13. Silas
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“ A h, dude! You’re up!”
I grimaced, blinking at Finn. He was wearing a shit-eating grin that definitely didn’t belong on a man with a swollen cheek and a black eye the size of a golf ball.
“What the fuck happened?” My voice came out hoarse, like it had been dragged over sandpaper.
“Ah, the age-old question. One might even say… a classic.”
“Finn.”
“Come on, buddy.” He gestured vaguely at himself. “You’re gonna have to be a little more specific. Which part of last night are you referring to?”
I frowned. “The part where you look like you got curb stomped.”
Finn clicked his tongue. “Oh, that. Yeah, well, turns out some people don’t appreciate constructive criticism.”
I scowled. “Constructive—” the words cut off as a sharp sting flared across my mouth. I swiped my tongue over my lower lip. Split . “Finn.”
His grin widened. “Yes, dearest?”
“Why do I have a split lip?”
He sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Hoo, boy. Alright. So. You remember the strip club?”
I did not remember the strip club. In fact, I barely remembered leaving the penthouse. “For the sake of my sanity, let’s assume I do not.”
“Right. Well. That’s where it all started.”
“Of course it is.”
He pointed at me, his face far too smug for a man who still had dried blood on his collar. “And I just want it noted, for the record, you were having a great time.”
My eyes widened, stomach turning. No, no, no. “ I didn’t pay for a dance, did I?”
“Oh, hell no,” he laughed. “You, my friend, were on a different kind of mission.”
That was… not reassuring. “And what kind of mission was that?”
He wheezed, struggling to get the words out. “You were giving financial advice.”
Silence. I stared at him. “I’m sorry?”
“Dude. You—oh my God—you sat one of the dancers down and started helping her plan a retirement fund.”
My soul left my body. “You’re lying.”
“I wish I was.” Finn wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “You kept saying shit like, ‘The industry is profitable and volatile, you’ve gotta diversify your investments.’ And then— then —you started pulling up fucking stock charts on your phone.”
I dropped my head into my hands. “Kill me.”
“I’d never. It was the best thing I’ve ever seen.” Finn sighed. “Anyway, that was all going great until—”
“Until what?”
He leaned against the dresser, stretching out.
“So, from what I gathered, one of the guys there was talking shit, being a total asshole to one of the dancers, and you—” he slapped his chest proudly “—stood up like some kind of avenging tech bro and started explaining the ethics of wealth and redistribution.”
“I—what?”
“Yeah, dude. You went on a full rant about how women in the service industry should be treated with respect, and how, if they unionised, the entire financial structure of high-end clubs would collapse. I’m pretty sure you used the phrase ‘late-stage capitalism’ at least four times.”
I closed my eyes. “Cristo santo.”
He nodded. “I think you really got through to them.”
“And how does my split lip fit into this?”
“Well. So. Security got involved and you, uh… may have made some comments about their outdated point-of-sale system.”
“Finn.”
“Listen, man. You were just trying to be helpful. You told him their payment processing system was, and I quote, ‘a security nightmare that was practically begging to be hacked.’”
“Please tell me I didn’t actively threaten them with a data breach,” I groaned.
“Not actively—more like you strongly implied that if you were feeling petty, you could tank their entire infrastructure in five minutes.”
I ran a hand through my hair. “So that got us thrown out?”
He winced. “Almost. But things got… complicated.”
“Go on,” I sighed.
“Right when he was politely escorting us out, I said ‘You’re really committed to this ‘angry thumb’ aesthetic huh?’”
“Finn.”
“And then he swung at me. And then I may have swung back.”
I rubbed my temples. “That explains your face. But again. My lip?”
He shot me a sheepish grin. “Ah. So, when he went in for round two, you stepped in.”
“I what?”
“Yeah, man. Took the hit like a champ.”
I dragged both hands down my face. “Leave me alone, Finn.”
“Your wish is my command, buddy. Gotta get going anyway.”
