Chapter 17 #2
The workers left at five. The construction foreman locked up behind them, nodding once before disappearing into the cooling evening.
I should have left too.
Instead, I pulled books from half-empty shelves and reorganized them by color. Then by author. Then alphabetically within genre because the first two systems didn't satisfy the restless energy clawing beneath my skin.
I'm cleaning, I told myself. Getting ahead of the renovations.
But my hands shook when I shelved poetry. My vision blurred when I passed the romance section.
I wasn't organizing.
I was hiding. From the empty house. From the bedroom that smelled like him. From the memory of his hands washing my skin with unbearable gentleness. From the fact that he'd cared for me—and I'd let him.
The bookstore lights buzzed softly overhead. Outside, darkness pressed against the windows. The street emptied. Cars passed less frequently.
I should go home.
I didn't move.
My phone sat on the counter where I'd left it hours ago.
I picked it up. Checked the screen. Nothing. No missed calls. No texts. No terse commands reminding me where I should be. What I should be wearing. Who I belonged to.
Just—silence.
My chest tightened.
He must be at the game already. Skating onto the ice while fans screamed his name. Scanning the stands for the woman who should be there wearing his jersey. Finding nothing.
Relief flooded through me first—sharp and immediate.
Good. Let him look. Let him realize I'm not some obedient doll he can dress up and parade around.
But underneath that relief, something else stirred.
Something small and ugly and wounded.
He didn't even check. Didn't call to make sure I remembered. Didn't text to threaten or coerce or—
I slammed the phone down.
"Stop," I whispered to the empty store.
I hated that part of me. The part that felt hurt by his silence. That wanted him to notice my absence. To care that I'd defied him.
That wanted proof I mattered beyond the contract we'd signed.
I pressed my palms against my eyes until stars burst behind my lids.
You don't want his attention. You want him gone. You want your life back.
But when I dropped my hands, the bookstore felt colder than before.
And my phone stayed silent.
The bell above the door jingled.
I looked up from the register, already forming a polite closing-time smile.
It died on my lips.
Two men stood in the doorway. Leather jackets worn soft with age. Jeans that had seen better days. Hard stares that swept the store like they were cataloging exits.
Not readers.
Not even close.
The taller one stepped inside first. Broad shoulders. Greasy smile that didn't reach his eyes. The kind of smile that made my skin crawl.
His friend followed—shorter, stockier, hands shoved deep in his pockets.
They didn't browse. Didn't glance at displays or ask about recommendations.
They looked at me.
I straightened slowly, heart kicking against my ribs.
"Can I help you?" My voice came out steadier than I felt.
The tall one crossed toward the counter with lazy confidence. Like he had all the time in the world.
"You Belle Reiss?"
Ice flooded my veins.
He knew my name.
I gripped the edge of the counter. "Who's asking?"
He laughed—low, ugly sound that made my teeth clench.
Behind me, I heard the soft scuff of boots on hardwood.
The shorter one had circled around. Pretending to examine shelves near the back room. Close enough that I couldn't bolt without him intercepting.
Trapped.
The tall one leaned against the counter. Too close. Invading space he hadn't earned.
"We just came for a chat." His smile widened. "Just business."
My stomach dropped.
Business.
That word landed wrong. Heavy with implication. These weren't customers. Weren't fans of Gideon's looking for gossip. Weren't construction workers checking on progress. They were something else entirely. Something dangerous.
"Store's closed," I said quietly.
The man's smile didn't waver. "Won't take long."
Behind me, the shorter one moved closer. I felt it—the shift in air, the deliberate encroachment.
My phone sat three feet away on the counter. Might as well be miles.
My pulse hammered in my throat. In my wrists. Behind my eyes. "What do you want?"
The tall one tilted his head. Studied me like I was something he might purchase.
"Just delivering a message." He pulled something from his jacket—folded paper, worn at the edges. Dropped it on the counter between us.
I didn't reach for it. Didn't move. "From who?"
His grin sharpened. "Someone who says your daddy owes more than money."
The world tilted.
The folded paper sat on the counter between us like a coiled snake.
I didn't want to touch it. Didn't want to acknowledge it existed.
But my eyes betrayed me—dropping to the worn creases, the smudged fingerprints along the edges.
The tall man's smile widened. "Pretty big bill." He tapped the paper with one knuckle. "Didn't tell you?"
My blood turned to ice. "My father doesn't owe anyone. You have the wrong—"
He cut me off with a smile that was all teeth. All threat. "No, sweetheart." He leaned closer, invading every inch of space left between us. "We got the right girl."
I stepped back.
He followed. Slow. Deliberate. Like a cat playing with something wounded.
Behind me, the shorter man appeared again—too close. His breath hot against the back of my neck.
Surrounded.
Trapped.
My pulse hammered so hard I could barely hear past it.
The taller man reached into his jacket again. Pulled something else out.
A business card.
Plain. White. Blank on the front.
He flipped it over.
A phone number scrawled in shaky pen across the back.
He dropped it on top of the folded paper.
"Tell daddy we came by." His voice went softer. Darker. "Tell him we don't like being ignored."
I shook my head, trying to find my voice through the fear choking my throat. "I don't know what you're talking about. My father is in the hospital—"
He interrupted again. This time his voice dropped to something almost conversational. Almost kind. "We know." A beat. "That's why we're coming to you."
My breath caught. Stuck somewhere between my lungs and my mouth.
I tried not to show fear. Tried to keep my face neutral. My hands steady.
I failed.
The shorter man behind me smirked—I heard it in his voice when he spoke for the first time. "We'll be back." He leaned closer. So close I felt the words against my ear. "Don't run."
Then they moved as one. Turned. Walked toward the door with unhurried confidence.
The bell rang on their way out. Bright. Cheerful. Mocking.
The door swung shut.
I stood frozen behind the counter, staring at the business card and the folded paper. At proof my father's debts ran deeper than hospital bills. Deeper than I'd ever imagined.
One thing I knew for sure was Gideon would not find out about this. The last thing I needed was for him to have any more leverage over me than he already did.