28. Stacy
STACY
T he estate isn’t what I expected, and that realization settles into me the moment the shuttle doors open and the air changes, thicker here, warmer, carrying the scent of polished stone, old money, and something faintly floral that feels manufactured rather than natural.
It’s quiet in a way that doesn’t belong to peace, the kind of silence that comes from control rather than absence, and as I step down onto the landing platform, I can feel eyes on me before I see anyone directly.
“Welcome back,” one of the guards says, his voice carefully neutral, though the tension in his shoulders gives him away as he shifts his grip on the weapon at his side.
I glance at him briefly without slowing, letting my gaze pass over him as if he’s incidental rather than relevant.
“I didn’t realize this qualified as a return,” I reply, my tone even, almost conversational, as I continue forward.
The guard doesn’t answer, but his jaw tightens slightly, and another one behind me adjusts his stance, more alert now.
“Keep moving,” the second guard says, his voice firmer, though not aggressive, as if he’s trying to maintain control of a situation he doesn’t fully understand.
“I am,” I answer without looking back, letting the words fall flat as I move ahead of them instead of with them.
The interior air shifts immediately, growing cooler as I cross the threshold, and the lighting softens into something deliberately calming, warm tones layered over rigid architecture that feels more like a performance than a design choice.
Every surface is immaculate, too perfect, too untouched, and the faint echo of my footsteps follows me just enough to remind me how empty the space actually is.
“Straight ahead,” the first guard says, gesturing toward a set of doors already opening before we reach them, his voice quieter now, like he knows who’s waiting on the other side.
I don’t respond, because I don’t need to, and because whatever comes next isn’t for them.
The doors part cleanly, and the room beyond expands outward, large enough to create distance, structured enough to control it, and positioned at the center of it all?—
Him.
Baronet Kleid Lorens stands with his hands loosely clasped behind his back, posture straight, expression composed, and there’s something about the way he holds himself that tells me he believes this is already over.
“Stacy,” Lorens says, his voice smooth and measured, though the faint lift at the edge of it betrays his satisfaction. As he steps forward, his gaze moves over me in a slow, assessing pass. “You’ve made this… remarkably easy.”
I stop several feet from him, placing myself deliberately in the center of the space without closing the distance fully, and I meet his gaze without hesitation.
“Have I,” I ask, my voice calm, almost curious, as if I’m inviting him to explain something I already understand.
Lorens smiles faintly, the expression composed but tightening just slightly at the corners as he begins to circle, his steps slow and deliberate.
“Yes,” he replies, his tone confident as he moves behind my peripheral line of sight. “Voluntary return simplifies everything.”
I turn my head just enough to track him without mirroring his movement completely, refusing to give him control of the pacing.
“Is that what you think this is?” I ask, my voice steady as I let the question settle into the space between us.
Lorens pauses mid-step, just for a fraction of a moment, before continuing his movement, though the rhythm of it shifts.
“I think,” he says, his voice lowering slightly as he comes back into view, “that you’ve recognized the inevitable outcome and chosen the least painful path to it.”
I let a small breath out through my nose, not quite a laugh, but close enough to carry the implication.
“That’s one interpretation,” I say.
Lorens slows, his gaze narrowing slightly.
“And yours?” he presses, stopping just off-center, forcing a direct exchange.
I hold his gaze, letting the silence stretch just long enough to become deliberate rather than passive.
“I think you’re overestimating your position,” I say finally, my tone quiet but precise.
The shift is immediate.
Lorens pauses, his composure tightening as something sharper flickers beneath it.
“Careful,” he says, his voice lower now, the smoothness thinning into something edged. “You’re not in a position to negotiate.”
I tilt my head slightly, studying him.
“I’m not negotiating,” I reply. “I’m clarifying.”
“Clarifying what?” he asks, the irritation surfacing more clearly now.
“That you’re not the one in control here,” I say, letting the words land without emphasis.
The silence that follows isn’t empty, and I can see the recalibration happen in real time, the moment where confidence begins to fracture into analysis.
“You’re here,” Lorens says, more sharply now, his hand shifting behind his back as if grounding himself. “On my estate. Surrounded by my people.”
“And still,” I reply, letting my gaze flick briefly toward the guards before returning to him, “you sound like you’re trying to convince yourself of that.”
His jaw tightens, the first visible crack in the performance.
“You misunderstand your value,” Lorens says, straightening slightly, pulling his composure back into place through effort. “Alive, you’re leverage. Dead… you’re a statement.”
There it is.
I don’t react outwardly, but internally everything sharpens into alignment.
“Go on,” I say, my voice quieter now, encouraging.
Lorens studies me, just for a moment longer than necessary, before continuing.
