Chapter 8
8
Claudius
I stand near the doorway, arms crossed, my stance relaxed but ready just in case Ms. Blight gets any ideas about running. She’s been compliant so far, but fear does strange things to people. I’ve seen it enough times to know better than to let my guard down.
Across the room, Santos’ wife sits beside her former roommate, their voices hushed, words meant only for each other. There’s grief in the way they hold themselves, in the way their hands occasionally brush. It’s a silent exchange of comfort neither of them can afford to show outright.
Santos watches them, his expression hard, but his eyes give him away. He wants to ask, but he already knows the answer before the words leave his mouth.
“Where are you taking her?”
I meet his gaze, steady. “You know I can’t tell you that, Santos. Just know she’ll be safe.”
His jaw tics, tension coiled tight in his frame, but he doesn’t push. He hates this. Hates that I’m the one making the call. But he also knows I’m right.
He can’t know where I’m taking Cecely.
No one can.
I glance at the watch strapped to my wrist. Twenty minutes. She’s been in her room too long. I’m just about to go get her when the door creaks open.
She steps out, dragging a backpack behind her. Her eyes are red and swollen, telling me everything. She’s been crying.
Something twists deep in my gut. It’s a strange, unwelcome pull, but I ignore it.
This is hard for her. I get that. It should be.
She should be scared.
Because this isn’t over. Not even close.
“I’m ready.”
“Did you pack a laptop?”
“Yeah.”
“You can’t take it with you. Cell phone?”
Her gaze narrows. “You’re not serious, are you?”
“As we established, I’m dead serious.”
I’m expecting her to give me lip, but she doesn’t. Instead she squats, unzipping her bag and pulling out her laptop. She hands it over before digging her phone from her purse. She is about to give it to me when she stops.
“Wait. If I’m in danger, does that mean my mother is?”
I shake my head. “Just you.”
“Lucky me.”
She hands me her phone, which I tuck into my pocket.
“Let’s go.”
I keep my tone even and firm. No hesitation. No room for argument.
But before either of us can take a step, Lili Santos surges forward, throwing her arms around Cecely in a tight embrace. I watch closely, waiting for Cecely’s reaction. Except there isn’t one. She stands stiff, arms at her sides, making no move to return the hug.
Interesting.
“Call me when you can,” Lili murmurs, voice thick with emotion.
Cecely’s smile is tight, forced. “I’ll do my best.”
Then her gaze shifts to me. Her expression is unreadable, but her meaning is clear. I’m ready when you are.
I nod and lead the way, keeping my stride even and purposeful. She follows. We’re almost to the door when she halts.
Fuck.
I brace myself. Is this it? The moment she breaks? The moment she begs me to change my mind? I’ve seen it before. Desperation slipping in at the last second, clawing at whatever thin chance of control she thinks she still has.
But she doesn’t turn to me.
Instead, she pivots to face the other roommate, Mr. Ashwood, and says, “There’s a book on my bed. Look inside. It should be enough to get you by for a few months until you can go back to work…”
For a moment, silence stretches between them. Then Mr. Ashwood’s eyes widen, shock flickering across his face. He opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, Cecely is already moving again, leaving whatever words he might have had unsaid.
I glance at her, at the tension in her shoulders, the unreadable look in her eyes.
She’s not just leaving. She’s making peace with what she’s leaving behind, as if she knows there’s a chance she won’t be coming back. And for some reason, that thought unsettles me more than anything else.
We reach the ground level of the apartment complex. I notice Cecely is struggling with her bag, but since she hasn’t asked for help, I don’t offer.
“Which vehicle are we going to?”
I point to the black car. She comes to a stop next to it, leaning against the door.
“Sit in the back,” I tell her, grabbing the handle of her bag.
She doesn’t move.
“Why the back?”
“It’s safer.”
“Right.”
She opens the door and climbs in. I toss her bag in the trunk and then round the car, going to the driver’s seat. She’s sitting right behind me, looking out of the window, like she’s a million miles away.
