Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
Zoe
I’m still a little stunned at how quickly Dane solved the gallery case.
The police had been investigating for weeks with zero progress, and then he just..
. figured it out in a single afternoon. With my help, sure, but still.
The efficiency is terrifying and, if I’m being completely honest with myself, a little bit hot.
I’m curled up on the massive sectional in the penthouse living room, pretending to read while Diego and Rett discuss something work-related at the dining table.
Their low voices create a soothing background hum that I’ve somehow gotten used to over these past weeks.
It’s strange how quickly this place, these men, have become familiar to me.
The front door slides open, and Tristan walks in, his suit jacket slung over one shoulder. He’s staring at his phone, scrolling with his thumb, a strange, grimly satisfied look on his face.
“Well,” he announces to the room, not looking up, “that was fast.”
Diego glances up from his laptop. “What was?”
Tristan holds up his phone. “News just posted that noted art collector Rudy Lewis has been arrested for the gallery theft.” His dimple appears as his mouth curves into a smile. “And, oh, this is my favorite part... it seems he’s also being investigated for tax fraud. Bummer.”
Tax fraud? That wasn’t part of our investigation. That wasn’t related to the gallery at all.
My gaze shifts to all three Sterlings in the room with me.
None of them looks surprised. Then it dawns.
They didn’t just have him arrested for vandalizing the gallery.
They dug into his entire life. They found every skeleton, every mistake, every vulnerability.
And they’re using all of it to destroy him.
Professionally. Personally. Completely.
I must have made some sort of sound, because Rett’s gaze snaps to me, his eyes sharp with concern. “Zoe? You okay?”
“Yeah,” I manage, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears. “Just... processing.”
Dane appears in the hallway doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable as always. But his eyes find mine immediately, and I see something there. A question. A concern.
I try to sort through my feelings. I should be horrified at the ruthless efficiency with which they’ve dismantled a man’s entire life. I should be terrified that these four men have this kind of power and are willing to wield it so completely.
Instead, there’s a strange, fierce heat blooming in my chest. Because they did this for me. They tracked him down, exposed him, and annihilated him—all because he threatened me.
It’s terrifying. And intoxicating.
Diego stands suddenly, clapping his hands together. “We should celebrate!” His warm brown eyes light up with genuine happiness. “He’s caught! You’re safe! I’ll order something special for dinner. Champagne?”
His enthusiasm hangs in the air, bright and earnest and completely at odds with the strange, electric tension that’s suddenly filling the room.
“I... yeah, that sounds nice,” I say, the words feeling wooden in my mouth.
Rett’s brow furrows slightly. He’s watching me with that intense focus that makes me feel like I’m under a microscope. “You don’t seem thrilled.”
“No, I am,” I insist, setting my book aside. “I just... It’s a lot to process. Rudy was...” I swallow hard. “He was my friend. Or I thought he was.”
Diego’s face softens immediately. “Oh, carino. I’m sorry. I didn’t think...” He moves toward me, sitting on the edge of the coffee table so he’s right in front of me, our knees touching. “Of course, this is complicated for you.”
The concern in his eyes, the gentleness in his voice… It makes something in my chest ache. He reaches out, his hand hovering over mine for a moment before he settles it on my knee instead. The warmth of his palm seeps through my leggings, and I find myself leaning slightly into his touch.
“Still,” Tristan says, dropping into an armchair across from us, “the bastard had it coming. I mean, who breaks into a gallery and specifically targets one person’s office? That’s some next-level psycho behavior.”
“Tristan,” Rett warns, his voice a low rumble.
“What? I’m just saying,” Tristan continues. “The guy clearly had a thing for Zoe. Who can blame him, but still. There are less creepy ways to express interest.”
The room falls into an awkward silence. I’m acutely aware of Diego’s hand still on my knee, the heat of it becoming an almost unbearable point of contact.
Across from me, Tristan’s dark eyes hold mine, that dimple appearing as he gives me a small, private smile that sends a tendril of heat curling through my belly.
“I think what Tristan is trying to say,” Dane offers from his position against the wall, “is that you’re safe now. The threat is gone.”
Something in his tone makes me look at him more closely. There’s a tension in his shoulders, a tightness around his eyes that wasn’t there before. The words seem to echo in the suddenly too-quiet room.
You’re safe now. The threat is gone.
And just like that, it hits me.
Our deal is over.
The security arrangement that brought me into this penthouse? It’s officially null and void. The only concrete reason for me to be here has been eliminated.
I look around at the four of them, really look, and what I see makes me struggle to breathe.
Rett’s jaw is clenched so tight I can see a muscle jumping.
Diego’s fingers have tightened on my knee, just slightly.
Tristan’s smile has faded, replaced by a rare, serious expression.
And Dane... Dane is watching me with those pale, knowing eyes, and what I see in them is not triumph. It’s a quiet, profound dread.
My own stomach plummets.
They are not looking at me like a woman who is now safe. They are looking at me like a prized possession they are about to lose.
The thought lands with a cold, hollow thud in my chest. The security arrangement is over. The deal is done. And now... now what? What reason could they possibly give for me to stay?
The static.
The words echo in my head.
I’m their aspirin. Their cure. The thing that makes the constant noise in their heads stop. And now, with the threat eliminated, that’s all I am to them. A treatment for their condition.
Isn’t it?
“I should open some wine,” Diego says, breaking the silence. He squeezes my knee once before standing. “We have a bottle of Le Roux we’ve been saving.”
Another pang goes through my chest.
“I’m... actually not really in the mood to celebrate,” I admit, pulling my knees up to my chest. “It feels weird to toast to Rudy’s downfall, even after what he did.”
“Of course,” Rett says immediately, his voice softening in a way I’ve only heard him use with me. “We don’t have to celebrate. But we should at least acknowledge that this chapter is closed. The gallery case is solved.”
There it is again. That reminder. That finality.
“Right,” I say, my voice coming out hollow. “Case closed.”
Another silence falls, this one even more strained than the last. Diego is still standing by the kitchen island, looking lost. Tristan is fidgeting with his phone, uncharacteristically quiet. Rett’s gaze is fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
“I think I’m just tired,” I say abruptly, standing up. The need to escape this strange, tense atmosphere is suddenly overwhelming. “It’s been a long couple of weeks. I’m going to turn in early.”
“It’s barely seven,” Diego whispers, a hint of desperation in his voice.
“I know,” I say, offering a strained smile. “But I just need some time to... process everything.”
“Of course,” he says, though his eyes are sad. “Can I bring you anything? Tea? A snack for later?”
“I’m fine,” I insist, already backing toward the hallway. “Really. I just need some space.”
Rett hasn’t said a word, but his eyes follow me, dark and stormy. I can almost feel the restraint it’s taking for him not to come after me, not to pull me back into the safety of his arms.
Safety. Is that what I feel with them? Or is it just the biological pull of the claiming, the marks on my neck that still haven’t faded?
I turn and walk down the hallway, the feeling of their four pairs of eyes on my back. It’s only when I reach my bedroom door that I hear movement behind me. A low murmur of voices. They’re respecting my need for space.
I close the door behind me and lean against it, letting out a slow, shaky breath. The room is exactly as I left it this morning. Neat, clean, luxurious. The bed is made; the curtains open to show the stunning view of the city below.
And my suitcase is sitting in the corner where I left it weeks ago. I never fully unpacked, did I? Some part of me always knew this was temporary. A stopgap measure until I could go back home.
I don’t cry. I don’t panic. I just look at that suitcase for a long, quiet moment, then walk over and place it on the bed, flipping open the latches. The sound is a quiet, final click in the silent, luxurious room.