Chapter 20 – SAVVA
CHAPTER 20
SAVVA
M y jaw clenches tight enough to crack walnuts as I stride down the hallway toward Braxley's "content creation studio." The gaudy opulence of this penthouse scrapes against my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. Today, it feels particularly offensive.
All this wealth, all this excess... and for what?
To create the illusion of a perfect life for strangers on the internet?
It's fucking pathetic. All of it.
But I'm not here to judge our client's life choices. I'm here to keep this prissy little brat alive, no matter how much I question whether he deserves it.
I pause outside the door, taking a deep breath to center myself. Braxley's voice carries through—that affected, high-pitched tone he uses when filming. It sets my teeth on edge, but I force my face into a neutral expression. Years of undercover work taught me how to wear masks, how to become whoever I need to be in the moment.
Right now, I need to be professional enough not to throttle this vapid excuse for an alpha.
I knock sharply, not waiting for a response before entering. Braxley perches in front of a ring light, face inches from a camera as he prattles on about some overpriced moisturizer. He barely spares me a glance, holding up one perfectly manicured finger in a "wait" gesture.
I ignore it, stepping into frame. "Mr. Worthington, we need to talk. Now."
Braxley's eyes widen in surprise, then narrow in annoyance. "Excuse me? I'm in the middle of something here! Can't you see I'm filming?"
"I can see that," I say, my voice deceptively level while rage bubbles beneath the surface. "But this is a matter of your safety. I'm sure your followers will understand if you need to cut this short."
Braxley huffs, his lower lip jutting out in a pout that would look childish on a five-year-old. "Fine," he snaps, turning back to the camera with a blindingly fake smile and a sing-song voice. "Sorry, my loves, but duty calls! As you can see, my security team takes my safety very seriously. Don't forget to like and subscribe, and I'll be back soon with more tips for achieving that perfect glow!"
He ends the recording with a flourish, then rounds on me. "This better be important. Do you have any idea how much revenue I lose when I have to cut a video short? My engagement metrics will tank today."
I don't bother hiding my eye roll this time. "I assure you, Mr. Worthington, your life is worth more than that. Though the margin seems thinner by the day."
"Is it, though?" he mutters, then immediately switches to a defensive tone. "Whatever. What's so urgent that you had to ruin my entire day?"
I file away his momentary lapse. Not because I give a shit about Braxley's inner demons, but because every piece of information could be useful. And honestly, I'm here for one reason only—Bella.
If Braxley stays safe, Bella stays safe.
"We've uncovered some concerning activity on your social media," I say, cutting straight to the chase. There's no point sugar-coating things with Braxley. Subtlety tends to go right over his expertly coiffed head. "One of your followers has been leaving comments that could be interpreted as threatening."
Braxley scoffs, waving a dismissive hand. "Oh my god, that ? Is that what this is about? It's probably just Heather. She gets a little... intense sometimes, but she's harmless. You guys are so dramatic."
I raise an eyebrow, heat rising in my chest at his cavalier attitude. "Heather? You know this person?"
He shrugs, turning back to his vanity to fuss with his hair. "We hooked up a few times at some industry parties. She got a little clingy, so I ghosted her. No big deal. She should be grateful she got to spend time with me at all."
No big deal.
Of course. Because in Braxley's world, toying with someone's emotions is just another Tuesday. My fingers flex at my sides, itching to grab him by his designer collar and shake some sense into him.
Not shake. Choke .
"Mr. Worthington," I say through gritted teeth. "This 'Heather' has made comments that could be construed as violent. She's displaying signs of obsessive behavior. Given the recent attempt on your life, we can't afford to overlook any potential threats."
Braxley spins around in his chair, eyes widening. "Wait, you think Heather might have something to do with the shooting?" He immediately laughs it off. "No way. She's not smart enough for something like that. She can barely put a coherent sentence together."
"It's a possibility we need to consider," I say, barely keeping my temper in check. "Can you tell me more about her? Full name, where you met, any details that might help us track her down?"
Braxley's brow furrows, and I can practically see the single brain cell bouncing around in his skull like a DVD screensaver. "Uh, Heather... Heather Patton, I think? We met at a launch party for some new energy drink. VitaBoost or MegaCharge or something like that. She was one of the promo models." He smirks. "Not top-tier, but she had a good body."
