Chapter 1: The Face I Can’t Forget

People say you can take a hit anywhere but the face. Maybe that’s shallow, but in my head, it always meant something more—like the face was the last thing you could let the world see you lose. That’s what I thought when the guy lunged at us with the knife. In a split second, I twisted, putting myself between the blade and Grant Whitaker’s face.

The knife’s point sliced Grant’s shoulder, leaving a sharp, bloody cut. He sucked in a breath, his face twisting with pain and something I couldn’t quite read.

"You that into my face, huh?" he muttered, voice rough but laced with that familiar teasing edge.

I pressed my lips together, not trusting myself to speak. Still, I nodded—just once, barely a dip of my chin.

Because, honestly, out of everything about Grant, only his face ever came close to Daniel Hayes’s. It was the only thing that really got under my skin.

Anyone who’s anyone in Chicago’s business scene knows about Grant Whitaker—heir to Whitaker Corporation—and Rachel Serrano, the self-made CEO of Lakeside Holdings. Our relationship? Complicated. Impossible to define. A constant source of gossip and speculation.

Especially after the scene three days ago.

The security footage made the rounds: me, moving with something like a dancer’s instinct, shielding Grant’s face with both hands at the critical moment, dodging the knife by a hair.

The only thing the knife left behind was a bloody streak across Grant’s shoulder.

It played like a movie—beauty saves the hero. Chicago’s rumor mill spun it into legend overnight.

But only Grant knew the truth: if I hadn’t turned him just then, he wouldn’t have been touched at all.

For three days after, Grant gave me the silent treatment. Every message I sent was like shouting into a void—no response, not even a read receipt. Just nothing. Dead air.

It wasn’t until today, after a long, tense business meeting, that Grant’s right-hand man, Marcus Lee, caught up with me as I was heading out.

"Ms. Serrano, this project—Mr. Whitaker’s been on it for over two weeks. He’s dead set on winning, so I hope you’ll go easy on us."

Marcus trailed after me from the lobby, into the elevator, all the way to the parking lot. His shoes tapped on the concrete—steady, stubborn. The sound grated, made me want to roll my eyes. The guy didn’t know when to quit.

The east side redevelopment project had been on Lakeside Holdings’ radar for two months. We basically had it in the bag—until Grant decided to jump in.

"Alright, fine," I said, keeping my tone flat. I looked up just in time to see Marcus’s face relax, then—was that a flicker of contempt? Figures.

Everybody in Chicago’s inner circle thinks they know the story: Rachel Serrano, desperate to keep Grant Whitaker close. That’s the version that gets around.

Never mind that he’s got a childhood sweetheart living in Europe. That’s the script they’ve all agreed on.

I didn’t bother with Marcus, just turned away and let it slide off me.

It’s just a project—a few million, tops. If Grant wants it, he can have it. I’ve got bigger things to worry about.

Besides, that land’s under city scrutiny—anything you do with it ends up on the front page. If it weren’t for a little good press, I wouldn’t have touched it. Handing it over to Grant? Same PR boost, none of the headache.

I slid into my car, shut the door, and leaned my head back. Closed my eyes. Let the exhaustion seep in, hoping for just a moment of quiet in my brain.

That night, at some glossy penthouse party packed with Chicago’s up-and-coming elite, the story was everywhere: Rachel Serrano gave up the east side project just to make Grant Whitaker smile. It was already the stuff of legend.

"Whitaker, that woman gave up the east side project for your smile—it’s all anyone’s talking about!" someone crowed, waving a half-empty bottle of overpriced craft beer.

A few trust fund brats—designer suits, expensive watches—sprawled on the sectional with their girlfriends, empty bottles littering the floor like badges of honor.

"That’s why people say Grant’s got it all—Rachel Serrano, CEO and all, just dying to please. Didn’t she say she’d be here in twenty minutes? It’s been fifteen already and she’s still not here?" One of them shot Grant a look, smirk dripping with challenge.

Grant just lifted his whiskey glass, took a slow sip. The woman draped over his shoulder giggled, melting into him.

"Relax. Rachel said twenty minutes—she’ll be here on the dot," he said, sounding like he’d bet his life on it.

And he was right. I, Rachel Serrano, am never late. Even for things I’d rather skip.

I stood outside the door, listening to every word, then pushed open the heavy door to the private room.

"Speak of the devil and she appears," someone called out, voice slurring from one drink too many.

"No wonder she’s always on Grant’s clock—never late." The kid was new, still figuring out the pecking order.

The others—those who knew better—went silent. They’d learned not to run their mouths about me when I was around.

But the newbie was clueless. I shot him a look cold enough to make him shrink into the couch, suddenly fascinated by his drink.

"Why’d you call me here?" I asked Grant, meeting his eyes head-on.

He let the woman slide off his lap and sat up, all business now.