Chapter 5 Sterling #2
I test the door. Locked just like years before. If I’m lucky, it might mean she’s still using the same mechanism. The same one I used to pick as a teenager, sneaking into her office, looking for any scrap of information to keep me one step ahead.
I pull out my lockpicking tools. Some things never change. But this one goddamn time, they do. The pick barely slides in before something clicks. It’s not the same mechanism I expected. The weight in my gut drops.
I twist it again. Nothing.
Again. Nothing.
A silent hiss of frustration escapes through my teeth as I step back, scowling at the door like it personally insulted me.
Clo fucking changed it. My fingers clench into fists, harsh heat rising under my skin.
I hate being wrong. I hate being caught off guard.
The muscles in my arms tense, and for a reckless second, I think about kicking the damn door in, tearing it from its hinges just to prove I can, even if it costs me my leg.
But that’s not how this works. Not with Clo.
Not with this game. Not with the way I’ve used stealth to my advantage.
So I inhale sharply, forcing the fury down, pushing it into the pit of my stomach where it belongs.
I need control. I need focus. But it feels like there’s a thread buried in my chest. Tight and pulling me toward Elle.
And every second I don’t follow it, I bleed.
I let my mind drift to the things that usually calm me—the sharp rhythm of a gun being reloaded, the precision of a knife sliding into its sheath, the roar of an engine when I’m driving too fast to think about anything else.
And the way my string wraps around a neck, nearly slicing skin but only suffocating my kill into a slumping form, breathing out their last sigh.
But none of that works. So instead, I think of Elle. The way her breath hitched. The way her eyes looked at me—calm at first, then they changed, as if something inside her cracked open. The way she felt in my arms, like she was supposed to be there. The way she ran…
My brows crease as I curse under my breath, shaking my head as if that’ll knock the thought loose. Not now. Not fucking now. But it’s too late. The frustration is there, twisting deeper.
I step back from the door, exhaling in growing aggravation.
Fine. Clo wins this round. But it’s not over.
I take a deep breath. In and out. I need a new plan.
If I can’t get through the door to her study, I’ll find another way.
If she changed the lock, she’s got someone who knows the system. And someone always talks.
I push away my frustration, forcing myself into motion. Time to pivot and investigate. I’ll start with the staff. See who’s new, who’s suddenly got clearance to Clo’s study. If that doesn’t turn up anything, I’ll dig deeper. Find out what discreet company she’s using for security these days.
So for the next while, I busy myself with logistics, letting the strategy override my temper.
It’s better than thinking about the fact that I failed again.
Better than thinking about Elle. About how I failed her.
How I’m still failing her. How every second that slips away is another silk thread around her neck.
Fuck, I need to figure this out and fast. Yeah, I need to hurry up and make a plan.
But also, I hate being here. In this house that raised me wrong.
That made me feel like a flaw in the bloodline, like I was something broken they had to keep hidden, where I grew up thinking something must be wrong with me.
All because I wasn’t treated the same as Damon or Stanley.
The past lingers in these walls like a disease. But I continue moving through the halls, steps silent, body tense. The air smells the same, clean and sterile, less like control, more like lies.
I grew up here. That should mean something. But it doesn’t. Not when it was never mine to begin with. Because I was never truly one of them. Not to Clo. Not entirely to the Song-Smith family.
The corridors are too quiet today. The servants still stick to their routines, well-trained not to stray. I know which halls to avoid, which corners to take. Some habits don’t die. I used to move like this as a kid, slipping through the shadows, and staying out of Clo’s way.
Shaking the thoughts off, I force myself back to the present.
I have work to do. If Clo changed her security, someone in this house knows about it.
Servants hear everything, even the things they shouldn’t.
And if it’s not them, it’s someone new. A contractor.
A specialist. Anyone. I just need a name.
After a while, I reach the servants’ quarters first. The entrance is tucked at the back of the house, out of sight, where the invisible are kept. I slip inside, quiet and listening. There’s no voices, no sounds except for a radio behind one door, and running water behind another.
Methodically, I move swiftly. Past the storage closets, linen carts, the back hallway’s ghost-thin lights, until I find it. A ledger, left carelessly open on the desk inside the laundry office. Payroll. Rotations. Vendor names. Movement in and out.
My fingers flip through it, my eyes skimming. And then I see it. A name I don’t recognize. A security consultant, maybe. Private contractor. Expedited service. High clearance. No background info, only enough to raise a flag in my head.
I frown. Clo’s getting bold or careless. Either way, it’s a mistake. I don’t know who this bastard is yet, but I will. Because this stopped being just about her study the moment Clo stuck Elle in her web.
This is about control, knowing what Clo’s hiding, and taking it from her before she uses it against the one person I won’t lose. And if I’m honest—brutally honest—it’s about something else too.
For years, I learned how to vanish into the bones of this house.
Clo made sure of that. But I’m done fading.
I was born as the shameful smothered flame of this family.
Now I’m the fire crawling up its walls. And it’s about time this house learns what it made me into.
I’m its own weapon, finally turned against it.
***
The name from the ledger sticks in my mind.
I slip out of the servants’ quarters, blending into shadows along familiar paths. Quickly, I type the name into my phone. But there’s zero results. This name’s a ghost then.
Private security consultants, even the best, leave whispers.
But Clo’s found someone who doesn’t exist. Or she’s hiding them well.
I shove down the irritation that rises like bile.
If the digital trail is clean, I’ll find dirt somewhere else.
My feet carry me swiftly to the west wing.
Damon’s closed study still has network access.
