Chapter 3
EARLIER THAT EVENING…
The champagne tasted like expensive nothing as I stood in the corner of the Meridian Gallery, watching clusters of art enthusiasts pretend to understand the deeper meaning behind abstract splashes of paint.
I was there for business, another networking obligation that came with building Cross Security into something more than just another protection firm.
My client, Marcus Webb, insisted that being seen at these cultural events was essential for the kind of high-end reputation we were cultivating.
“You need to understand your clients’ world,” Webb said during our meeting that afternoon.
“CEOs and politicians don’t just hire security, they hire people who could move seamlessly through their social circles.
If someone looks at ease at a gallery opening, they’re someone they’d trust with their life. ”
So I put on my best suit, pasted on my networking smile, and prepared to spend the evening making small talk with people who measured success in stock portfolios and summer homes. Just another cost of building the empire I worked toward since I aged out of the foster system at eighteen.
The irony wasn’t lost on me that I grew up with nothing and spent my evenings surrounded by people who never knew what it felt like to wonder where their next meal was coming from.
But that was exactly why I pushed so hard to get here.
I learned early that power and money were the only things that mattered in this world, the only things that could protect you from being discarded when you became inconvenient.
I scanned the room, mentally cataloged potential clients and business connections. Then I saw her.
Willa Winslow.
For a second, I thought my mind was playing a trick, pulling her out of memory and setting her here, impossibly present.
But she didn’t fade. She stood there, real and breathing, light catching in her hair the way it used to when we lingered too long over nothing.
Time had touched her, yes, but gently. Then her lips, Goodness, my mind betrayed me.
I remembered the first time they brushed mine, the way the moment had felt both inevitable and terrifying.
My chest tightened. This is ridiculous, I thought, yet my body didn’t listen. After all these years, something in me was waking up, stretching, as if it had only been sleeping.
I looked away before she could catch me staring and reached for the gallery program at the entrance, needing something ordinary to ground me.
The paper was thick, elegant, cool beneath my fingers as I unfolded it, skimming without intention—until my eyes snagged.
Her name wasn’t Winslow anymore, according to the graceful script printed near the top.
The show was titled Emotional Landscapes by Dexter Hartwell, and his bio made my stomach drop: married to one Willa Hartwell.
My throat went dry as I watched her across the crowded room, standing beside a man who must have been her husband.
She wore a long-sleeved black dress despite the warm October evening, her dark hair pulled back in a sophisticated updo—nothing like the loose waves I remembered from college.
She looked elegant, polished, like she belonged in this world of expensive art and expensive people.
But something was wrong.
I built my business on reading people, on noticing the details others missed, and everything about Willa’s body language screamed tension.
The way she held herself perfectly still beside her husband.
The way her smile never quite reached her eyes.
The way she flinched—just slightly, but I caught it, when Dexter Hartwell placed his hand on her lower back.
I haven’t seen her in three years. Three years since Jude enlisted and moved away, taking his weekly updates about his sister with him.
Three years since I made the conscious decision to stay away from anything and anyone connected to the Winslow family, because being around Willa was like holding my hand too close to a flame.
But seeing her again brought it all rushing back. The way she felt in my arms that graduation night. The taste of her lips, sweet with champagne and possibility. The look in her eyes when I pulled away—hurt and confused and trying so hard to be brave.
I spent three years telling myself I made the right choice by walking away.
Jude was my best friend, my brother in every way that mattered, and betraying that trust would have been unforgivable.
Willa deserved better than someone like me, someone with the kind of past that left scars on the soul, someone who learned to survive by keeping people at arm’s length.
But watching her stand beside Dexter Hartwell, I found myself wondering if I made a mistake. If my noble sacrifice was worth it, when she clearly found someone else, someone who could give her the kind of life she deserved.
The more I watched, the more obvious it became that something was wrong.
I wanted to approach them, to ask her if she was okay. I wanted to pull her aside and demand to know why she looked like she was afraid of her own husband. I wanted to tell her that I remembered her differently, confident and laughing and full of fire, and ask what happened to that girl.
Instead, I decided not to approach them at all.
Something about the way Hartwell kept his hand on her, the possessive grip that seemed more about control than affection, set off every alarm bell I developed in the security business.
I stayed across the room, watching from a distance while pretending to study the artwork on the walls.
The way Hartwell spoke about her to other guests made my skin crawl. I overheard him telling someone, “Willa used to work in marketing,” his tone dripping with condescension. Then with a pointed glance at her, he added, “But now, she’s been so devoted to being my wife.”
His words sounded rehearsed, like a line he’d delivered many times before. The emphasis wasn’t on devotion so much as possession, and there was no space left for who she might have been, or who she might still want to become.
I watched her pull a perfect, hollow smile, the kind that didn’t reach her eyes, a practiced acknowledgment of a life she once had for herself but had quietly surrendered.
