Hiding Places
Автор
Jessica Morel
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Honey Reynolds has spent so much of her life believing family is something you lose. With only her twin brother, Bas, by her side, she moves to Boston for a fresh start and lands her dream job at one of the city’s most prestigious architecture firms. The last thing she expects is Cameron Cunningham—her brilliant, frustrating CEO, whose need for control clashes with her fiercely independent spirit. But when long-buried secrets surface, Honey discovers her past isn’t what she believed. As danger closes in and the truth about her family unfolds, she must decide whether to keep running…or trust the people who never stopped searching for her.
Chapter 1: The Thirty-Second Floor
HONEY
“Genevieve Reynolds?” the receptionist called.
I stepped up to the reception desk, clutching my handbag tighter than necessary. The leather creaked faintly beneath my grip, grounding me in something real—because everything else about this moment felt like it could slip out from under me at any second.
“Yes—that’s me.” I forced a smile, the kind I’d practiced in mirrors and interviews. Polished. Pleasant. Safe. “Although most people call me Honey.”
The blonde receptionist blinked once, clearly processing the nickname, before returning my smile. Her expression didn’t change much, but I caught the flicker of curiosity in her eyes. I was used to that. People always reacted to it. Honey. Too soft. Too sweet. Too much.
“Nice to meet you, Honey. I’m Brooke.” She tapped something on her keyboard, long acrylic nails clicking sharply against the keys. The sound echoed in the otherwise quiet lobby, each tap landing like a countdown. “You’re to go straight to the thirty-second floor.”
Thirty-second floor. That sounded…important. Too important.
“Is Mr. Matthews waiting for me?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
My interview with Bruce Matthews had been the only reason I’d slept at all last night. He’d seemed steady. Reliable. The kind of boss who didn’t throw junior employees into the deep end and watch them drown. The kind of person who explained things. Who gave you time. Who didn’t expect perfection on day one.
Brooke’s expression shifted—just slightly. “Bruce Matthews doesn’t work here anymore.”
My stomach dropped so fast it felt physical, like I’d missed a step going down the stairs. “Wait—what?”
“I suggest you hurry,” she said smoothly, as if she hadn’t just pulled the rug out from under me. “You shouldn’t keep him waiting.”
Him? I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. Great. First day and already confused. Fantastic start, Honey.
I turned toward the elevators before she could see the panic creeping across my face. My heels clicked too loudly against the polished floor, betraying the confidence I was trying to project.
This was fine. Totally fine. New city. New job. New life. No cheating ex-boyfriend. No memories of hospital rooms and funerals. No late-night calls that ended in silence. Just Boston. Just work. Just moving forward.
The elevator doors slid open with a quiet ding, and I stepped inside alone. The mirrored walls reflected back a version of me that looked far more put together than I felt. Black pencil skirt. White blouse. Hair curled just enough to look intentional, not overdone. Professional. Capable. Like someone who deserved to be here.
Thirty-second floor. The numbers climbed faster than my pulse—ten…sixteen…twenty-four… You’ve got this. You graduated. You got the job. You moved across the country. You can survive one awkward first day. You can survive anything.
The elevator chimed again. Thirty-two. The doors slid open. And suddenly, it felt like I had stepped into another world.
The hallway stretched wide and polished, glass walls lining either side. Conversations murmured behind closed doors, low and controlled. Phones rang in sharp, efficient bursts. Shoes clicked rhythmically against marble floors, each sound precise and purposeful. Professional. Serious. Intimidating. But familiar too.
I’d spent years studying spaces like this—layouts, flow, visibility. How architecture shaped behavior. Even now, my brain mapped the corridor automatically, instinctively. Glass partitions for transparency. Minimal décor for efficiency. Natural light placement—intentional, drawing focus forward. Smart design. Very smart design.
Which meant the person running this place was smart. And suddenly that mattered more than anything. I adjusted the hem of my black pencil skirt and forced my shoulders back. You belong here. Even if your six-inch heels were doing most of the convincing.
At the end of the corridor, I spotted a glass conference room. Inside, roughly twenty people sat around a long table. Waiting. My pulse kicked harder. Are they…waiting for me? No. That didn’t make sense.
Before I could second-guess myself, the door opened. A man stepped out. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair—slightly messy, but in a way that felt deliberate. Like effort had been applied to make it look effortless. And his eyes—green. Sharp. Focused directly on me.
My breath caught. Not fear. Not exactly. Something sharper. Unexpected. Like awareness. Like my body had recognized something before my brain could catch up. He didn’t smile. Didn’t soften. Just studied me like he was assessing something valuable…or dangerous. My pulse skipped. Oh. That was new.
“Miss Reynolds?” he asked. His voice was low. Controlled. Confident. Too confident.
“Yes,” I managed, my voice quieter than I intended.
Up close, he was even more intimidating. Not just because of his height—but because of the way he held himself. Still. Precise. Like every movement had already been decided before it happened. Before I could say another word, his hand closed around my wrist. Firm. Warm. Startling. Heat shot up my arm where his fingers touched me, sharp and immediate. Oh wow.
“Hey—wait—” I blurted.
But he was already pulling me forward. Straight into the glass conference room. Twenty heads turned in unison. Twenty strangers. All staring. My pulse roared in my ears.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, trying to pull free. “I think there’s been a mistake—”
His grip loosened slightly—not letting go but adjusting. Not restraining. Guiding. That small shift made it easier to breathe. Barely.
“Everyone,” the man said, his voice cutting cleanly through the room. Silence fell instantly. The authority in his tone wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. People listened. My stomach twisted. What is happening? He positioned me at the head of the table. Like I belonged there. Like this was intentional.
“Everyone,” he repeated calmly. “This is Genevieve Reynolds—” A pause. Every eye locked on me. “—your new boss,” he finished.
The room tilted. Boss? No. No, that wasn’t possible. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t experienced. I wasn’t—
My gaze snapped to him. Green eyes. Watching me. Not amused. Not dismissive. Focused. Like he expected something from me. Like he believed I could handle it. That made everything worse. Twenty pairs of eyes stared at me. Judging. Waiting. Expecting. My heart slammed violently against my ribs. Say something. Say anything.
My mouth opened. Nothing came out. The air felt too thin. Too tight. Too heavy. My vision blurred at the edges. The last thing I saw was him stepping closer. Reaching toward me. And the world went black.
