Lily's POV
The metallic taste hits my tongue the second Mrs. Chen opens her mouth.
"I just want to know the truth about my husband," she says, dabbing her eyes with a tissue.
Liar.
My truth-sensing ability crawls down my spine like ice water. I've learned to hide my reaction over the years—no flinching, no gasping, just a calm nod as I write notes I don't need.
"Tell me about your concerns, Mrs. Chen," I say, keeping my voice gentle.
She launches into her rehearsed story. Her husband works late. He smells like perfume. He's distant. Blah, blah, blah. I've heard this same speech a hundred times in my cramped office above the Vietnamese restaurant on Westheimer Street.
But here's the thing—every single word out of her mouth tastes like metal. She's lying about everything.
I lean back in my squeaky chair and study her. Designer purse. Expensive watch. Perfect manicure. She's not here because she's worried about her husband. She's here because she needs proof he's cheating so she can cheat guilt-free.
Or maybe she already is.
"Mrs. Chen," I say carefully, "is there anything else you want to tell me? Anything that might help me understand the full picture?"
Her eyes dart away. Another wave of metallic taste floods my mouth.
"No," she says quickly. "I just need to know if David is faithful."
I should call her out right now. Tell her I know she's lying. But my rent is due in three days, and I'm two hundred dollars short. The instant ramen sitting in a cup on my desk isn't just dinner—it's breakfast and lunch too.
So I smile and take her case.
"I'll need a retainer of five hundred dollars," I say. "I'll follow your husband for three days and document everything."
She writes the check without hesitation. The second she leaves, I slump in my chair and stare at the money.
This is my life now.
Three years ago, I had dreams. I was going to be a real detective. Solve real crimes. Use my rare truth-sensing gift to catch killers and save lives.
Then I helped a man find someone. He told me she'd stolen from him. Every word tasted clean—no lies, no deception. So I tracked her down and gave him her address.
Two days later, she was dead.
Turns out he didn't lie to me. He just didn't tell me the whole truth. She hadn't stolen from him—she'd witnessed him murder someone. And I'd served her up on a silver platter.
Her name was Sarah Martinez. She was twenty-three years old.
I haven't taken a dangerous case since.
My phone buzzes. Maya, my best friend and part-time assistant.
Maya: Please tell me you ate something other than ramen today.
I glance at the cup on my desk and don't reply.
Maya: That's what I thought. I'm bringing tacos.
I smile despite myself. Maya's an illusion mage—she can make things look different than they are. Not powerful enough to work for the big magical families, but skilled enough to help me occasionally. Mostly, she just keeps me sane.
I'm typing a response when someone knocks on my door.
"Come in," I call, expecting Maya.
The man who enters isn't Maya.
He's tall, wearing a suit that probably costs more than my entire office. Dark hair, sharp jawline, eyes like winter storms. Two massive security guards flank him in the hallway.
Every instinct I have screams danger.
"Lily Chase?" His voice is smooth and cold.
"That's me." I stand up, trying not to look as terrified as I feel. "How can I help you?"
He doesn't sit. Doesn't smile. Just studies me like I'm a bug under a microscope.
"My name is Dante Cross."
The air leaves my lungs.
Everyone in Houston knows that name. The Cross family is one of the five most powerful magical dynasties in the world. And Dante Cross is their weapon—a combat mage who can move buildings with his mind. They say he killed a thousand people in the war overseas.
They say he's the most dangerous man alive.
"What—" I have to clear my throat. "What can I do for you, Mr. Cross?"
He pulls out a photograph and places it on my desk.
A little boy. Maybe six years old. Dark curly hair. Bright, happy eyes.
"His name is Ethan," Dante says. "He's my nephew. And three days ago, Marcus Hale kidnapped him."
My stomach drops. I know that name too. Marcus Hale—the pyromaniac who burned three buildings to ash last month. Who killed two people. Who the police can't find because he's too dangerous, too unpredictable.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "But I can't—"
"Marcus Hale has been in contact with twelve people over the last month," Dante interrupts. "All of them are lying to the police. All of them know more than they're saying." His winter-storm eyes lock onto mine. "You're going to help me find out what they're hiding."
"Mr. Cross, I appreciate you thinking of me, but I'm not equipped for—"
"This isn't a request, Miss Chase."
The temperature in the room seems to drop.
"You'll help me find my nephew," Dante continues, his voice deadly quiet. "And in return, I'll pay you fifty thousand dollars." He pauses. "And if you refuse, I'll make sure every door in this city closes to you. Your business will fail. Your cases will disappear. You'll lose everything."
My truth-sensing ability doesn't even flicker.
He means every single word.
"You're blackmailing me," I say, hating how my voice shakes.
"I'm motivating you." He straightens his suit jacket. "We start tomorrow morning. Five a.m. My driver will pick you up."
He turns to leave, then stops at the door.
"Oh, and Miss Chase? Marcus Hale sent a video two hours ago. He's going to start burning pieces of my nephew if I don't meet his demands by the end of the week."
The door closes behind him.
I stare at the photograph of little Ethan,
my hands trembling.
Then I run to the bathroom and throw up.