Chapter 12
F or what has to be the fifteenth time in three days, I find myself staring at Silas’s texts, the words etched into my mind like graffiti I can’t scrub away. The first two came in rapid succession after I arrived home from the auction.
Silas: Texting Natalie instead of me? Interesting choice.
Silas: I should’ve known you wouldn’t follow my instructions.
The third, sent well past midnight, felt like an afterthought. Or maybe a calculated effort to unsettle me.
Silas: You’re testing my patience, Ms. Page.
I imagine him lounging back in his study chair, feet propped up on the desk, smirking to himself as he crafted the perfect follow-up.
My lack of response is what he gets for stealing my number from Natalie’s phone.
Yes, I purposefully texted her instead of him. Of course, I did. I assumed she’d pass along the message when she left for the night, sparing me the need to open the line of communication with Silas directly. Something about texting him felt... definitive. A step I wasn’t ready to take. I didn’t want to find out what it might mean. Or worse, what it might lead to.
I set my phone face down on my desk and push it out of reach. Whatever response he thinks I owe him can wait. If he’s as curious and as arrogant as I think he is, he’ll keep finding ways to put himself in my path. He can’t help himself. That’s how men like him operate. And if he keeps willingly pursuing me, then I can tell myself that I didn’t push him into it. That it’s not my fault. It won’t stop the guilt entirely, but maybe it’ll dull the edges when this is all over.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
I roll my neck, trying to ease the ache that’s settled into my muscles from hours spent at my desk. I haven’t left the apartment much in the last three days, choosing instead to bury myself in work. Leaving only to sleep or train with Jeff at the gym, I’ve avoided anything resembling a social setting. The thought of being recognized in public, of seeing those auction photos plastered across newsstands, makes my stomach twist.
Every major Chicago outlet had run the story, the headlines splashed with Silas’s name and the phrase “mystery woman.” They were vague, though whether that was due to Silas’s influence or sheer laziness on their part, I couldn’t say. Thankfully, I wasn’t explicitly identified. The articles focused on the event itself, praising the Wells family for raising a staggering amount of money for New Beginnings Housing Project. There were glowing summaries of each sibling, though naturally, Silas stole the spotlight.
The photos, though, told their own story. One caught him leaning in close on the staircase, his mouth near my ear as I struggled through my panic attack. Another showed us mid-toast at the bar, glasses raised. And the candids? Me chatting with Natalie while Silas approached, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. To an outsider, it looked intimate. Like we were something.
The reality, of course, was far less polished. Less romantic. It had all felt so… normal. A little too normal.
Peter, naturally, had opinions. He’d called the morning after the auction when the photos were published, his tone dripping with satisfaction as he praised my “progress.” I tried to explain that the images were misleading. That Silas and I could barely have a conversation without clashing, but Peter dismissed my concerns with unsettling ease.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says, his voice sharp and sure. “What matters is that people are already seeing you together. You’re in his orbit now. That’s the leverage we need.”
I wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, but the words dried up in my throat. What could I say that he wouldn’t twist back on me? I don’t even know who hired Peter or what they’re looking for. Are the Wells family innocent victims caught in someone else’s crosshairs? Or are they just as guilty as the rest of the people I’ve dealt with in the past?
And then Peter did something that set my teeth on edge: he let it go. No rebuttals. No lectures. He simply moved on to another topic, his tone as casual as if we’d been discussing the weather. It wasn’t like him to let things slide. Not unless he had a plan.
For once, I hope I’m wrong. But I’m not holding my breath.
In between researching the businessmen Silas spoke to at the auction, I’ve been digging deeper into Martin Shaw. His name had tickled something in the back of my mind the moment I heard it, and now I know why. I must have read it a hundred times while researching the Wells family.
For over a decade, Martin was the Chief Operations Officer at Wells Corporation and was widely rumored to be the interim CEO until Silas or Jeremy grew into the role. His departure from the company came not long after Natalie and Davey started dating, shocking nearly everyone in those circles. Officially, the decision to part ways was framed as amicable, but a few weeks later, Martin was announced as the President of NexBio Therapeutics in San Diego. A smooth landing, far removed from the empire he had helped build.
Outside of his career, Martin fits the mold of the stereotypical rich man: divorced multiple times, no shortage of money or connections, and an ego to match his net worth. But the dynamic I’d witnessed between him and the Wells siblings told me there was more to his story. Something significant must have happened for Natalie, Silas, and Davey to despise him so openly, yet not enough to sever his relationship with William. Of course, I wasn’t getting past the Wells Corporation’s airtight security to uncover his resignation details, and Martin’s personal accounts I managed to access revealed nothing of substance. He’s either exceptionally cautious or exceptionally boring.
My chair creaks as I stretch my arms over my head, the stiffness in my shoulders evident. Outside, the sun has disappeared behind the city skyline, casting long shadows across my sparsely decorated office. The quiet feels oppressive, a reminder of how isolated I’ve kept myself since the auction.