I nod, making mental notes while silently counting down from ten to keep myself calm. "And when was the last time you saw her in person?"
"A few months ago? She showed up uninvited to a club opening I was hosting. Made a scene, got escorted out by security. It was so embarrassing. I blocked her number after that. She ruined my big night."
"But not on social media," I point out, my tone sharp.
Braxley has the audacity to look annoyed at my question. "Well, no. I mean, engagement is engagement, right? Even negative comments boost the algorithm. And she's always commenting, so..." He shrugs like this should be obvious to anyone with a brain.
I close my eyes for a moment, imagining fifty different ways I could make this man disappear without a trace. When I open them, Braxley shrinks back slightly at whatever he sees in my expression.
"Mr. Worthington," I say, voice low and dangerous, "I need you to understand something. Someone tried to kill you. Whether it was this Heather or someone else, the threat is very real. Your safety—and Miss Emerson's—depends on your full cooperation."
At the mention of Bella, something flickers in Braxley's eyes. Guilt? Fear? Whatever it is, I can use it.
"Whatever," he says, flicking invisible dust from his sleeve. "What do you need me to do?"
"For starters, I need you to take this seriously," I snap, not bothering to mask my frustration. "No more dismissing potential threats as 'no big deal.' If someone makes you uncomfortable, if anything seems off, you tell us immediately. Understood?"
Braxley rolls his eyes. "Yeah, okay. I can do that." He rakes a hand through his hair. "Fuck, you're intense. Has anyone ever told you that you need to chill? You might want to try some CBD."
"Good. Now, I need you to go through your messages, your DMs, everything. Flag any interactions with Heather or anyone else who's been overly aggressive or possessive. Can you do that?"
He sighs dramatically. "I guess so. Not like I had anything better to do today." He reaches for his phone. "So we're doing this right now? For real?"
"Right now," I confirm, pulling up a chair next to him while maintaining as much distance as the task allows. "And Braxley? Don't leave anything out. Even if it seems embarrassing or trivial. It could be important."
For the next hour, we comb through Braxley's social media history. It's mind-numbing, made worse by his running commentary on his own posts. "Look at this one!" "Over a hundred thousand likes." "Everyone is obsessed with my skincare routine."
Every minute spent with this narcissist makes me want to volunteer for a suicide mission just for the break.
But I notice things. The slight tremble in his hand when we come across particularly aggressive messages. The tightness around his eyes. He's scared, trying to hide it behind his usual bluster.
Not that I care about his emotional state, but fear makes people unpredictable.
And unpredictable clients get people killed.
"Braxley," I say sharply, using his first name to throw him off balance. He looks up, startled. "I know this is difficult. But I need you to be honest with me. Is there anything else you haven't told us? Anything at all that might help us figure out who's behind this?"
He hesitates, fingers drumming nervously on the arm of his chair. "I... there might be something. But it's not about Heather."
I lean forward, interest piqued despite my distaste for the man. "Go on."
Braxley takes a deep breath, eyes darting around the room. "A few weeks before the, uh, incident in Spain, I got a weird email. It was from some encrypted address, all numbers and letters. They said they had dirt on me, stuff that could ruin my reputation. They wanted money to keep quiet."
Now we're getting somewhere. "What kind of dirt?"
Braxley's face flushes, and he looks away. "It's... complicated."
"Braxley," I say, tone clipped, "whatever it is, I need to know. We can't protect you if we don't have all the information."
He's silent for a moment, his internal struggle playing out across his face. Finally, he seems to come to a decision. "I'm... uh, not really into omegas," he says, the words coming out in a rush. "I mean, I can appreciate their beauty and all that, but... they don't do it for me. Not unless they're super dominant." He turns beet red. "They have to at least act like..."
"Like alphas?" I finish for him, keeping my voice flat.
Braxley nods stiffly, immediately getting defensive. "It's just bad for my brand, okay? The whole Worthington empire is built on this image of the perfect alpha-omega power couple. If it got out that I don't even want an omega..." He narrows his eyes at the incredulous look on my face. "You don't get to judge me for this."
