Chapter 15
I ’m typing the final lines of a new script to probe unprotected access points in the Wells servers when my phone pings. Blurry-eyed from hours of staring at monitors, I blink a few times to bring the notification into focus.
Harrison.
My fingers freeze mid-keystroke. I haven’t heard from him since before the auction. I assumed Peter sent him away as punishment for the fiasco, but I should’ve known better. Peter doesn’t waste resources lightly, and Harrison’s misstep probably wasn’t big enough to warrant permanent removal. Worst case, they’d just have to replace me. Still, his silence had been a small reprieve from Peter’s constant watch.
The notification sits on my screen, but I let it linger, savoring a moment of quiet control before turning back to my monitors.
Natalie’s offhand mention of that satellite office has been gnawing at me. I’ve gone back into the Wells cloud for another pass, scouring for blueprints, access logs, correspondence, anything that could hint at its existence. But the search came up empty. No mentions, no anomalies. It’s as if the place doesn’t exist.
Natalie mentioned it so casually, with no awareness of the secrecy surrounding it. She probably doesn’t even realize this office might be a closely guarded secret.
I’ve taken things further than I usually do. Last week, I tailed Davey every day, hoping to catch him making a detour or breaking his routine. But he never did. Every morning, he drove straight to the flagship office downtown, parking in the underground garage reserved for upper management. He didn’t leave until well after seven or eight in the evening, heading directly home. If he’s accessing this secondary location, he’s doing it during the day, and likely in another vehicle as a backseat passenger. Short of hiding myself in his briefcase, there’s no safe way to pinpoint when or where he’s going.
The level of confidentiality surrounding this office leads me to an unfortunate conclusion: the location and purpose of this site are likely buried in the highly encrypted files I’ve been avoiding. Files that Peter insisted I decrypt alone.
I’ve delayed long enough. I’m good at what I do: penetration testing, bypassing firewalls, exploiting vulnerabilities, and social engineering. But cryptography? That’s different. I can manage, but there are others who are far better—experts Peter has on retainer.
When I asked Peter, for the second time, if I could loop in one of those associates for this, he nearly bit my head off and asked why he even bothered picking me for the job if I couldn’t handle a simple task.
His words still echo in my mind, laced with disdain. In the past, he’s had no problem letting me pull in specialists when necessary. Now, his refusal feels deliberate, like a setup. If I fail, he’ll have an excuse to punish me. That’s Peter’s way: always keeping the power dynamic skewed in his favor, always reminding me that I’m replaceable.
So, my days have been spent researching.
After hours scouring darknet forums, I found whispers of a small vulnerability in the framework the Wells’s encryption system uses. The script I’m writing is designed to exploit that vulnerability. Once finished, I’ll test it in a sandbox environment that mimics the Wells system as closely as possible. If it works without setting off alarms, I’ll be ready to deploy it. It’s a long shot, but it might be enough. My palms sweat at the thought. Success means gaining access to their most protected files. Failure means triggering every red flag in their arsenal.
My phone buzzes again. Harrison. His name flashes across the screen, breaking my focus.
Harrison: You’re joining me for dinner downtown.
Harrison: 7:30 at the Gilded Sear. Formal dress code.
The clock on my phone reads 5:26. My skin prickles with frustration as I toss the phone onto my desk and sink back into my chair, staring at the ceiling. There’s no reason to respond. Harrison knows I’ll be there. Peter knows I’ll be there. I always show up. It’s not a choice. It hasn’t been for a long time.
Six years ago, I wouldn’t have believed this would become my life. Back then, I was living in a modest apartment in Chandler, Arizona, working remote gigs Peter sent my way. The pay was steady, the work manageable, and I was content. Drew and I spent our days dreaming about the house we’d buy together—a little place with enough room for a garden, a dog, and the kind of peace I’d never known growing up. We were happy. It felt like we were finally getting ahead, finally building something solid.
Until it all crumbled.
Thinking about Drew is like walking barefoot through broken glass, no matter how much time passes. I avoid it when I can, but in moments like this, when Harrison and Peter’s demands corner me, she’s all I can see.