If Clo’s hired help was here, they left tracks, like logs, scans, something, anything.
The door’s locked, but it doesn’t stay that way for long.
Damon’s too trusting of family and staff.
So a moment of lockpicking later, I’m inside.
I step in, then drop into the chair, pulling up recent access records.
The screen fills quickly, data flooding my eyes until one flagged entry stands out.
Before I can probe further, the screen flickers, then blackens.
A cursor blinks mockingly, words appearing slowly: Nice try.
My fist hits the desk, pain radiating up my arm. Anger boils inside me. Damon wouldn’t do something like this. All of these security measures are ridiculous, especially for my arrogant family. So someone’s fucking with me, watching, and anticipating. Fine. If they want to hide, I’ll drag them out.
I pull out my phone, dialing fast. My contact answers.
I aim to skip the greetings, but the voice on the other end has different ideas.
“Well, well, well,” the contact starts. I’m already rolling my eyes.
“Do you know how many powerful people you pissed off by not completing all of those contracts, rookie?”
“I don’t give a fuck,” I say, straight to the point.
The other end scoffs a laugh. “And what do I owe to such a friendly phone call from my favorite killer?”
“Need everything on a ghost contractor Clo hired. High clearance, zero trace.”
There’s silence for a second, then a chuckle. “Finally gunning for the queen?”
“Just find the bastard.”
“Same timeline?”
“Faster.”
“Then triple the pay.”
“Done.”
“Call you soon, rookie.”
I scowl, ending the call. That nickname still clings to me. Some in the crime realm call me rookie, even after all these years. That’s fine. It’ll make it sweeter when I shove their words down their throats.
Forcing myself to breathe, I head to the sunlit window overlooking the vineyard. My fists clench at my sides, pulse ticking dangerously high. I hate being hunted. Hate knowing someone’s ahead of me.
I glance at my phone. No update yet. But I need to move to think clearly.
My eyes land toward a forgotten corner of the estate.
The shed deep in the vineyard, a place I once hid from Clo’s twisted lessons.
Memories flash sharp, unwelcome, of me holding my breath, staying quiet, always hoping to evade her notice, to dodge a red-bottomed heel or the heated spike of a candlestick.
I shove the memories away. That was then. This is now. But Clo’s games haven’t changed. She’s still the puppeteer, still pulling strings and making me feel like I’m always one step behind.
Not this time. Not anymore.
My phone buzzes. I pick up. “Talk.”
The contact chuckles. “Someone’s impatient.”
“Do you have something or not?”
“A name. Nothing else. Whoever Clo hired is a ghost. Barely any trace, only a single alias. Lix.”
“Where can I find them?”
“That’s the thing. No one knows, except the queen.”
Frustration coils tight in my chest. I breathe out slowly, gripping the phone hard. “Everyone’s somewhere.”
“You weren’t,” the contact replies dryly, “for years.”
I’m silent as my scowl deepens.
Then cautiously, the contact speaks. “I’ll keep digging, rookie.”
The line goes dead. I stand still for a moment, phone clenched tight, jaw locked.
I should be thinking clearly, planning my next move.
But my mind slips to Elle. The fear in her eyes.
Was it fear of me at the end? Fear of what I’ve done?
Would she always look at me like that? Fuck. The thought burns more than it should.
I exhale sharply, forcing it down. Not now. I can’t afford any more distractions. I have a name. I have direction. And I’m sure as hell done playing Clo’s game, sneaking around my childhood nightmare, slipping into shadows, and trying to outwit her silently. She expects it. She planned for it.
So fuck stealth. Fuck playing by the usual rules. It’s time to make a mess, one even Clo can’t ignore.
I straighten, stretching my shoulders back.
If Clo thinks she’s in control, I’ll rip that illusion apart, loudly and destructively.
Heading swiftly back to my Valkyrie, hidden in the shadows, I pop the trunk and grab what I need.
A crowbar. A high-powered drill. A fiber optic scope.
Tools for aggressive entry, if necessary.
Because if I can’t go through her door, I’ll tear my way beneath it.
And once I’m done here, I’m never coming back, unless it’s to leave with Elle.
The mansion’s old foundation holds secrets, and I know exactly where it’s weakest. Clo’s study sits right above a room collecting dust. One good hit should do it.
Moving swiftly and unseen, I slip into that abandoned room. My fingers find the fragile spot in the ceiling beams. Wedging the crowbar quietly in, I apply steady pressure until wood splinters, giving way just enough.
The drill hums quietly, dust trickling down my hands as I carve an opening. One sharp crack, and the space widens, enough to pull myself through.
I slip into the tight space between floors, breath tight in my chest as I push forward. One last barrier’s left, a thin panel beneath her desk. A few controlled strikes, and it gives.
I lift myself up silently into Clo’s study, straightening to stand up and look around. The room’s all wrong. There used to be dark wood and old books. Now it’s sterile, more clinical. And there are mirrors, too many fucking mirrors, like Clo’s vanity is being reflected everywhere.
My jaw clenches, rage simmering beneath my skin. I’m not here to break mirrors. I’m here for Elle.
I rip open drawers, scatter papers, no longer caring about subtlety. Clo can see the mess. Hell, I want her to. Documents blur past, useless details, until one folder catches my eye. Thick and hidden, but not to my trained eye. The file’s marked clearly with the letter L.
My pulse spikes, breath catching as I flip it open. The first thing in there is an old photo of Elle. A face that’s lived inside my head. Then there are notes, so many damn notes. My grip tightens as my eyes scan the words.
What the fuck has Clo done to her?