Chapter 3 #3
“Then we have a deal.” I keep my tone neutral, even as satisfaction courses through my veins. She has no idea what she’s just agreed to and how completely she’s played into my hands.
The handshake lasts precisely three seconds before she withdraws, but I can still feel the phantom warmth of her skin against mine. Like a mouse stepping into a carefully laid trap, she’s sealed her fate with that simple gesture.
The predator in me purrs with contentment. Liv Consoli is back in my world, and this time, she won’t be slipping away so easily. Time for revenge.
Chapter 3
Eight years of spite walks ahead of me down the hallway. At least I have a very nice view of his ass as we walk in his expensive penthouse over looking the city.
“Your new accommodations.” Remy’s voice carries that familiar cultured edge as he gestures toward an open door.
I count three security cameras on our short journey from his living room—one above the elevator, another at the hallway junction, and the third angled toward what appears to be his home office. “Quite the surveillance setup. Safety concerns, or have you developed new interests while I was gone?”
His jaw tightens. Good.
The guest room spreads before me, bigger than my entire apartment. A king-sized bed dominates one wall while floor-to-ceiling windows offer a vertigo-inducing view of Chicago’s glittering skyline.
“The police will clear your apartment soon. I can have someone collect your belongings—”
“No.” I drop my duffel by the bed. “I packed what matters. Though I hope you have a washer, or this arrangement might get interesting.”
“That would be a security risk, wouldn’t it?” His mouth curves, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
I wander to the windows, keeping him in my peripheral vision. Forty floors up, the city looks like a circuit board of lights and shadows. A perfect metaphor for the man behind me.
“This will be your sanctuary,” he says, filling the doorframe with his presence. “You’ll be safe here.”
I turn, meeting his gaze. “Interesting word choice. Sanctuary.” The air between us crackles with unspoken accusations. “Most sanctuaries don’t come with surveillance cameras.”
His dark eyes hold mine, and for a moment, I see a flash of the man who once made me forget every rule I set for myself. “You lost the right to privacy when you accepted my protection, Eve.”
“First rule.” Remy’s voice fills the room with that familiar authority that used to make lesser men squirm. “You don’t leave the penthouse without my knowledge and escort.”
I track his movements as he prowls the space, noting exits and angles like the control freak he’s always been. Eight years have honed that edge of his, making it sharper, more lethal.
“And if there’s a fire?”
His mouth tightens. “Then you’ll have an escort through the flames.”
He pulls out an iPhone, pristine in its packaging. Of course he already has one ready. “Your new phone. It’s configured with necessary contacts and restrictions.”
I accept it, keeping my expression neutral despite the urge to throw it at his head. “Restricted how?”
“Limited calling capabilities. Monitored internet access.” He ticks off each point like items on a contract. “Regular check-ins.”
“You mean tracking.”
“I mean keeping you alive.” His dark eyes lock onto mine. “Unless you’d prefer to take your chances with whoever trashed your apartment?”
The reminder of my violated home space stings, but I refuse to let him see it. “What else?”
“I’ll need your personal phone and laptop. Security measures.”
Here it is—the first real test. I retrieve my decoy phone from my bag, which I prepared for this scenario. When I hand it over, his fingers brush mine. The contact sends an unwanted spark through my skin, and from the slight narrowing of his eyes, he feels it, too.
My laptop follows—an older model I cleaned specifically for this purpose. He’ll find nothing useful on either device, but the show of compliance will buy me space to maneuver.
“Anything else?” I ask, injecting just enough defiance to maintain my character while appearing to yield to his authority.
“We’re just getting started.” The ghost of a smile plays at his lips, and I recognize the dangerous glint in his eyes. He isn’t just laying down rules—he’s savoring every moment of this twisted reunion.
I perch on the edge of the bed, watching Remy settle at the desk with my laptop. His fingers move across the keyboard with the same methodical precision I remember from eight years ago. Back then, those hands traced different patterns—
No. I force the memory away.
“The monitoring software is nonnegotiable,” he says, not looking up from the screen. “Every keystroke, every website, every communication will be logged.”
“Quite the upgrade from your usual control issues.”
His typing pauses. “You haven’t seen my control issues yet.”
