Chapter 7 Elara
Elara
The interrogation room smelled of disinfectant and steel. No windows. No clock. Just me, a table, and a two-way mirror.
I didn’t need to guess who was on the other side. I felt him—Beckett Cole. Watching. Waiting for me to crack.
The man across from me wore the uniform of authority: pressed shirt, clipped tone, pen tapping a steady rhythm. He asked questions the way surgeons cut—methodical, unfeeling. I figured he was FBI, probably a friend of The Golden Team.
“How long were you with Hydra?”
“Eleven years.”
“What was your primary function?”
“Public relations. Fund allocation. Networking. Defending Roger Grand.”
His brows arched. “And in all that time, you claim you didn’t know about the trafficking operations?”
“I knew they were corrupt,” I said evenly. “But I believed it was financial. Political.” My throat tightened, but I forced the words out clean. “Not girls in cages. Not needles in veins. If I had—” I stopped myself. Words meant nothing here. Only proof.
The agent leaned back, unimpressed. “You expect us to believe that?”
No. Of course not. I don’t care if you believe me or not.
But I lifted my chin anyway, because weakness was death. “Believe it or don’t. My intel got you inside that warehouse. My intel will get you to Roger Grand. The rest…” My voice sharpened. “…is irrelevant.”
A shift beyond the mirror. Not movement I could see, but something I felt. Beckett. He didn’t buy a word. And yet—he hadn’t walked away.
The agent closed his file with a snap. “That’ll do for now.”
When the door clicked shut, I let my breath out in one slow stream. Not relief—just survival.
And then, through the mirror, I whispered the truth I couldn’t tell them:
“I didn’t know. God help me, I didn’t.”
I saw it, faint as smoke—the outline of Beckett’s shoulders stiffening.
And for the first time, I wondered if maybe—just maybe—he’d heard me.