine in his glass. "What about the ones who want to change things? The ones trying to make the system more ethical from the inside?"
I studied his face in the candlelight, this man who was supposed to be my enemy but kept saying things that made my carefully constructed walls want to crumble.
"Then I hope they succeed before it's too late."
Our conversation shifted to lighter topics after that, but I could feel Daniel watching me, cataloging my reactions. He told stories about difficult clients and office politics, and I found myself laughing despite everything. He was funny without being mean, intelligent without being arrogant.
Everything his father wasn't.
We were sharing tiramisu when the TV above the bar caught my attention. The evening news was running a story about Meridian Industries—a family manufacturing company that had just been acquired in what the reporter termed "an aggressive hostile takeover by an undisclosed investment group."
My blood turned to ice water. Meridian had been one of my father's clients. A good company run by decent people who'd built something meaningful from nothing.
"Terrible shame," Daniel said, following my gaze. "Meridian was solid. Good to their employees, active in community development. They'll probably be stripped for assets within six months."
"Who bought them?"
"Report doesn't say, but there are only a handful of firms in the city with the capital and inclination for that kind of predatory acquisition." Daniel's expression had gone dark. "Most of them operate just within legal boundaries, but barely."
My phone buzzed against my leg. I ignored it, but it buzzed again. Apologetically, I pulled it out to silence it.
The message on my screen made the world tilt sideways:
"Your father's death wasn't suicide. Someone wanted him silenced. Pier 47 tomorrow at 8 PM. Come alone if you want answers. —A Friend"
My wine glass slipped from nerveless fingers, red liquid spreading across the white tablecloth like spilled blood. The crash seemed to echo through the restaurant, drawing stares from nearby tables.
"Emma!" Daniel was out of his chair instantly, grabbing napkins. "Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine," I managed through lips that felt numb. "Just clumsy."
But I wasn't fine. Someone else knew. Someone else knew about my father, knew about the lies, knew I was looking for answers. Which meant someone had been watching me.
Which meant I wasn't as invisible as I'd thought.
"You sure you're okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
If only he knew how accurate that was.
"Just tired. Long day." I forced myself to help clean up the wine, to act normal while my mind raced through possibilities. Who had sent that message? What did they know about my father's death? And why reveal themselves now?
Daniel insisted on walking me to the subway station afterward, his hand warm on my elbow as we navigated the evening crowds. At the entrance, he turned to face me, and for a moment I thought he might kiss me.
Instead, he just squeezed my hand.
"I had a great time tonight," he said. "Can I see you again soon?"
"I'd like that."
"Emma." His voice was serious now, concerned. "Be careful going home. The city can be unpredictable at night."
I looked up at him, this man who was supposed to be my target but kept showing me kindness I didn't deserve.
"I can take care of myself."
"I'm sure you can. But be careful anyway."
The subway platform was nearly empty, and as my train pulled away from the station, I caught a glimpse of Daniel still standing at the entrance, watching until I disappeared into the tunnel.
My phone felt heavy in my pocket. Someone else was playing this game now—someone with information I needed and motivations I couldn't begin to guess.
The hunter had become the hunted.
And I had no idea who was holding the weapon.
**End of Chapter 3**