I flip on a few lights on my way to the kitchen, hoping dinner might offer some reprieve. The contents of my fridge are as uninspiring as my mood; just a flavored rice packet, some microwavable vegetables, and the remains of a rotisserie chicken I deboned earlier in the week. I toss the rice into the microwave and lean against the counter as it whirs, my mind wandering back to the Wells family and their tangled web of secrets.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, the vibration unmistakable. My pulse quickens, a mix of dread and anticipation flooding through me before I even glance at the screen. Only one person has that specific alert.
I take a steadying breath and press the phone to my ear. “Twice in one week. Are you calling because you missed the sound of my voice?”
Peter’s laugh is sharp, humorless. “My favorite hacker. I still don’t miss that attitude one bit. Have you learned anything else since we last spoke?”
“I’ve been looking into Martin Shaw,” I reply evenly. “I don’t think his departure from Wells Corp. was as clean as it seemed, but I haven’t found anything concrete yet.”
“And why does that matter?” Peter asks, his tone clipped and impatient, as if the answer should already be obvious to me.
“He and the Wells children don’t get along, but he still has William’s favor. I thought there might be something there.”
“I doubt it,” Peter says dismissively, his irritation palpable even through the phone. “Focus on the family. Martin Shaw is a distraction.”
Of course, he would say that. Peter has never valued my instincts, no matter how often they’ve been proven right. Still, I know better than to argue. “Understood,” I answer, tone flat.
As the microwave beeps, signaling the rice is ready, I swap it out for the vegetables and punch in a new cook time. Steam rises from the rice packet as I tear it open and dump it into a bowl.
“There’s also the younger brother,” I continue after a beat of silence. “He’s a wild card. There are still some issues between him and the rest of the family, so I don’t think he’s fully trusted with company information.”
“So, the oldest is our way in,” Peter replies, his voice sharpening with interest. “Good thing you cozied up to him a few days ago.”
“I mean, barely, but I guess,” I say with a heavy sigh, stirring the rice absentmindedly. The silence stretches between us like a taut wire, snapping only when Peter’s voice cuts through again.
“You sound upset,” he states, his clipped tone making it clear he already knows the answer. “Is there something you’d like to share with the class?”
I lean my forehead against the cool granite countertop, my grip on the edge tightening. “You know my reservations about this part,” I say quietly. “I’d prefer to stick to research.”
“You had that once,” Peter snaps, his voice rising. “Then you went and fucked it up. Who had to clean up your mess?”
My mouth goes dry, and the anger I try to keep in a tight ball in the pit of my stomach starts to unravel at what he insinuates by the word “mess.” But I can’t react. He’s waiting for an answer, and I know he won’t stop until I give him what he wants.
“You did,” I whisper, pulling the phone away from my ear and setting it on speaker. Hearing his voice so close feels suffocating.
“That’s right,” he growls, his anger building with every word. “Me. Your lord and fucking savior. I was nice enough to give you a second chance, but there’s no hiding behind a screen this time. If you screw this up, your ass is on the line. No one else’s. Should I regret my decision?”
My fingers throb from the death grip I have on the edge of the counter. There’s so much he’s leaving out, so much he always leaves out. The years I spent working under him without a single complaint, doing everything he asked of me, giving him exactly what he wanted without hesitation. And, of course, he doesn’t mention her . He never does. To Peter, she was nothing more than collateral damage. But I can’t stop thinking about her. I never could. Not then. Not now.
The guilt claws at my chest, relentless and hollow, leaving nothing but echoes where my resolve should be. He’s not wrong. It is my fault. All of it. I’m the reason I am where I am, and she’s... where she is.
“No,” I say, the word scraping against the inside of my throat. “I’ll do it.”
The words feel broken and jagged in my head, but they come out in the carefully practiced, indifferent tone I’ve mastered over the years. Somehow, I always let my composure slip with Peter. I walk into every conversation thinking, for once, I’ll come out on top. That I’ll have the upper hand. But we always spiral down this same path, the same script, the same moment where I lose.
“Good,” Peter spits, his satisfaction like acid against my skin. “Now, find the information I need. I don’t care if you have to fuck it out of the oldest one at this point, or even the sister’s husband. Just. Get. It. Done.”
Before I can force out the words that would seal my obedience for another day, he hangs up. The silence left behind is deafening, broken only by the soft hum of my microwave as it signals that my vegetables are done.
I stand there for a moment, staring at nothing, my mind a storm of regret and anger and shame. The smell of the microwaved rice and vegetables wafts toward me, but my appetite has long since disappeared.
I let out a slow breath, pushing away the sting of his words, the ache in my chest, and the memories that won’t stay buried. It’s just another conversation, another reminder of who Peter is and who I am under his thumb. And tomorrow, it’ll be another task, another deadline, another step deeper into a hole I’m not sure that I’ll ever climb out of.
With a shaky hand, I grab the bowl of rice and vegetables and place it on the counter. The act of eating feels like going through the motions of someone else’s life. Like I’m not even here anymore, just a shadow of the person I once was. And maybe that’s for the best. Shadows don’t feel guilt. They don’t feel anything at all.