Page 44 of Claimed By the Ruthless King

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OPHELIA

“Ophelia Bennett,” says Mike Myers, shaking my hand.

“Phee is fine.”

“Very well, Phee,” says Mike, inviting me into his office. “Do come in and take a seat.”

I walk into the office, noting the chandelier and the upholstered couch. This man must know what he’s doing to afford an office as beautiful as this, and in the heart of Manhattan.

Horns blare in the distance as I take a seat opposite his desk. Clouds loom over the city, the sun starting to disappear.

“A storm is on its way, according to the weather forecast,” says Mike, following my gaze through the window. “The city could use some rain after all this sunshine we’re having.” He tucks himself into his seat, glancing across the desk at me.

The deep lines indented across his brow hint at many years of frowning, of asking too many questions, ones he never found answers to.

“You must be Elanor Bennett’s daughter.”

My mouth gapes open. He did not just say my mother’s name. “Um, yes,” I stutter. “You knew my mother?”

“Briefly,” says Mike. “We spoke a few times.”

My mother was seeing an investigative journalist?

“I heard she passed away a few years ago. My deepest condolences, Miss Bennett.”

“Thanks,” I say, swallowing the lump that forms in my throat every time her name is mentioned unexpectedly. “Look,” I say, shuffling in my seat. “This might sound crazy, but I was in Queens earlier, walking around a block of self-storage units, when a black Toyota sedan appeared. They threw this onto the ground.” I slide the sheet across the desk, watching Mike carefully. “Hence my visit today… Do you recognize the handwriting?”

Mike takes a look at the paper, adjusting his glasses. “I’m afraid I don’t.” He sets the paper down, netting his hands over it. “Did you see the driver?”

“The windows were blacked out.”

“Hm,” says Mike, staring into space as he mulls something over. “By the looks of things, Miss Bennett, it seems someone wanted you to pay me a visit.”

“Who would want that?”

Mike shrugs. “I have no idea. Perhaps you remember the license plate of this vehicle?” He slides his keyboard forward, fingers at the ready.

“My memory is like a sieve,” I groan, silently resenting myself for not paying closer attention.

“No worries.” Mike pushes the keyboard away, netting his hands together again. “If you see the vehicle again, take note of the license plate and give me a call. You can find my number here,” he says, handing over his business card.

“No need. Your number is right here on the paper.” I tap the digits. “See?”

“Ah, indeed,” says Mike, his brows knitting together as he inspects each number. “This person must have paid me a visit. Unfortunately, Miss Bennett, I’ve worked with too many clients over the years to even hazard a guess at who this person could be.”

“Perhaps the client recommended you to a friend?”

“Potentially,” says Mike, drumming his fingers on the table in thought. “The person who gave you this wants to help.”

“They can help by showing me their face.”

“I understand your frustration,” says Mike, bowing his head. “But this person could be hiding from someone. People go undercover in this city all the time, and the numbers are rising each year.”

“Why?”

“More threats,” explains Mike. “More crime.”