Chapter 23
T he car ride to Bucktown is cloaked in a tense silence. Moments after Silas hung up his first call, he was already dialing Cillian, instructing him to bring the town car around. The speed with which Cillian arrived made me wonder if he’d been lurking somewhere in the mansion, or if he was simply close by. Either way, just minutes later, the sleek black vehicle was in the driveway. Silas ushered me into the back seat with practiced efficiency, pulling me into the middle seat once the door shut behind him.
I half-expect Cillian to make some snarky remark about how far I’ve come since sneaking around the back stairwell of Silas’s home, but he remains laser-focused on the road, scanning our surroundings. Silas, too, seems preoccupied, one elbow resting on the window ledge, chin propped on his palm as his thumb absently brushes over his lower lip. His other hand rests on the inside of my knee.
My head throbs, the dull ache amplified by the events of the past few days. Peter’s fury has finally landed squarely on me, a terrifying weight I’ve been anticipating but hoped to avoid. And then there’s Silas—his presence in my life transforming in a matter of hours from distant and skeptical to something intimate and protective. It’s all too much to process, the speed of it dizzying.
The ride takes longer than expected thanks to traffic. When we arrive at the front of my apartment building, the sight of several police cars parked along the curb sends my heart into overdrive. Silas exchanges a few hushed words with Cillian as we’re getting out of the car, who nods and drives off, likely to park somewhere discreet. Silas clearly doesn’t want to leave the car unattended. Not when the break-in might be a prelude to something bigger, and certainly not if someone is keeping watch.
With the fluidity of someone accustomed to avoiding attention, Silas maneuvers us through the lobby with surprising efficiency. He keeps his hand on the small of my back, gently guiding me forward as we pass a small group of residents gathered near the entrance. They’re deep in conversation with a member of the building staff, all eyes darting toward us as we walk by. Some look curious, others suspicious. I’m not sure if they’re wondering whether I’m the tenant whose apartment was broken into, or if they recognize Silas’s face. Either way, I don’t stop to find out.
Their stares follow us as we reach the elevator. Silas presses the button, we step inside, and I hit the button to my floor instantly. The doors slide shut, mercifully cutting off their gazes. I exhale slowly and stare at each number lighting up as we ascend.
“They’re just scared it might happen to them,” Silas murmurs.
I nod stiffly, unable to shake the growing knot in my stomach. I want to ask him if his team has shared any specifics about the break-in, but the words cling to the back of my throat, paralyzed by the reality of what we might find. I know what Peter is capable of and have seen the destruction left in his wake before. When he aims to make a point, he makes sure it hurts.
The elevator dings, and the doors slide open far too quickly. My unit is at the end of a side hallway, but even from here, I can see a police officer stationed at the corner we need to turn down. His posture straightens as we step out, his watchful eyes assessing us as we approach.
“I’m Scarlett Page,” I blurt out, the words tumbling from my lips like an automatic defense mechanism. As if my name alone can explain everything.
The officer’s expression hardens slightly, skeptical. “Do you have ID to confirm that?”
My heart sinks. “The person who likely broke in is the same person who did this,” I say, gesturing toward my bruised and battered face. My voice is sharper than I intended. “He also stole my bag with my wallet and apartment keys.”
The officer doesn’t look convinced. His eyes dart briefly to Silas, as if trying to determine whether I’m someone worth entertaining. Before I can spiral further, Silas steps in with the composed authority that seems to radiate off him in waves.
“Officer Jensen, is it?” Silas asks smoothly, squinting at the nameplate on the officer’s chest. He doesn’t wait for confirmation before continuing. “My name is Silas Wells. I have a few associates who were overseeing the lock change this morning when the broken lock cover was discovered. If you’ve gathered most of your evidence, would it be possible for us to enter? Scarlett would like to collect a few belongings and something to confirm her identity, at the very least, given the circumstances.”
His tone is polite but firm, leaving no room for debate. The weight of his presence shifts the dynamic entirely. Officer Jensen hesitates, then nods slightly, his skepticism softening into reluctant compliance.