For years, I could recall her face perfectly: her sun-kissed skin, the medium brown waves of her hair, the green eyes so vibrant they could outshine a forest. But now, the edges are fuzzy. Did she have freckles across her nose or just on her cheeks? Were her bottom front teeth as crooked as I remember, or has my memory warped them over time? Even her laugh—her uninhibited, musical belly laugh—feels distant, like it’s slipping away.
I close my eyes and try to hold on to her for just a moment longer.
We met during my freshman year at Arizona State. Same computer science program, same overwhelming lecture halls, and the same desperate need for a friendly face in a sea of strangers. Drew was bright, magnetic, and impossibly kind. By the end of our first month, we were study partners. By the end of the second, we were inseparable.
But we didn’t become Drew and me until she found me crying in the back of the library, buried under the weight of everything I couldn’t carry. I’d hit a wall—financially, emotionally, and physically. My job at the diner barely covered rent, let alone anything else. I was living on leftover scraps and overdrafted accounts, and it still wasn’t enough.
Drew didn’t judge me. She didn’t pity me. She just held me, stroking my hair and whispering that I wasn’t a failure. That I’d done everything I could, and it wasn’t my fault. And then she started to fix it.
She called the housing office and terminated her dorm contract. She told me she was moving in. No arguments, no hesitation. We’d make it work, she said. Between the two of us, we could afford the rent. She even made a joke about the studio apartment being like a permanent sleepover.
She gave me a kind of love I’d never known before.
Growing up, my parents were too busy hating each other to love me. Their marriage was a mistake, an accident born from an unplanned pregnancy, and I was the physical reminder of everything wrong between them. My father always said I had my mother’s “sharp tongue,” and my mother never missed a chance to call me “useless” like my dad. I tried for years to earn their approval. To make myself small, agreeable, perfect. But nothing worked.
When I was fifteen, my mom nearly spit in my face for drinking the last of the milk. That small moment snapped something inside me—or, maybe, it welded itself shut. The pain, the longing for their love, it all vanished. I became hollow, numb. After that, I treated our relationship like a business transaction. I paid them rent, bought my own groceries, and avoided them entirely.
When ASU accepted me, I saw my escape. My ticket to freedom. I didn’t care that they refused to co-sign my student loans or told me I’d never make it in computer science. I packed my bags, left without a goodbye, and never looked back.
It wasn’t easy. My federal loans barely covered tuition, and the part-time job I picked up didn’t keep me afloat. I was drowning in bills, skipping meals, and running on fumes. By the time Drew moved in, I didn’t have a single penny to my name.
But she made it work. We made it work.
Drew became my family. My person. She saw something in me that no one else ever had, not even myself.
And then she was gone.
The chime of my phone snaps me out of the spiral.
Harrison: Don’t be fucking late .
–
I arrive a block from the Gilded Sear at 7:27 and take my time walking the street toward the upscale restaurant, letting the cool April breeze calm my nerves. By the time I step into the elevator and reach the 15th floor, the clock has just ticked over to 7:33. I approach the hostess desk, waiting behind other guests as the clock turns to 7:34. That small rebellion satisfies something deep within me. A tiny act of defiance that warms my body from the inside out.
By the time the young hostess in her neatly braided hair guides me toward Harrison’s table, I can’t stop the satisfied smile from spreading across my face.
The Gilded Sear is every bit as luxurious as its reputation: coffered ceilings, rich wood paneling, and buttery leather-bound booths bathed in the soft glow of crystal chandeliers. The muted lighting and flickering tea candles on every table add to the moody, elegant atmosphere. Even on a Friday night, the restaurant hums with the steady buzz of patrons and waitstaff, each moving with practiced precision.
And then there’s Harrison.
Sitting at a corner table, facing the entire room with the perfect vantage point. He looks every bit the polished gentleman he wants the world to see. His dark blue suit is tailored well, his long, dirty-blond hair combed back into a sleek bun, and even his stubble is neatly trimmed. It’s a facade, just like everything else about him. But I’d be lying if I said this isn’t the best I’ve ever seen him look.
Of course, that doesn’t stop the way his eyes darken the moment he sees me. The grin he plasters on as he stands is so exaggerated it borders on comical. There’s something immensely gratifying about making him wait and forcing him to play the part of a doting gentleman in public.
