Catch Me If You Can - Pietro Maximoff

THREE

MILAYA

The lobby swallowed me in gold light and glass, vast and echoing with the bustle of people who didn't so much as glance at the girl in heels trailing behind a silver-haired Avenger. Pietro moved like he owned the marble under his feet, shoulders squared, hands tucked lazily into his pockets, his gait infuriatingly casual for someone who'd just yanked me out of a near-career-ending situation.

I hated that I was following. I hated more that my pulse thudded like a drumbeat, as if every step closer to Stark himself was a countdown to something irreversible.

"Milaya!"

The sound of my name cracked through the lobby like glass shattering. My stomach dropped. Sean barreled through the revolving doors, his face a storm. His voice pitched loud enough for the whole damn lobby to hear. "Where the hell were you? I was about to get tossed—security said they'd ban our press badges—"

Panic seized my spine before I could smooth it out. Every nerve screamed at me to run interference, to spin something, anything, before this spiraled into a disaster I couldn't write my way out of. Pietro said he would talk to Tony to help, and we needed that help, fast.

A sharp whistle. Low, lazy, unmistakable.

I froze, whip-turning to see Pietro, already standing at Stark's side. He had one hand lifted in a mock-summon, smirk in place, like I was some wayward dog he'd decided to call over.

Heat flooded my face, fury spiking white-hot in my chest. My pen was right there, tucked in the leather spine of my notebook—I had half a mind to stab it straight into that smug grin.

Sean's words were still tumbling, panicked, desperate. "Jones is going to kill us—"

I didn't let myself think. Didn't let myself breathe. I just leaned closer, dropped my voice sharp and lethal, the way you cut a wire before it sparked.

"Follow me. Don't say a word."

His mouth snapped shut. He blinked at me, thrown, and that was all I needed. I pivoted on my heel, spine straight, strides long enough to look confident even if my pulse screamed otherwise. Each click of my heel across marble was a challenge to myself: keep up, Iris.

Pietro was waiting. Of course he was. He hadn't even looked away from Stark, but I felt his eyes catch me anyway, the flick of triumph in that too-blue gaze as I closed the space.

Tony Stark—untouchable, billionaire, the headline every journalist in the world would sell their soul for—glanced at me like I'd just materialized out of smoke. Pietro leaned in, voice smooth and annoyingly self-assured, like he hadn't just hijacked my entire life plan in under five minutes.

"Stark," he said, his accent curling around the name. "This one here—she's with me."

My throat went dry.

With him.

Like hell I was. Like hell I'd ever let myself be.

And yet, there I stood, right where he wanted me, caught between fury, opportunity, and the sharp sting of realizing Pietro Maximoff had just rewritten my rules without even asking.

Stark's gaze flicked over me with the kind of sharp curiosity that felt like being x-rayed. His mouth curled, equal parts smirk and interest.

"Oh," he said, recognition lighting his expression. "You're the girl who asked those dangerous questions earlier." His eyes narrowed, amused. "Eilish, wasn't it?"

I swallowed, my throat desert-dry, but my voice came steady. "Iris. Milaya Iris, with Frontline Post."

Saying it out loud grounded me, steadied me like a blade in my palm. My name, my choice.