I study him from my position, noting the changes time has carved into him. The sharp cut of his jaw looks harder, his shoulders broader beneath that expensive suit. Power radiates from him in waves, more dangerous than before.
“The system will alert me to any unauthorized programs or external devices.” His voice carries that familiar, commanding tone that used to make my skin prickle. It still does, if I’m honest.
“And if I need to check my email?”
“Through the secure server only.” He swivels in the chair to face me, positioning himself between me and the door. Not subtle at all. “The parameters are clear.”
I nod, the picture of compliance, while mentally reviewing the layers of encryption protecting my real files. Let him think he has control. Let him believe I’m cornered.
“Eve.” His dark eyes lock onto mine, intensity crackling between us. “If you want to survive, you’ll have to trust me.”
The irony of those words hangs heavy in the air. Trust. The very thing I shattered eight years ago when I exposed his operation and disappeared.
“Trust works both ways,” I say.
His laugh holds no humor. “You surrendered that privilege eight years ago. Remember?”
I remember. The weight of the flash drive in my pocket. The silence of his apartment. The way he slept so peacefully while I—
“Your security protocols are noted,” I say, cutting off the memory. “Anything else?”
I pull items from my duffel with deliberate care, aware of Remy’s scrutiny from the doorway. Each movement feels like a choreographed dance—show enough vulnerability to be believable but not enough to raise suspicion.
“The dresser’s empty,” he says, his voice carrying that familiar authoritative tone. “Make yourself at home.”
I arrange my meager collection of clothes in the top drawer, fingertips grazing the hidden compartment in my bag where my real phone lies concealed.
“How domestic,” he drawls.
“Except for the armed guards and surveillance cameras.” I place my toiletry bag on the dresser, catching his reflection in the mirror. That predatory focus hasn’t changed—the way he tracks every movement, analyzing, calculating.
He pushes off the doorframe and approaches. My body tenses, remembering too well how it feels to have him this close. “You’ll need your own security code for the front door.” His presence behind me radiates heat, his cologne mixing with that inherent masculine scent I’ve never quite forgotten.
“Because I’m such a valued guest?”
“Because I need to track your movements.” His hand reaches past me to tap a sequence into the keypad beside the dresser, and I force myself to stay still. “Memorize this.”
I nod, focusing on the numbers rather than how his breath stirs my hair. The real challenge isn’t remembering the code—it’s ignoring how my skin prickles with awareness at his proximity.
“There’s a panic button by the bed.” He moves closer, guiding my attention to the small device on the nightstand. His lips nearly brush my ear as he speaks, and memories of those same lips on my neck eight years ago threaten to derail my concentration.
I step away, needing distance to think clearly. “Planning on giving me reasons to use it?”
His dark laugh raises goosebumps on my arms. “That depends entirely on you, Eve.”
The way he says my name—like a caress and a warning wrapped into one—makes maintaining my facade harder than expected. I busy myself with arranging my few possessions, each item placed to support my carefully constructed story of desperation.
“I’ll leave you to settle in.” He pauses at the doorway. “Dinner’s in an hour.”
Only when his footsteps fade do I allow myself to exhale. Eight years, and still, his presence affects me more than I anticipated. I have to stay focused.
The moment his footsteps fade, I begin my systematic sweep of the room. Years of investigative work have taught me to look for the subtle details others miss. The obvious cameras are likely decoys—Remy would definitely prefer hidden surveillance.
I run my fingers along the crown molding, checking for pinhole cameras while appearing to straighten my clothes in the dresser mirror. The angle of the visible camera leaves a blind spot near the ensuite door. Useful.
The bathroom provides minimal coverage from prying eyes. No visible cameras, but knowing Remy, that means nothing. Steam from the shower might interfere with surveillance—another detail to file away.
My muscles protest as I gather fresh clothes from the dresser. Every movement reminds me of the fight—the impact of fists, the strain of running, the rush of adrenaline. The shower calls to me like a siren song.
I lock the bathroom door, though I doubt it’ll stop Remy if he decides to intervene. The marble counter holds an array of expensive toiletries, all new, all carefully selected.
The shower controls are complicated enough to require an engineering degree. After some fumbling, hot water cascades from the oversized rainfall showerhead. Steam rises, filling the space with warmth that seeps into my aching muscles.