“Alright,” Jensen says, waving us along to follow him.
We’re escorted down the hallway to my apartment door, where a small hive of activity unfolds. Several officers mill about, along with Julie, one of the building managers I’ve met before. She stands off to the side, speaking quietly with the locksmith, who’s crouched by my shattered lock. His toolbox is open, a screwdriver in hand. Two men in well-tailored suits hover nearby, their sharp gazes lifting when they spot Silas. Their shoulders relax slightly, acknowledging him with subtle nods.
Julie steps forward, her expression stiffening when she takes in my battered face. “This is Scarlett,” she confirms to Officer Jensen, barely able to take her eyes off me. “This is her unit.”
Silas seizes the opportunity to pull aside his team. I catch fragments of their conversation; references to yesterday and details they’ve shared with law enforcement. But their words become muffled background noise as my attention shifts to the wreckage beyond my apartment’s open door.
The entryway is destroyed. Coats from my closet are strewn across the floor, their fabric sliced open, dirty footprints staining the fabric. My heart sinks as I spot the small side table where I used to leave my keys and mail—it’s splintered, its legs broken, pieces of torn envelopes scattered like confetti. The ceramic bowl that used to hold my spare change is nothing but shattered fragments, glinting under the dim hallway light. Beyond the entry, three officers are walking through the living area, speaking quietly to one another as they document the space with photos and evidence markers.
Julie’s voice pulls me back to the moment when she places a gentle hand on my upper arm. “I’m so sorry this happened, Scarlett. The locksmith should be done soon, but if you’d prefer, we can discuss moving you to another unit entirely.”
I force a small smile, though I’m unsure of where I’ll even be living in a few days. “I’ll think about it,” I say vaguely. “Am I allowed to grab some of my things?”
Hearing my question, one of the officers inside the unit looks up. “Both bedrooms, the bathroom, and the hallway have been documented,” he informs me. “You’re free to collect belongings from those spaces.”
I nod, offering a quiet thank you before stepping carefully around the locksmith and into the apartment. The destruction before me saps what little energy I’ve managed to gather since yesterday.
The hallway is even worse upon closer inspection. My sliding closet door hangs slightly ajar, revealing my coats piled haphazardly on the floor. Most of them are ruined, slashed with what looks like a box cutter or knife. I wince, reaching up for the stack of reusable grocery bags I keep on the top shelf. By some miracle, they’re untouched. I shake one out, clutching it tightly.
The bathroom is the first door off the hallway, and though it initially seems mostly intact, a closer look reveals the mirror over the sink. Its surface is a spiderweb of cracks, the impact point a jagged hole in the center, reflecting misshapen fragments of the ripped shower curtain. I carefully step over the shards scattered across the floor, crouching down to open the cabinet beneath the sink. Relief floods through me when I reach for the inconspicuous tampon box tucked toward the back.
I open the false bottom, my heart pounding, and exhale shakily when I see my real passport, the debit card tied to my real name, and the additional fake IDs and credit cards Peter had made for me. Every piece is accounted for. With trembling hands, I shove the items back into the hidden compartment, fish around for a few unopened essential toiletries, and step out of the bathroom.
The next room off the hallway is my bedroom, and when I reach the doorway, my heart sinks further. My mattress is flipped against the wall, its fabric torn in places, exposing foam stuffing. The drawers of my dresser are pulled open, some of them broken where the joints meet, and my clothing is everywhere. Shirts, pants, and dresses litter the floor, cut to shreds. I wonder if Peter gave Harrison this honor.
My hands tremble as I sift through the mess and try to salvage anything of use. I find a pair of leggings, several socks, and little else. My phone charger is still plugged into the wall by the bed somehow. The side tables have been beaten with one splintered leg hanging precariously, and my personal phone that used to sit in one of the drawers is nowhere to be seen. The few sentimental items I kept on them are smashed.