“Scarlett,” he calls out, his voice loud enough to draw the attention of nearby diners. Arms outstretched, he steps forward, his every move a performance. I force a bright smile, nodding politely to the hostess as I step into his embrace.
It isn’t optional. Nothing ever is with Harrison.
I wrap my arms around his neck with the barest enthusiasm, but he isn’t having it. His hands grip my hips through the thin silk of my dress, yanking me flush against him. My body stiffens as his head dips to the side of my neck, his lips brushing the skin below my ear.
“I told you not to be fucking late,” he hisses, venom punctuating every syllable.
It takes everything I have not to pull away. Instead, I plaster on a sweet smile, my voice dripping with mock innocence. “Sorry I kept you waiting. The hostess was busy helping other guests.”
I count to three before untangling myself from his hold. Harrison steps back, gesturing to the chair directly beside his, rather than the one across the table. His pointed look makes it clear there will be no argument. I sit, but not without rolling my eyes when my back is to him and the room for a brief moment.
Harrison follows, pushing his chair closer to mine until our knees bump beneath the table and making my skin crawl. Through gritted teeth, I mutter, “Is there a reason you’re practically sitting in my lap?”
He ignores my question, instead grabbing both of my hands from my lap and placing them between us, fully visible to the rest of the restaurant. The grip of his fingers is rough, bordering on painful, and I resist the urge to yank away.
“You’re only to look at me,” he says, his tone low and sickly sweet, a perfect contrast to the disgust in his icy blue eyes. One of his hands releases mine, only to move to my face, his dry palm brushing my cheek with calculated gentleness. “And it better be with those fuck-me eyes I saw you give that Wells kid in those auction photos.”
Rage bubbles in my chest, but I can’t afford to let it surface. His expression dares me to defy him, to challenge his authority here and now. Instead, I lean into his touch, a hollow smile stretching across my lips.
“I’m going to fucking kill you,” I whisper through my teeth, the conversation around us masking the threat.
His grip on my hand tightens painfully, his mocking grin widening. “Not if I kill you first.”
Our stare down is interrupted by the arrival of the waiter. Taking the opportunity to break contact, I feign embarrassment, withdrawing my hands and ordering a glass of wine from the sommelier’s recommendations. Harrison orders a craft beer before the waiter leaves with a curt nod.
Once he’s out of earshot, I turn my attention back to my so-called date. “What’s your name tonight, and what the fuck are we doing here?” My question doesn’t have the same heat it would if I could talk at a normal volume.
“Tristan,” he says easily, swirling his water glass. “And we’re here as a favor for Peter.”
“What kind of favor involves you pawing at me like I’m a fucking chew toy?”
“You’ll see.”
“When?”
“When I say so,” he shoots back, a fake smile plastered across his face.
I press my lips together, my free hand reaching for the menu as a distraction. Harrison still hasn’t let go, his grip loose but possessive, a silent reminder that I’m exactly where he wants me. I force myself to focus on the neatly printed dish names, skimming over them without actually processing a single word.
I want to look up. To glance around the room to find whatever it is we’re here for, but I don’t. I already know the rules and what will happen if I break them, especially if this dinner is a favor for Peter.
The minutes drag, stretched thin by the weight of his touch and the suffocating silence between us. When the waiter finally returns with our drinks, Harrison doesn’t reach for his beer right away. Instead, he looks directly at me.
Knowing I can’t ignore him, I glance up from the menu once again. My eye contact is invitation enough for him because he leans in too close, yet again. With lazy, deliberate movements, Harrison brushes my hair off the shoulder closest to him. As I hold my breath, he makes a fanatical show of perusing my décolletage with his eyes, dipping lower and lower until he is just blatantly staring at my chest. My teeth clench as I fight the urge to recoil. The hand resting under his on the table is fisted so tight, I swear my nails are breaking through the skin of my palm.
As if sensing he is walking a dangerous tightrope with my patience, Harrison presses his lips to the shell of my ear, the heat of his breath turning my stomach.
“If you don’t start acting like you’re into me, we’re going to have some problems,” he hisses. “Now, fake a laugh.”
