Chapter 13
Silas
Everly kept insisting she was fine, but I couldn’t stop worrying. The way things had gone down with her mother—it had to leave a mark. You don’t just walk away from that kind of history unscathed.
My own fury at Eris’s betrayal had cooled. I was forty-three—old enough to recognise manipulation when I saw it. But Everly? She was barely twenty-two. Still young. Still learning what it meant to be chosen after a lifetime of being dismissed, belittled, ignored.
So, I swallowed my pride. I kept my voice level. I stayed calm—for her.
And for a while, it worked.
Until Eris reared her head again.
This time, I didn’t involve Everly. This time, I handled it myself.
While she settled into her new role at BLM, I called Conrad and brought his PI back on retainer.
I’d locked Eris out as soon as she was on the plane back from Edinburgh.
I froze every credit card. Cut her monthly allowance. Changed the locks and all security codes to every one of my properties. She’d been reduced to the contents of her wardrobe and whatever overpriced jewellery she hadn’t pawned yet.
The latest report confirmed she was staying at a dingy bed and breakfast. Shared bathrooms. Threadbare towels. A long fall from her previous perch.
But instead of quietly fucking off into the sunset, Eris did what she always did—made herself the victim.
She tried selling an exposé to a bottom-feeding tabloid, claiming I had groomed Everly. Said I’d targeted her daughter from the start. That I’d waited for her to turn legal so I could divorce Eris and marry Everly.
It was desperate.
Insulting and infuriating.
I’d barely seen Everly as a child. Her own mother had shipped her off to boarding school the second she could. Hell, there were years I forgot she even lived with us. We were never close—until recently. And even that was more circumstance than conspiracy.
But that didn’t stop Eris from spinning her fiction.
She painted herself as the grieving mother, betrayed by both husband and daughter.
Conrad responded with a cease-and-desist so fast it should’ve broken the sound barrier. We included travel logs, business trip records, school transcripts. For once, her shitty maternal instincts worked in my favour. Her neglect was the strongest evidence I had.
Still, I wasn’t done.
I wanted the knife to twist.
I wanted to make sure she couldn’t claw her way back to anyone with money or influence.
That meant going through Steven.
I stabbed the window control and let the glass roll down. Across the street, Lawrence approached Ashley Bailey—Steven’s wife—and handed her a thick envelope.
Dates. Times. Addresses. Receipts.
And just for the hell of it, I added the high-res photos and select video footage of my ex-wife and Steven.
Steven wouldn’t just dump Eris—he’d do it publicly. Loudly. And when Ashley came for half of his assets, I’d be the one to light the cigar.
I even included the name and number of an aggressive divorce attorney in the envelope.
Lawrence jogged back across the road. I stayed parked, watching.
Ashley opened the envelope right there on her doorstep.
I didn’t flinch when her hand flew to her mouth. Didn’t blink when she started to shake.
“Back to the office, sir?” Lawrence asked as he slid into the front seat.
I gave her one last look.
Ashley had begun to cry. Not quietly.
I hit the window button.
“No,” I said. “Let’s call it a day. Home, please.”
The engine purred to life. The glass slid up. And we drove away.
I didn’t take pleasure in this part.
But I meant what I said to Everly.
No one comes after me. Or mine.
And Everly was mine.
I’d dismantle anyone who thought otherwise—piece by fucking piece.
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Connie was in the kitchen, beating something mercilessly in a silver mixing bowl. The moment I walked in, she looked up, one brow raised like she’d been expecting me.
“Mr Voss,” she said, exasperation creeping into her voice, “Everly has been great today.”
She didn’t need to elaborate. It had become our daily ritual—me showing up at the end of my workday, pretending I wasn’t checking in on Everly.
“If there were a problem, I’d call,” she added, returning to her bowl with another vicious stir.
I grunted and turned to leave.
“She’s in your office,” Connie called after me, not missing a beat. “Probably humming to herself and typing like her life depends on it.”
Of course she was.
Everly had taken to her new role at BLM like she’d been born for it. Neural interface research. Algorithms. Code. All things that gave me a headache but lit her up from the inside. She worked from home most days—my home—and claimed my office as her own. I didn’t mind.
I liked the scent of her lingering in the room.
I liked coming upstairs and seeing her bent over the desk, brows furrowed, tongue peeking out as she focused.
I climbed the stairs two at a time, loosening my tie. It had been a long day. But this was the part I looked forward to.
Coming home to her.
My office door was open.
I edged forward, taking her in.
She’d ridden and drained me before I left for work this morning, patting my shoulder like I was her personal fucktoy. I hadn’t had time to address her insolence then—but tonight? I had all the time in the world.
She was curled up in my leather chair like she owned the damn place.
Legs tucked beneath her. A book open on her lap.
One of my Montblanc pens in her hand—clicking it absently as she read.
The sleeves of her sweater shoved up to her elbows.
Her hair pinned up in that messy way she liked, wild strands sticking out like a crooked little crown.
My sexy little fucktoy.
Her presence was a beautiful disruption. She didn’t belong in a boardroom or behind some soulless desk. She belonged here—filling my space, stealing my focus, making herself impossible to ignore.
And she didn’t even notice me watching her.
It was time to remind her who owned her.