The tears come unbidden, stinging my eyes, but I blink them away furiously. These are just things , I remind myself. Insignificant in the grand scheme of what’s happening. I’ve survived with next to nothing, and I’ve rebuilt my life more times than I care to count. I can do it one more time.
At last, I enter my office, bracing for the worst. Holes pepper the walls and closet doors, chunks of drywall scattered like confetti across the floor. The desk and chair I had painstakingly picked out for their perfect balance of function and aesthetic have been hacked apart, as though someone took an axe to them in a blind rage.
How did my two neighbors not get woken up by this and report me to the leasing office?
What unsettles me the most, though, is the absence of my laptop and computer. No shattered monitor, no toppled tower, not even a stray keyboard. It’s as if they were never here at all. The cold realization sinks in; if Peter has my laptop and computer, it means someone is combing through my files, my research, my entire digital footprint. He’s taken the information I’ve gathered for himself, removing the middleman he no longer trusts. And Peter doesn’t just let loose ends walk away.
My gaze shifts to the emerald velvet couch behind my desk, the one I used to curl up on to bask in the morning sun. It’s been gutted, the back and cushions sliced open, stuffing spilling out like the aftermath of a brutal fight. Above it, taped to the window, is a photograph torn cleanly in half. It’s the only photo I ever kept in this apartment.
I approach it slowly, the sunlight catching on the glossy paper and deepening its colors. A blood-red X slashes across the image, cutting through Drew’s radiant smile. Her hair falls in soft curls around her shoulders as she sits at a bar table, arm wrapped around someone whose presence is lost to the torn edge. I don’t need the missing half to know what it showed: an equally happy version of me.
A cold dread pools in the pit of my stomach. With trembling hands, I peel the photo from the window. My thumb runs over Drew’s face, willing the ink to disappear. But the red is permanent, soaked into the fibers of the paper. It’s stained. Tainted. Just like everything Peter touches.
Just like everything I touch.
A droplet of water lands in the center of the photo, blurring the edges of the ink. Startled, I reach up to my face, only to realize I’m crying. My chest tightens as panic flares; hot and suffocating.
What the ever-loving fuck am I going to do?
“Scarlett.”
Silas’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts, startling me. I whirl around to face him in the doorway, his broad frame blocking the destruction of the common area. His hands are clasped behind his back, taking in the mess and then locking his attention on me. His expression is mostly unreadable, but his eyes are a swirl of contradiction: concern and barely contained fury.
I hastily wipe the tears from my cheeks, jamming the torn photo into the tote bag hanging from my elbow. “There isn’t much that’s not destroyed,” I manage to say hoarsely.
His jaw flexes, the tendons in his neck taut. He nods once, assessing me from head to toe. “Things are replaceable,” he answers softly, a gentle reminder rather than a dismissal.
“They are,” I echo, nodding, though my heart isn’t in the words.
Silas breaks the invisible barrier between us, stepping into the room and into the space I’ve used to work against his company for months. Guilt crawls up my spine, an insidious virus spreading through my limbs, but I don’t move away. I can’t.
When he’s close enough, his hand lifts to the side of my neck, his fingers warm and steady as they rub back and forth. “The security here is shit,” he declares, frustration dripping from every syllable.
I flinch inwardly, knowing all too well that he’s right. The building’s security was one of the reasons Peter chose it. Their cameras are mediocre, and the network laughably easy to infiltrate. It made my comings and goings seamless, made it simple for Harrison to slip in and out unnoticed. It was perfect for the facade I needed to maintain as Scarlett Page. But now? Now it feels like a ticking time bomb.
“It doesn’t help that someone stole my keys and ID to know where I live,” I add, the lie slipping out smoothly as I gesture to the mess at our feet. Anything to deflect attention from the glaring security lapse it would be strange for someone in my profession to overlook.
Silas’s thumb nudges my chin upward, forcing me to meet his gaze. His eyes burn with quiet intensity, but his touch remains soft. “I don’t feel comfortable with you staying here.”
I blink, startled by the declaration. Before I can respond, he continues, “You can stay with me until we find you a place with better security. It shouldn’t take more than a few weeks.”
