Chapter 28

VICTORIA –

Darius sits behind his desk, the steady anchor in the storm I feel brewing inside me. We’ve been running in circles for an hour, dissecting strategies to deal with Jennifer. Every path we map leads to a dead end or a potential bloodbath. It all feels flimsy, a plan designed to fail.

“We have to do something, Darius,” I say, my voice tight with a frustration I can no longer contain. “I can’t sit here any longer knowing she has a key to our entire operation in her hand.”

“I know,” Darius replies, his tone infuriatingly calm. “But we just have to be very careful with this. One bad move—”

There’s a knock on the door. We both look up.

“Come in,” Darius calls.

Jason steps inside. His face is grim, the faint shadows under his eyes telling me he hasn’t been sleeping.

“Am I interrupting?”

“Jason, my boy,” Darius says, leaning back in his chair. “Not at all. What can I do for you?”

Jason’s gaze flicks to me, a quick, unreadable glance, before settling back on Darius. “I might have something. I’ve been tracking financials, cross-referencing the shell companies we know the opposition uses.” He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “I found a payment. A large one. It was routed through a holding company in the Caymans and landed in an account under the name ‘Laura Holdings.'”

“That’s one of Jennifer’s known aliases,” I confirm, my interest sharpening. This is the first real, tangible lead. “When was this?”

“Three days ago,” Jason says, and the detail is so specific, so verifiable, that it rings true. It’s the kind of concrete evidence we’ve been desperate for.

Darius nods slowly, steepling his fingers. “Good work. That’s a solid thread to pull.”

“But that’s not all,” Jason continues, his voice dropping slightly. “I did some digging on the source of the funds. It traces back to a private investor… a man named Alistair Finch.”

The name means nothing to me, and I see the same blankness on Darius’s face. It’s a plausible enough name.

“I ran a background,” Jason adds, almost as an afterthought. “Turns out he’s a silent partner in a few boutique hotels downtown. Completely clean record. Not even a parking ticket.”

And there it is.

The shift is subtle, but in a room where we trade in lies for a living, it screams. A “completely clean record” is a red flag. In our world, no one with that kind of money and connections is clean. It’s an amateur’s detail, something a person would invent to make a story sound more convincing.

My eyes meet Darius’s across the desk. I see the same flicker of calculation in his gaze, the slight tightening at the corner of his mouth. He’s heard it, too.

But he doesn’t call him out. He just gives a slow, thoughtful nod. “Alistair Finch. We’ll look into him. Thank you, Jason. This is… very helpful.”

Jason nods, a tight, satisfied smile touching his lips. “Just doing my part.” With a final glance between us, he turns and leaves, closing the door softly behind him.

The silence he leaves in his wake is heavier than before.

Darius waits a full ten seconds after the door clicks shut before he speaks, his voice a low rumble. “A completely clean record.”

“I heard,” I say, the words cold.

We don’t say anything else. We don’t have to. The trust we placed in Jason now has a hairline fracture. He gave us one truth to make us swallow one lie.

The question is, why?

The silence in the room thickens, a heavy blanket smothering the space after the door clicks shut. Darius and I just look at each other. The flaw in Jason’s story hangs in the air between us, obvious and damning.

“A completely clean record,” Darius finally says, his voice a low rumble. He leans back, the leather of his chair groaning. “He gives us a verifiable truth—the payment to Jennifer—to make us swallow a perfect, pretty lie.”

“He’s not just pointing a finger,” I say, the pieces shifting into a more sinister configuration. “He’s building her a gallows and handing us the rope. He’s giving her a motive and a master.”

Darius nods, his gaze sharp. “So. Is she a willing partner, and he’s now throwing her under the bus to save his own skin? Or is he forcing her hand and making sure we finish her off for him?”

The ambush on Jason flashes in my mind. “The hit on him was too precise for a random enemy. It was personal. What if she’s not his partner? What if she’s his victim, and she tried to fight back?”

“And failed,” Darius adds grimly. “And now he’s ensuring she can’t try again. By making us his weapon.”

I stand, restless energy coiling in my veins. “So we have two traitors. Or a traitor and a hostage. We just don’t know which is which yet.”

“We play his game,” Darius decides, his tone leaving no room for argument. “We follow his ‘lead’ on this Alistair Finch. We let him see us focusing all our suspicion on Jennifer.”

“We make him feel safe,” I agree, a cold strategy settling in my gut. “Safe enough to get careless. He’ll either lead us to his real partners, or he’ll make a move against Jennifer that proves his guilt.”

We are no longer just investigating a leak. We are walking onto a stage where everyone is acting, and the price for a missed cue is death. Jason thinks he’s the playwright. We have to prove we’re the directors.

***

AVERY –

Today has been a slow-motion car crash.

I made it to the office. Barely. Sat at my desk and stared at spreadsheets I couldn’t read, emails I couldn’t answer. My brain was underwater, everything muffled and slow and useless. Not even the bitter coffee or Eli’s concerned texts helped. The only positive thing about today was that Mr. Landers didn’t hover like he used to do. He didn’t even dare to glance my way. I think he’s still afraid that if he does so, Victoria will appear and finished what she didn’t that day.

By the time I made it out, I was a raw nerve with legs.

My boots echoed up the apartment steps, one hand in my pocket, keys curled between my fingers. Juno’s probably pressed against the door already, impatient and dramatic like she always is. She’s the only reason I want to be home right now. Soft fur, sharp attitude, always purring even when I don’t deserve it.

I reach the top step. My door is there. Home. Comfort.

I’m just about to slide the key into the lock when I hear it.

A click.

The sound is small, precise, and utterly final. In its wake, a circle of cold, unyielding metal presses into the base of my skull.

Every muscle in my body seizes. I freeze, my breath trapped in my lungs.

Then the voice comes. Low, measured, and horribly familiar.

“Inside. Now. No sudden moves.”

My blood turns to ice.

Jennifer.

I don’t turn. I don’t speak. I am not stupid. Survival is a quiet, immediate calculation.

My hand, trembling slightly, finds the lock. The key turns with a soft, surrendering snick. The door swings inward. Juno darts toward me, a blur of grey and white, then freezes in the threshold, tail puffed like a bottlebrush, sensing something is wrong.

I step inside. Jennifer follows, the door clicks shut behind her.

I step across the threshold into my own home, a prisoner walking onto her own execution ground. Jennifer follows, a shadow at my back.

The door clicks shut, sealing us in.

Her presence fills the space like a toxic smoke—slow, invasive, suffocating. I can still feel the phantom pressure of the gun, a target painted between my shoulders.

“Sit.” She says. The command flat.

I move slowly, deliberately, lowering myself onto the edge of the couch without ever letting my eyes leave her. Jennifer finally steps into my line of sight, the weapon angling down, but not away. There is no softness in her expression, no trace of the woman who shared drinks and easy laughter in the glow of Club Lilith. Her eyes are flat, her mouth a grim line. This is all cold, hard intent.

“You’ve made quite the mess, Avery.”

My heart is a frantic, painful drum against my ribs

“You’ve made quite the mess, Avery.”

“I don’t understand,” I whisper, the lie tight and thin in my throat.

But I do. I understand more than I want to. The sudden disappearance, the cold dismissal, the heavy silence—it all clicks into a terrifying, obvious picture.

And I know one thing with absolute, chilling certainty: this isn’t about me.

It is about her.

Victoria.

And in that moment, the icy fear crystallizes into something else, something hot and sharp and defiant.

Suddenly, I don’t feel scared.

I feel furious.