They headed out shortly after, and I watched Willa leave with her husband, aching to call her name, to tell her I’d missed her and ask how she’d been all this time. Instead, I stayed where I was.
It had been nearly two and a half hours since I last saw her walk away. Even now, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong with her. It was a quiet, flickering sense beneath the surface, something that didn’t fit with the woman she used to be.
I took a photo of one of the paintings with my phone, pretending to be interested in the art, when Marcus Webb appeared at my elbow.
“Kieran,” Webb said, his voice carrying the kind of authority that came with controlling a nine-figure investment portfolio. “Interesting show. Though I have to say, I was more interested in discussing our conversation from this afternoon.”
Marcus Webb was exactly the kind of client Cross Security needed to take the next step.
The man controlled Titan Capital, one of the largest private equity firms on the East Coast, with a client roster that included Fortune 500 CEOs, federal judges, and at least three senators.
His net worth was rumored to be north of two billion, and his influence extended into every major industry—from tech to defense contracting.
Landing his security contract didn’t just mean money—it meant credibility, access to a network of clients who could transform my company from a regional firm into a national powerhouse.
More importantly, Webb has connections to government contracts that could set Cross Security up for decades. The kind of institutional relationships that turned small security firms into empire-building operations.
“There’s a new restaurant that opened downtown,” Webb continued. “Daniel. Michelin-starred chef, impossible to get reservations. But I knew the owner. We could continue our discussion over dinner.”
I forced myself to focus on his words instead of thinking about Willa. This was exactly what I worked toward for years—the kind of connection that could change everything.
“That sounds perfect,” I said, but even as the words left my mouth, I pulled out my phone and typed a quick message to my head of research.
Run a full background check on Dexter Hartwell, artist. Married to Willa Hartwell. Need current address, phone records if possible, and any red flags. Priority one.
Webb said something about his security concerns for his family’s vacation home in the Hamptons, but I barely listened. My phone buzzed with a response from Sarah Kim, my research specialist.
On it. Give me thirty minutes.
“I have a car waiting,” Webb said. “Shall we?”
I nodded and followed him toward the exit, but I kept glancing back at Willa. She still stood beside her husband, but something about her posture changed. She looked more tense—if that was even possible—her shoulders rigid with stress.
My phone buzzed again as we reached Webb’s Mercedes. Sarah’s message was brief but efficient.
Willa Hartwell, 1247 Monroe Street, Apt 4 B.
The registered phone shows the current location as the home address.
Husband has two DUIs and one assault charge dropped—likely protected by high-profile parents known to have pull in legal and political circles.
Red flags: multiple hospital visits last year, trauma center twice.
My blood ran cold at those last lines. Multiple hospital visits.
Trauma center. That wasn’t a coincidence—it was a pattern.
The words were clinical, stripped of context, but my mind filled in the rest. I pictured late nights ending in emergency rooms, explanations rehearsed just enough to get by, injuries that never quite matched the stories built around them.
I read it again, slower this time, hoping lingering might change its meaning. It didn’t.
I got into the car, the weight of it all pressing down on me.
I wasn’t looking for her—I didn’t trust myself to—but she stayed in my mind anyway.
I found myself worrying in ways I hadn’t expected, wishing I could ask how she was really doing, wishing I could tell her that if she ever needed to reach out, she could.
That she didn’t have to carry everything alone.
Especially now, with Jude deployed, her only family so far away.
Webb settled into the leather seat beside me, talking about his portfolio companies and their security vulnerabilities, when another message came through.
Update: Phone showing movement. She’s walking through the Riverside District, heading toward the warehouse area. Pattern suggests distress - erratic movement, frequent stops.
I stared at my phone, my mind racing. The Riverside District was one of the worst areas of the city, abandoned warehouses, minimal police presence, and the kind of place where bad things happened to people who couldn’t defend themselves.
A third message appeared.
Recommend immediate welfare check.
Webb was in the middle of explaining why he needed a complete security overhaul for his hedge fund’s offices when he noticed my distraction.
“Do you need to be somewhere else?” Webb asked, and I realized I was staring at my phone instead of listening to him.
I looked up at the man who represented everything I worked toward.
Marcus Webb wasn’t just wealthy—he was connected in ways that money couldn’t buy.
His recommendation alone could open doors to Pentagon contracts, Fortune 100 corporations, and political campaigns that shaped national policy.
This dinner wasn’t just about one client; it was about positioning Cross Security as a major player in an industry dominated by established firms with decades of government connections.
Losing Webb’s interest that night could have meant losing years of carefully planned growth. Dozens of security firms competed for his attention, and second chances with men like him didn’t exist.
Then I thought about Willa walking alone through one of the most dangerous parts of the city at eleven o’clock at night. I thought about hospital visits and trauma centers, and the fear I saw in her eyes across the gallery.
“A girl I know is in danger,” I said, surprised by how easily the truth came out.
Webb studied me for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded once, sharp and decisive.
“Then what are you still doing there?”