I lifted a brow. “Where?”
“Tinder date,” he said, making his way to the door.
Of course.
“Gesù Cristo,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“Jealous?”
“Devastated.”
He grinned, then froze mid-motion. “Oh, wait—” his brows furrowed. “Shit. Dude.”
I straightened a little. “What?”
“Last night.” He snapped his fingers, pointing at me like that would somehow clarify whatever was rattling around in his brain. “On the way home. You made us stop off at some random house so you could grab something off the doorstep.”
My stomach tightened. “What?”
“Yeah, man. You were on a mission. Mumbled some shit about needing to get it before morning. I figured you’d remember.”
No. No, I obviously did not remember.
“What was it?” I asked, heartbeat kicking up a notch.
He shrugged. “Dunno, dude. You never showed me.”
“And you’re just bringing this up now?”
He checked his phone, ignoring my glare. “My bad.” He shot me a lazy grin, stepping out of the room. “Anyway, wish me luck.”
The door shut before I could respond.
What did I pick up last night?
Retrace your steps.
Well, I couldn’t do that could I? Not when my mind was as blank as a politician’s promise.
I’d stopped somewhere last night. I’d taken something.
I just had no clue what .
Heat raked over my skin as I jumped out of bed and ran through the penthouse, scanning the whole place, eyes darting over the coffee table, the kitchen counter, the bathroom.
No sign of whatever it was.
Drawers yanked open. Cabinets checked. I tore through my desk, rifled through my jacket pockets, checked my bedside tables—nothing.
What was I even looking for?
The frustration burned hotter as I turned back toward the bed, digging my fingers into my temples.
Think.
I dropped down onto the mattress, elbows braced on my knees, trying to pull something, anything, from the void of last night.
Something crinkled beneath me, and I frowned, shifting slightly.
I reached under my thigh, fingers brushing against something thin and worn.
Of course it had been exactly where I’d been lying.
A single scrap of paper, folded over itself, creased and worn from how I must have shoved it there, my own drunk self doing me no favours.
I unfolded it, and my heart fell straight out of my ass.
‘Why do you not speak? Have you nothing to say for yourself? Or have you lost your voice along with your courage?’ - Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera.
I turned the slip of paper between my fingers, exhaling a quiet laugh.
Clever.
It was bait wrapped in wit, an unspoken challenge laid at my feet, daring me to bite.
But it was the thing that sat underneath it that got to me the most.
Her number.
I already knew it. Had it stored away in the quiet depths of my mind, along with every other detail I’d unearthed in my searches. But she didn’t know that.
Was it a joke? A dig? A test? Was she trying to trap me in my own silence, just to see if I’d break it. Or was it something else entirely—an invitation?
I pressed my thumb against the ink, dragging it slow over the imprint of her writing, like I might be able to feel the answer there.
No instruction. No ‘text me.’ No ‘call me.’
What did she want from me? And more importantly, what did I want from— oh, fuck.
I quickly pulled up the doorbell feed on my phone. And sure enough, there she was, dropping it on her doorstep. I scrubbed forward. No more movement. No more Lilith.
Even in my blackout drunk state, I’d had the sense to cut the feed before doing something even stupider.
Miracles can happen, I guess .
I paced the penthouse from one end to the other, the city glowing beneath me through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I had no right to call her. No right to be in her life after the way I’d hovered, watching, lingering, inserting myself where I didn’t belong.
And yet, she’d left it for me. That meant something. Didn’t it?
The couch groaned as I dropped onto it, limbs sprawling. I needed a distraction. Something mindless.
The remote clicked under my restless hand, flicking through an endless carousel of nothing—reality TV, breaking news, some slow-moving documentary on coral reefs.
Half a day of keeping myself occupied passed. But the paper sat in my pocket like a live wire, too hot and loud.
I had two choices.
One — pretend it didn’t exist. Forget it, forget her, move on like I should’ve done the second she caught me.