“You’ve created a narrative,” he says, his tone smoothing again, though it lacks the earlier ease. “One where you’re… significant. Where your presence alters outcomes.”
“And you want to correct that,” I say.
“I want to define it,” he replies, stepping closer now, reclaiming proximity.
“With my execution,” I say, watching him carefully.
He doesn’t hesitate.
“Yes,” Lorens answers, his voice firm, decisive, as if committing to it reinforces his position.
I let that settle fully before I respond, allowing the silence to do part of the work for me.
“You think that strengthens you,” I say, my tone softer now, more focused.
“I know it does,” he counters immediately.
I shake my head slightly.
“No,” I say. “You think it restores you.”
That lands harder.
Lorens’s expression tightens again, the mask slipping just enough to expose the insecurity underneath.
“You lost control,” I continue, taking a slow, measured step forward, closing the space just enough to shift the dynamic. “You lost face. You lost credibility. This”—I gesture lightly between us—“is you trying to take it back.”
“And it will work,” he says, though the certainty in his voice is thinner now.
I let a small smile touch my mouth.
“Will it,” I ask.
He doesn’t answer immediately, and that hesitation is everything.
“You execute me,” I continue, my voice lowering slightly, drawing him in, “and you prove you can eliminate a liability.”
“Exactly,” Lorens says quickly, seizing onto the statement.
“But you also prove something else,” I add.
His brow furrows.
“What?”
“That you needed to,” I say, holding his gaze.
The words settle differently this time, deeper, more disruptive.
“You think people see strength,” I continue, “but what they actually see is reaction. Desperation. A man fixing a mistake instead of one who never made it.”
“That’s not how this will be framed,” Lorens says, though his voice carries less conviction now.
“Framing doesn’t matter if the truth contradicts it,” I reply.
His hands shift again behind his back, no longer still.
“You’re not in a position to lecture me,” he says.
“I’m in the only position that matters,” I counter.
“And what position is that?” he asks, his tone sharpening.
I meet his gaze directly.
“The one determining whether you survive what happens next,” I say.
That stops him.
Completely.
“Explain,” Lorens says after a moment, his voice quieter now, more cautious.
I take a slow and steadying breath.
“You think this ends with me,” I say. “It doesn’t.”
“You’re the focal point,” he replies.
“I’m the trigger,” I correct.
His eyes narrow.
“And what exactly am I triggering?” he asks.
I tilt my head slightly.
“You really haven’t thought this through,” I say.
His jaw tightens.
“Then enlighten me.”
“You execute me,” I say, my voice low and precise, “and you remove the one thing keeping him contained.”
Recognition flashes across his face.
“Tyrok,” Lorens says quietly.
“Yes,” I confirm.
“He’s already compromised,” Lorens argues.
“No,” I say. “He’s focused.”
“And that changes what?”
“Everything,” I reply.
I take another step closer, closing the space just enough to force him to hold his ground.
“You think he’s unstable now,” I say, my voice dropping. “You think he’s making emotional decisions.”
“And he is,” Lorens says.
“Yes,” I agree. “And right now, those decisions still have limits.”
His expression shifts again.
“And if you remove me?” he asks.
I let the question sit for a moment before answering.
“You remove the limit,” I say.
Silence settles, heavier now.
“You’re exaggerating,” he says, but there’s doubt in it.
“No,” I reply. “I’m the only one telling you the truth.”
He studies me, longer now, deeper.
“What are you suggesting?” he asks.
“That your survival depends on not doing the obvious thing,” I say.
“And what would that be?”
“Executing me,” I answer.
His brow tightens.
“You expect me to keep you alive.”
“No,” I correct. “I expect you to realize that keeping me alive is the only move that doesn’t end with you losing everything.”
He turns slightly, pacing once, slower now.
“You’re asking me to trust you,” he says.
“I’m asking you to trust the outcome,” I reply.
“And what outcome is that?”
“That you walk away from this with more than you started with,” I say.
He looks back at me.
“And how do I do that?”
I hold his gaze.
“You let me leave,” I say.
That lands hard.
“That’s not happening,” Lorens says immediately.
I don’t react.
“Then you die,” I say quietly.
The room stills, the guards shifting subtly behind me.
“You don’t have the leverage to make that claim,” Lorens says, though the certainty is gone.
“I don’t need leverage,” I reply. “I have inevitability.”
He stares at me.
And I can see it now.
The doubt.
The fear.
Growing.
Behind my sleeve, the device continues its subtle vibration, the broadcast still active, still feeding outward into the void.
And somewhere out there?—
He’s getting closer.
“Think carefully,” I say. “Because whatever you decide next… you don’t get to undo it.”
Lorens doesn’t answer.
But he’s already changing.
And now?—
All I have to do is keep him there long enough for Tyrok to arrive.