His words hang in the air, heavy with finality, and something inside me bristles. I don’t know if it’s Silas’s demand, the thought of losing the first space that’s been my own in years, Peter’s calculated brutality, or all of the above. My arms cross tightly over my chest as I take a deliberate step back. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Silas’s expression remains calm, but I see the flicker of irritation in his eyes, sharp and fleeting. “Scarlett. Be reasonable.”
“I am,” I shoot back, and my voice cracks slightly. “You think uprooting my life is going to solve this? That throwing me into some high-rise fortress with guards at the door is the answer? That’s not happening.”
He exhales slowly, as if trying to keep his composure. His voice, when it comes, is low and steady, though I can hear the strain beneath it. “I’m not throwing you anywhere. I’m trying to make sure you’re safe.”
”I am safe,” I snap, though it’s missing some of its usual bite. My eyes dart to the broken remains of my desk, the gutted couch, the holes in the wall. This isn’t safety, and we both know it. “This is my home.”
His gaze sharpens, his mouth tightening into a grim line. He doesn’t raise his voice, but the weight of his words is crushing. “Safe?” he repeats, gesturing pointedly to the wreckage. “Someone attacked you, stole your keys, and tore this place apart. That’s not safe. That’s a warning shot.”
A chill freezes the words in my throat. He’s so spot-on it’s terrifying. But instead of admitting it, I let my stubbornness, pride, and deep-seated need for independence take over. “I can handle myself,” I answer rigidly.
“Can you?” Silas’s tone hardens, though it doesn’t lose its edge of care. “Because it wasn’t me who showed up at my office yesterday, bleeding and beaten in broad daylight.”
The truth of his words cuts deep. I glare at him as my guilt coiling tight in my chest like a vice. My fists clench at my sides, nails digging into my palms. “You don’t get it,” I mutter, shaking my head.
“You’re right,” Silas says, his patience thinning as exasperation seeps into his words. “I don’t. All I know is that you’re in danger, and I’m not going to let you sit here and wait for whoever did this to come back. Whether you like it or not, you’re leaving.”
“You don’t get to decide that for me.” The words come out harsh, but I can’t take them back.
He runs a hand through his hair. “This isn’t about me deciding for you, Scarlett. This is about someone targeting you to get to Natalie. I won’t stand by while you act like everything’s fine. You’re not fine.”
My pulse thunders in my ears. The truth is suffocating, but I can’t let him know just how right he is or why.
Silas takes a steadying breath, his voice softening as he closes the gap I’ve created between us. “Look,” he says quietly. “I get that you feel like this is your problem to solve, but it’s not just you anymore. I’m involved now. Natalie’s involved. I need to know you’re somewhere safe, or I won’t be able to focus on anything else.”
The guilt twists sharper, stealing my breath. I look at him, really look at him. The exhaustion is etched into his features, the tension in his shoulders like a coiled spring. He’s scared. For me. For Natalie.
“Scarlett,” he says softly, his hand reaching for my arm. “Please.”
The plea undoes me. My shoulders sag, the fight draining out of me as I stare at the floor. The broken bits of wood, the debris, the shattered pieces of the little life I created. I can’t do this alone, not right now. I can’t let him shoulder this burden either, but for now, I don’t have a choice.
“Fine,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “I’ll go.”
Relief flashes across his face, softening the hard edges. “Good.”
“But I’m not doing this because you told me to,” I add quickly, clinging to a shred of control. “I’m doing it because I don’t want to deal with this mess right now.”
He tilts his head slightly, a faint trace of warmth in his voice as he replies, “Whatever you need to tell yourself.”
I don’t respond, my arms tightening across my chest as I look past him at the destroyed space that used to be mine. Silas doesn’t push me further, and for that, I’m grateful.
Because the truth is, Peter didn’t just send a message with this break-in. He sent a promise. And until I know what he’s planning, staying close to Silas and Natalie might be the only way to keep them safe. Even if it means convincing Silas that I’m not the very danger he’s trying to save us from.