Two—do the thing that I absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent should not do.
The phone was already in my hand.
Stupid. Reckless. A mistake I could still unmake if I just put it down.
Swallowing against the tightness clawing up my throat, I messed with the settings on my phone, then typed out a message that just sat there for ten minutes, staring at me, taunting me.
One last chance to be smart. One last chance to back the hell off.
Before I could think better of it, I hit send.
Me
‘Allow me to introduce myself’ - Goethe, Faust.
I threw the phone onto the coffee table like it was about to blow up, and leaned back into the couch, arms crossed, jaw locked. That was the worst thing I could have sent her. Why the hell did I do that?
Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.
I tried to focus on the ceiling, the city lights bleeding through the windows, the way the hum of the fridge filled the silence. None of it helped.
The minutes stretched.
Five.
Ten.
The screen stayed dark.
I shouldn’t have sent it. This was a mistake. I should’ve shoved the paper into a drawer or burned it so I could never look at it again.
Fifteen minutes.
Twenty.
She wasn’t going to respond. And why the hell would she?
I’d fucked up so badly there might not be a word for it. A scale of damage I’d shattered past long before I ever let myself want her.
My fingers twitched, hovering over the phone again. A follow up. A backtrack. Something—anything—to fill the silence.
The screen blinked to life.
A single message.
Lilith
Who the fuck are you introducing yourself as?
Lilith
Seriously? A burner? Either you’re deep undercover, or you’re a serial killer. There’s no in between. Which is it?
A smirk ghosted across my lips. Please. Like I’d text her off my real number.
Silas
Not a serial killer.
Lilith
That’s exactly what a serial killer would say.
Silas
Then why give me your number?
Another pause. I could almost picture her thinking. Brow slightly furrowed, maybe tilting her head like she was trying to figure me out.
Lilith
Momentary lapse in judgement. I blame mild brain damage from years of terrible decisions.
Silas
So this is just another one to add to that list?
Lilith
Not sure yet, jury’s still out.
Lilith
What do I call you?
Silas
You don’t.
Lilith
Cryptic. Very helpful.
Silas
You think so?
Lilith
No, I was being sarcastic. You suck at conversation.
Silas
That’s fair.
Lilith
So what, you just texted to give me another literary quote and that’s it?
Silas
You left me your number.
Lilith
Didn’t mean you had to use it.
Silas
Then why give it to me?
Lilith
Why take it ?
Silas
You offered.
Lilith
I was intrigued.
Silas
Me too.
Lilith
Well, that settles it. We’re both intrigued. What a thrilling conclusion.
Silas
You should get some sleep.
Lilith
And miss out on all this quality, late night banter? Tragic.
Silas
I’m being practical.
Lilith
Oh? My own personal stalker looking out for me? How sweet.
Silas
I take my job seriously.
Lilith
Mm. Do you take requests?
Silas
Depends on the request.
Lilith
Your name?
Silas
Goodnight, Lilith.
The screen dimmed, but I kept staring, thumb tapping absently on the side of the phone like I could somehow undo what I’d just done.
I scrubbed a hand over my jaw.
This was a mistake. I knew that. Knew it the second my finger hit send, knew it the second her reply came through, knew it the whole damn time I kept the conversation going instead of shutting it down.
But now? Now I’d cracked open a door I had no business standing in front of, and she’d just pulled me right through it.
My stomach twisted, a sick kind of heat curling under my skin.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She was supposed to hate me. Call the cops, tell me to leave her the hell alone, pretend I never existed. That would’ve been better. Would’ve made more sense. But she was talking to me. Asking me things. Giving me— fuck , I didn’t even know what.
My fingers clenched around my phone, every rational part of my brain screaming at me to stop this now before it got worse. Before I messed up even more than I already had.
I should delete it. Block her. Walk away.
But I didn’t.
Because maybe the real mistake was thinking I could stop now.