I lean back in my chair, feeling my lip curl into a snarl before I can stop it. I school my features back into grim neutrality. He's been using Bella, parading her around for his image while not even being interested in being her mate.
"The blackmailer," I say, keeping my tone neutral despite the rage building inside me. "They have proof of this?"
"Photos," Braxley confirms, voice hardening. "From a party a few years ago. I was drunk, things got out of hand with this alpha model... I thought we were alone, but someone must have been watching. It's such bullshit. People should mind their own business."
I nod, mind racing through the implications. All I can think about is Bella—trapped in a relationship with someone who doesn't even want her, who's using her as a prop. "Did you pay them?"
Braxley shakes his head. "No, I... I was going to. But then the thing in Spain happened, and everything's been chaos since then. I haven't heard from them again." He looks up with narrowed eyes. "Seriously, you'd better not tell anyone about this. I'm trusting you because I have to, not because I want to."
"You should have told us this sooner," I say, not bothering to hide my irritation. "Do you still have the email?"
He nods, pulling out his phone and tapping through screens with an annoyed huff. "Yeah, it's here. I'll forward it to you. Just don't make a big deal about it, okay? I have enough problems without your team gossiping about my private life."
As I wait for the email, I study Braxley with fresh contempt. Every second Bella spends with this fraud is a waste of her life. At least now I understand why he so readily agreed to our presence—he's more afraid of his secrets coming out than of any assassin.
"Braxley," I say, my voice cold, "Bella deserves to know the truth."
He sighs dramatically. "God, you sound like my therapist. Fine, I know, okay? But it's complicated . Do you have any idea what will happen if I break things off with her? My parents will go ballistic. My followers will ask questions. It's all just..." He waves his hands vaguely. "It's a lot."
My phone pings with the incoming email. Back to business. "I need to share this information with my team," I tell him. "We'll keep it confidential, but they need to know what we're dealing with."
Braxley's head snaps up. "All of them? Even the freaky one? Can't you just tell, like, one person? The fewer people who know about this, the better. There are pictures of me with an apple in my mouth and a freaking bottle of Chateau Margaux shoved up my–"
"My entire team," I say firmly, cutting him off before he can permanently engrave that mental image in my head. "That's non-negotiable."
Braxley groans, dragging a hand down his face. "Fine. Whatever. Just... please don't tell Bella. Not yet. I need to be the one to tell her."
Every instinct I have rebels against keeping secrets from Bella. The idea of protecting this liar's reputation at her expense makes me want to put my fist through a wall. But strategically, forcing the issue now could push Braxley to do something stupid.
"Fine," I agree, my voice like ice. "You have three days. After that, she needs to know—one way or another."
"Three days? That's ridiculous! I can't possibly?—"
" Three. Days ," I repeat, cutting him off. "This isn't a negotiation."
"Fine," Braxley snaps, crossing his arms. "I'll figure something out. But I don't appreciate being threatened in my own home. I'm still the client here."
"Then don't appreciate it," I say, standing to leave before I do something I'll regret. And if not regret, something that will get me put behind bars and unable to protect Bella.
"This better not leak to the press," Braxley blurts out. "If it does, I'll know exactly who to blame."
I turn back slowly, fixing him with a lethal stare. "Are you threatening me, Mr. Worthington?"
He pales slightly but maintains his petulant expression. "Just stating facts. Your job is to protect me—all aspects of me. That includes my reputation."
"My job ," I say coldly, "is to keep you alive. Your reputation is your own problem."
As I walk back to the guest wing, my mind reels with new information. The blackmail, Heather's obsessive behavior, the shooting in Spain—how do they connect? And how can we use this to free Bella from this sham of an engagement?
Because at the end of the day, other than keeping her physically safe, that's what matters most to me. To all of us.
I'll do whatever it takes to give Bella the life she deserves. The freedom to choose her own path, to find her own happiness.
Even if that path doesn't lead to us.
The thought sends a sharp pain through my chest, but I push it aside. There's work to be done. Mysteries to unravel. An omega to protect.
And time, as our mysterious blackmailer so helpfully pointed out, is running out.