I close my eyes, and all I see is red. Anger. Blood. The roses on his future casket. I never want this disgusting human to touch me again. The sheer audacity of his words makes every muscle in my body tenses with the effort of not reacting.
But I have to endure this. It’s just one night. Actresses worse than me have faked liking men. Gold diggers constantly do it. I can do this. I have to do this.
The giggle that escapes my lips isn’t my own. I don’t know where I pull it from, but it works because Harrison pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, his diabolical smile widening with satisfaction. It’s a smile that tells me he knows he’s winning this round, and the knowledge only makes my blood boil hotter.
Without another word, he reaches for his beer and holds it up to me in a toast. I force myself to mimic his relaxed posture, even when my hand shakes slightly around the stem of my glass as I touch it to his. It takes every ounce of self-control not to drain the wine in one go to numb the anger, but I can’t afford to lose my focus. Not tonight. Not when I have no idea what else he has planned.
The rest of dinner is an excruciating performance. Harrison keeps up the charade, leaning in too close, his hand constantly on the back of my chair, brushing against my bare shoulder. Every move is meant to provoke me while ensuring I can’t lash out. Our quiet threats are hidden behind fake smiles, and every once in a while, I have to force a giggle just to satisfy his growing need for control.
And then comes dessert.
The crème br?lée I ordered sits mostly untouched on my plate as Harrison leans in, grabbing my chin with his hand. His grip is harsh, fingers digging into my skin with enough force to leave a mark. I know what’s coming before he even moves.
“Harrison, don’t—”
But it’s too late. His mouth crashes into mine, his hand moving to the back of my neck to hold me in place. I freeze, panic seizing my limbs. His stubble scrapes against my skin, and the moment I feel his tongue at the seam of my lips, I want to scream.
When I don’t immediately comply, his free hand finds my thigh under the table, squeezing hard enough to make me gasp. That’s all he needs to force his way in, his tongue invading my mouth with violence, and bile rises in my throat.
I want to fight him. I want to shove him back and storm out, but every movement, every place he’s touching me, has a purpose. He isn’t going to let me go until I play along.
Though my body fights me, I force myself to relax, loosen my jaw, and escape to the recesses of my mind. This isn’t the first time I’ve endured something like this. But it sure as hell will be the last.
Eventually, he pulls back and the fingers on my legs unclench, though he holds my face close to his by my nape. “You’re going to excuse yourself to the bathroom,” he says quietly, breath hot against my lips. “And when you get back, we’re leaving.”
He lets me go, hand falling to his lap as he leans back with an arrogant, fake grin. My chest heaves as I force myself to stand, smoothing out the front of my dress. My face burns with fury and humiliation, but I turn and walk calmly toward the bathroom, every step fueled by a singular thought.
How fucking dare he.
Remembering I passed the restroom on my way in, my feet carry me in that direction while my vision tunnels. But I don’t allow it to take me. He will not break me. Not after this many years and not over a kiss, even if I want to scrub the memory from the folds of my brain.
Just get through the next ten minutes.
Once inside the opulent, empty bathroom, I bypass the stalls and go straight for the sink, twisting the hot water on full blast. Without hesitation, I shove my mouth under the spout, letting the scalding water hit my gums and tongue. The burn is a welcome distraction, a cleansing pain to erase the taste and feel of that vile man from my insides. I swish until every inch of my mouth feels raw, spitting it all into the basin below.
The soap dispenser tempts me. God, it tempts me. But how do I explain that if someone walks in and catches me scrubbing my mouth like I’m trying to disinfect a crime scene? Especially if it’s someone I know or who just witnessed that farce of a dinner. I shake off the thought and brace my hands on the cool edge of the sink, forcing myself to stare into the mirror.
My reflection mocks me. Glassy eyes threatening tears, lips swollen from Harrison’s assault, hair mussed in a way that screams “attentive date” to onlookers but makes my skin crawl. My silk dress is wrinkled and clings in all the wrong places, a casualty of his unyielding hold. If you don’t look too closely, I’m a woman who’s hopelessly smitten, but I know the truth. He knows the truth. My fingers curl against the porcelain, wishing it were his windpipe beneath them.
Breathe. In for ten. Out for ten.