I step under the spray, letting the water sluice over my shoulders. The temperature soothes my frayed nerves, an invisible evidence of tonight’s close call. My hair plasters against my neck as I breathe in the steam, allowing myself this moment of vulnerability—but only a moment.
The marble tiles feel cool against my palm as I lean forward, watching the water swirl down the drain. My mind races through contingency plans. Remy’s surveillance likely extends here, too, though I haven’t spotted the cameras yet. I need to assume every move is watched, every reaction analyzed.
I reach for the shampoo, wincing as I raise my arms. My fingers work through my hair mechanically. The shower’s white noise might mask conversation, but I can’t risk assuming anything in this gilded cage. Remy’s security measures will be thorough, especially with me as his “guest.”
When I finally step out, my skin is pink from the heat.
The oversized towel feels impossibly soft—another luxury that screams Remy.
I dress quickly in clean clothes, not wanting to remain vulnerable longer than necessary.
The mirror reveals fresh bruises blooming along my collarbone, stark against my skin.
I gather my dirty clothes, noting the tears that tell the story of tonight’s encounter. These will need to be washed before Remy sees them. The less he knows about what really happened, the better.
After drying off, I pull on clean jeans and a simple black top from my bag.
My wet hair hangs loose around my shoulders, and I resist the urge to style it.
Let him see me casual, slightly vulnerable.
It fits the narrative. Before I forget, I use my brand-new phone to call the police.
The exchange is short, and a meeting is set at my place tomorrow morning.
The kitchen smells of garlic and spices when I emerge. Remy stands at the island, methodically unpacking takeout containers. The sight of him in shirtsleeves, forearms exposed as he works, sends an unwanted spark through my body.
“I’m wounded.” I slide onto a barstool, keeping my voice light. “Here I thought you’d cook for me. Maybe break out the fine China.”
His hands still over a container of what looks like pasta. “If you’re expecting the royal treatment, you’re in the wrong penthouse.”
“No tablecloth? No candles?” I prop my elbows on the marble counter. “Your hosting skills have really declined.”
He practically slams a plate in front of me, his jaw tight. “Eat.”
“So hospitable.”
“Would you prefer I let you starve?”
“Now there’s the Remy I remember. Always so concerned with my well-being.”
His dark eyes lock onto mine as he pushes a fork across the counter. “Eat your dinner, Eve. Before I decide to make you.”
The threat in his voice sends heat coursing through me that has nothing to do with fear. I pick up the fork, maintaining eye contact as I take a deliberate bite. “Happy?”
His only response is a low growl that makes my stomach flip.
The pasta sits heavy in my stomach as silence stretches between us. Remy’s phone buzzes twice. His fingers move across the screen with practiced efficiency, but his expression reveals nothing. I focus on my plate, fighting the urge to break the quiet with questions I know he won’t answer.
“Send me a list.” His voice cuts through the silence. “Whatever you need to work. I’ll have it brought here.”
I set down my fork. “About that. I called the police earlier. They want me at the apartment tomorrow morning to file a report.” I keep my tone casual and matter-of-fact. “I figured I’d stop by my editing studio after, pick up what I need.”
His expression shifts—surprise, calculation, irritation—before settling into clear annoyance. The muscle in his jaw ticks as he processes my words, no doubt searching for flaws in my logic.
“The police report needs to be filed. I already told you that,” I add, knowing he can’t argue with that point.
He pulls out his phone again, his fingers moving across the screen with sharp, decisive movements. “Marcus. Move the Emerson meeting. Have the car ready at eight.” He ends the call without waiting for a response.
“Get some rest.” His voice carries that familiar, commanding tone. “We leave at eight sharp.”
Without another word, he rises and strides down the hallway, presumably toward his bedroom. I watch him disappear around the corner, noting how his shoulders remain rigid.
Exhaustion hits me like a physical wave. My muscles ache from the earlier fight, and my mind feels stretched thin from maintaining this careful dance with Remy. I lean against the counter, doubt creeping in for the first time since I made that desperate call.
The truth settles cold and heavy in my chest—I’m trapped between two deadly forces. Behind me, unknown enemies who violated my home and want me silenced. Ahead, a man whose protection comes with invisible chains, whose very presence threatens to unravel years of carefully maintained defenses.
I’m not sure which terrifies me more.