Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Alicia
My phone buzzes against the marble counter, the vibration faint but sharp in the hush of the kitchen. I pad over in socked feet, the floor cool beneath me, wine-soft fatigue in my limbs. Dinner’s over. The dishwasher loaded.
Noah and Stella finished their post-dinner basketball ritual in the driveway before he locked up for the night. She’s upstairs now, getting ready for bed, and he’s downstairs reviewing footage—ever vigilant, always one step ahead of threat.
For the first time all week, my muscles have finally unclenched. My shoulders no longer ache. The wine’s warmth hums low and steady through me. I’m ready to close out this day—hell, this entire month—and pretend peace isn’t borrowed time.
The phone lights again, and dread coils through me.
Dick: Call me when you get a chance.
Of course. The timing is perfect, as always. I should’ve known he’d reach out after seeing me in Noah’s arms. I stare at the message for a beat, considering ignoring it, but I’ve never been one to procrastinate on unpleasant tasks.
So I tap Call.
“Richard,” I say when he picks up on the third ring.
There’s the faint click of a door closing on his end.
“Are you dating him?” His voice is sharp, laced with disdain.
My stomach tightens. “That’s not your business.”
“Oh? Last I checked, we share a daughter who happens to be living in your house.”
A car horn bleats in the background.
“Are you outside?”
“I’m going for an after-dinner walk.”
“After ten?” I ask, catching the lie. “You mean you don’t want your girlfriend to overhear you interrogating me. You’re transparent, Richard. Always have been.”
He exhales, the sound harsh over the line. “Where’s Stella?”
“Upstairs. Getting ready for bed.” I roll my eyes at the ceiling, the same way she does when she’s frustrated.
“And Noah?”
“Ah, so you do know his name.”
“We were introduced,” he bites out. “You said he was security—which I’m not happy about.”
“I’m aware.”
Silence stretches between us. I can picture him pacing his manicured street, checking who might be watching. Always performing, even when no one’s around.
Noah rounds the corner into the room, his expression questioning, alert.
“I don’t like it,” Richard says finally. “How much time is he spending with my daughter?”
I meet Noah’s gaze head-on. “He’s a good person, Richard. And might I remind you, you’ve introduced Stella to plenty of women without consulting me first.”
“We’ll talk later.”
The call ends. No goodbye, just static and then quiet. I stare at the phone for a moment before setting it facedown.
“He’s unbelievable,” I mutter.
“Everything okay?” Noah asks, leaning against the doorway, all controlled strength and quiet watchfulness.
“Yes,” I sigh, rubbing my temple. “Just Richard living up to his nickname.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. “All secure.”
“Locked up?”
“Locked up, lights out, alarms active. Nothing moving but the trees.”
Something in the way he says it—so calm, so certain—steadies me. I stand, smoothing my hands over my jeans, trying to shake off the call’s residue. “Let me go up and say goodnight to Stella. Then I’ll come down.”
He nods. “Take your time.”
Upstairs, the soft glow from the hallway spills under Stella’s door. I knock lightly.
“’Night, baby,” I whisper when she murmurs her reply. She’s already in bed, half-asleep, her silky strands spread over the pillow. I tuck the blanket around her shoulders, a small ritual that still feels necessary, even as she edges closer to independence.
Downstairs, the house feels different. The air carries that deep late-night quiet—a hush that comes when everything dangerous is kept at bay, if only for now. The scent of him—clean soap, cedar, mint—threads the air.
Noah’s on the couch, laptop closed, shoulders relaxed. When he looks up, his expression softens in a way that undoes something inside me.
“All quiet?” I ask.
“For now.” He gestures toward the space beside him. “You okay?”
“I will be.”
I cross the room and sink onto the couch, my body angling toward his. For a long beat, neither of us speaks. The silence hums, thick and charged, filled with all the things we shouldn’t want.
“I hate how easily he gets under my skin,” I admit finally.
“That’s what he’s counting on.” His voice is low, worn velvet.
“He still thinks he has a right to weigh in. About everything.”
“He doesn’t.”
I turn toward him. “You sound so sure.”
“I am.” His gaze holds mine. “You’ve done enough fighting for other people, Alicia. You don’t need to justify what brings you peace.”
Peace. The concept fits somewhere between comfort and ache. I glance away, blinking against the sudden heat in my throat. “You make it sound so simple.”
He leans closer, the air between us thinning. “Doesn’t mean it’s easy.”
For a second, I forget to breathe. His proximity is its own gravity—steady, inevitable.
“I told myself this shouldn’t happen,” I whisper.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Me too. But I’m damn glad it did.”
I don’t know who moves first—maybe it’s mutual—but then his hand brushes my jaw, calloused fingers tracing the line of my throat. My pulse jumps, unbidden.