Silas’s gravelly whisper from the auction floats into my mind. It surprises me, but it also smooths the jagged edges of my thoughts. His words loop in my head as I force myself to follow the rhythm. Inhale. Exhale. Again. And again.
The minutes tick by as I fix myself in the mirror, willing my composure to return. My eyes clear. The redness on my lips starts to fade. My hair is smoothed back into place. The dress is a lost cause, but the solid, concrete wall I’ve built over so many years begins to reform, brick by painstaking brick.
By some miracle, I manage to walk back into the dining room with my shoulders rolled back and my head high. In my absence, Harrison has retrieved my coat from the coat check. A flare of annoyance surges through me, knowing he had to rummage through my purse for the coat ticket, but I take solace in the fact that he was forced to wait on me. After what he just pulled, he should be groveling at my feet, cleaning the bottom of my heels with his fucking tongue.
Harrison holds the coat open for me, and my mind flashes to Silas doing the same just weeks ago. I cling to that memory, imagining Silas’s steady hands on my shoulders as I reluctantly accept Harrison’s offering, turning around to put it on.
Before I can button the coat, Harrison’s arm snakes around my stomach, pulling me back against him. I stumble, catching myself on his forearm just as his face buries into my hair, his nose skimming the side of my neck. My jaw clenches so tightly I half expect my molars to crack.
“Look up,” he commands, his voice sharp enough to cut through the surrounding chatter. Against my better judgment, I follow his direction. My gaze sweeps the room until it lands on the table directly across from us, where a familiar face sits among a group of men in suits.
Silas.
His posture is casual, almost lazy—legs splayed, one hand circling the rim of his crystal whiskey glass. But his eyes… His eyes burn, like molten steel just before it hardens. And they’re fixed solely on me.
The pieces of the puzzle fall neatly into place. The reason Harrison demanded I act as his doting date. The reason we’re seated at this specific table. We weren’t here to watch. We were here to be watched.
Of course. Peter saw those auction photos, and he found a way to weaponize them. Why did I ever think he wouldn’t? And now, he’s forcing me into his scheme with no warning, crossing boundaries I swore I’d never allow, all because I haven’t been “efficient” enough for him. Because I refuse to crawl into Silas’s bed and try to seduce my way into his secrets.
The realization fuels a life-altering rage. One that I can’t even put to words. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, and my fingertips tingle with the effort of keeping it all contained. But even that fury is nothing compared to his.
Silas isn’t just angry—he’s seething, a storm barely leashed, his rage so potent it warps the air around him. This isn’t the kind of anger that cools with time. This is the kind that burns. If I blinked, I swear I’d see the steakhouse engulfed in flames, reduced to ash under the sheer force of his fury. And it’s all for me.
I don’t even know whether it’s directed at me or because of me, but it doesn’t matter. Either way, it hurts. And that pain only fuels my mounting fury, molding it into something even more reckless and volatile.
Push it down. Swallow it whole. Funnel it into the black void where all your emotions go to die.
In a blink, the shock on my face melts into neutrality, a mask as believable as it is empty. I avert my gaze to the ground, retreating behind my fortress of composure.
Harrison’s grip loosens, and he takes my hand, guiding me toward the restaurant’s entrance. I don’t need to look back to know Silas is still watching. The weight of his stare follows me into the elevator, into the street, and onto the busy sidewalk where Harrison finally lets go to stand next to me.
He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter as he speaks, but I can’t hear him. People pass by, their presence a shield, their indifference a quiet encouragement.
I finally let the anger win.
Spinning on my heel, I drive my knee into his groin with every ounce of force I can muster. Harrison doubles over with a groan, his hands instinctively clutching at the point of impact. My nails dig into his shoulders as I lean in, savoring the tremble in his breaths as he wheezes out insult after insult at me.
“If you or Peter ever pull that shit again,” I hiss, my voice venomous, “it’ll be the last thing either of you ever do. Follow me home, and I’ll kill you.”
I push him back, and he stumbles into the side of the building, his curses cutting through the cold night air. Without a backward glance, I stride toward the curb and hail a cab.
It’s only when I’m several blocks away, safe in the back seat of the taxi, that the tears come. Silent and hot, they spill over, each drop burning a path down my cheeks as I let myself break.