The kiss is slow, deliberate. Not the hungry kind, not yet—this one is about exhaling and surrendering. About exhaustion finding solace in touch.
When his mouth deepens the kiss, my hand slides up his chest, feeling the steady thrum beneath the cotton of his shirt. I taste warmth and want, mixed with the faint echo of wine.
He pulls back just enough to murmur, “You sure?”
My answer is a whisper against his skin. “Yes.”
He rises, taking my hand, and the world narrows to the soft glide of fingers and breath and heartbeats. Upstairs, the house is silent. The street outside, still.
And for once—despite everything closing in—there’s no fear, no defense. Just this.
The week finally closes with all the grace of a preteen cleaning her room. Richard picked up Stella from school on Friday, leaving the weekend to Noah and me. Saturday dawns quiet—with Noah in my bed for the first time.
With Stella at Richard’s, last night Noah spent the night in my bed instead of me retreating to the guest room and tiptoeing upstairs before she woke. We have nothing planned today. I’d had to agree to that in advance—otherwise, a different team member would’ve been scheduled as backup.
The surreal quality of it—of him in my bed, of an ordinary Saturday morning—feels especially sharp in the early quiet. The November sun slants through the window, gold and deceptive. From here, it could be summer—if not for the chill beyond the glass.
“Morning.” His voice is a rough rasp, sleep-heavy. Then his body jolts. “What time is it?”
“Almost ten.”
He’s out of bed in seconds, bare feet thudding on carpet.
“I’m late. I never oversleep.”
I smile into the pillow. “Late for what?”
“Meeting Jake.”
So much for a slow morning. I watch him dress—efficient, focused, tucking in the lethal calm that lives just under his surface.
“You’re staying in, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
That earns me a grin. He starts for the door, then doubles back, catching me by the waist and kissing me hard enough that my knees weaken. When he pulls away, he glances down at his shorts, mutters, “Damn. Every time,” and leaves shaking his head.
“You’ll be back for lunch?” I call.
“By one!”
The door shuts and silence returns.
Hours later, I’m cocooned on the couch, blanket wrapped around me, a novel open on my lap and the late-autumn light gilding the hardwood floors. The house feels alive but safe—each creak familiar, each breath of wind harmless.
I rise to make lunch, padding into the kitchen, when I notice my phone lit on the counter. The stillness cracks.
Missed calls. Richard.
Texts stacked beneath his name.
Is Stella with you?
Answer the phone.
Where are you?
Call me.
I frown, irritation flashing first—he always expects instant access—but it drains away as my eyes return to the first message. Is Stella with you?
My pulse stutters. I hit call.
He answers on the first ring.
“Where have you been?” His voice is tight, frantic.
“Home. My phone was in the kitchen.”
“You didn’t see my messages?”
“I was reading a physical book, Richard. Not everything I do requires my phone in my hand. What’s going on? Why are you asking if Stella’s with me?”
He exhales—long, uneven. Not irritation. Something closer to fear. “We had brunch, came home—”
“And?” My throat dries.
“I can’t find her. I’ve looked everywhere. You think she’d walk to your place?”
Five miles. She wouldn’t. “Did you fight?”
“No!” His shout crackles over the line, more fear than anger.
“When did you last see her?”
“Eleven-thirty. She went to her room.”
The house flashes in my mind—twelve thousand square feet. It’s old. Creaky doors. Hardwood floors. My heartbeat spikes. “Did you stay downstairs?”
“No,” he says, voice lowering. “Jessica and I…took a nap. After brunch.”
A nap. Of course.
My stomach drops, the air around me thinning. What if she heard them? Went for a walk? “Richard, listen to me. Call her friends. Every one of them that’s within walking distance of your house. I’ll start checking this end. Do you have her iPad?”
“It’s on her bed.”
She didn’t plan to leave for long then.
The front door opens; I spin—relief, hope—then Noah’s silhouette fills the doorway. His gaze locks on my face, reading the panic.
I press the phone to my chest for a second and whisper, “Stella’s missing.”
The words are simultaneously terrifying, electric, and surreal. His posture shifts—lover to operative in a breath.
“What happened?”
I put the phone back to my ear. “When was the last time—”
“About eleven-thirty,” Richard repeats.
Noah’s already moving—retrieving his phone, touching the screen, eyes flicking to every window.
And that’s when the thought strikes like a blade: What if this isn’t about Richard? What if Dorian was right?
A rush of cold sweeps through me. “Christ,” I whisper. “What if they took her to get to me?”
Noah’s gaze snaps to mine—steady, calm, lethal focus. “We’ll find her.”
The quiet house hums with the weight of that promise.