Starting the engine, I pull away from the apartment, onto the main road. I drive for a bit, my gaze darting to her now and then. She’s still looking out the window, a forlorn expression on her face.
“Would you like to listen to some music while we drive?”
Cecely exhales sharply. “Where are we going?”
I ignore the question and ask, “Pop? Rock? Rap?”
She crosses her arms, staring out the window. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”
“No.”
Her sigh is soft, resigned. “Then I don’t want to listen to anything.”
Fine by me.
I leave the radio off, letting silence settle between us like a thick fog. The hum of the tires against the pavement is the only sound. But the longer we drive, the more my gaze keeps flicking to the mirror. To her.
She’s staring out the window, her expression vacant, her shoulders slumped. Like she’s just lost everything.
A strange tightness pulls in my chest, something I refuse to acknowledge. Instead, I clear my throat and break the silence.
“You said you met my brother at a club?” I ask. “Is this the same club you work at?”
“Yeah.” Her eyes suddenly widen. “Crap. I need to let them know I won’t be in.”
I don’t take my eyes off the road. “It’s already taken care of.”
“You were so sure I’d go with you?”
I dip my head slightly, keeping my focus forward.
She mutters something under her breath. The words are quiet, barely audible over the steady rumble of the engine. But I catch enough.
“Even if you had put up a fight, you’d still be here,” I say, my voice even and detached. “I was hired to do a job by your father, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
She lets out a dry, humorless laugh.
“Hired by a man I’ve never met.” There’s bitterness in her voice that’s sharp and cutting. “I’m assuming you don’t know why he’s bothering, do you? I mean, wouldn’t it be easier to just let me die? It’s not like he’ll miss me when I’m gone.”
I don’t flinch. I don’t react. Because that’s not my role here.
“I don’t need to know information like that,” I say simply. “I do the job I’m hired to do. That’s it.”
Her gaze flicks to the mirror, locking onto mine. There’s something there. Anger, defiance, and maybe even a plea buried beneath all that steel. But I don’t give her anything back.
Then, something funny happens.
She makes the same expression he does. Her father.
She doesn’t even know him, and yet here she is, mirroring his scowl, his narrowed gaze, the way his lips press into a thin line when he’s trying not to let his emotions show.
I guess that’s genetics or some shit.
She looks away first, her shoulders stiff, her face turned back toward the window.
And just like that, I finally have silence.
I focus on the road, gripping the wheel a little tighter than before. I’m not sure what it is about this woman that’s getting under my skin.
She means nothing to me. She’s just a job. One I’ll finish, like I always do with clean efficiency and no loose ends. That’s how I operate. That’s how I’ve always operated.
And yet, something about her lingers, settles in the back of my mind like an itch I can’t scratch.
Maybe it’s the way she hasn’t cried, not since we left. She stares out the window, her face unreadable, her body stiff, but I know better. She’s hurting. I can feel it, thick in the air between us. And for some goddamn reason, that bothers me.
A dry huff slips past my lips.
It’s not like I don’t know women like her. People who’ve learned to expect nothing from the world because they’ve been disappointed too many times to count. They’re the ones who build walls so high that even they forget what’s on the other side.
She’s like that. Guarded. Quiet. Bracing for the worst.
Maybe that’s why I can’t stop looking at her in the mirror, watching the way she grips her arms, the way her fingers press into her skin like she’s trying to hold herself together.
Or maybe it’s not that at all.
Maybe it’s the simple fact that she’s the only person to have direct contact with the man pretending to be my brother and lived to tell the tale.
And that? That makes her dangerous.
Not to me.
But to him.
Which means she’s valuable.
I grip the wheel tighter, jaw clenching.
And valuable things don’t get to disappear.
Unable to take the silence any longer, I reach for the radio and flip it on. A gritty rock song spills through the speakers, the heavy bass and raw vocals cutting through the thick quiet that’s been stretching between us like a loaded wire.
Cecely doesn’t react.
She keeps her gaze on the window, her posture rigid, lost in whatever storm is brewing inside her head. The glow of the passing streetlights flickers across her face, highlighting the set of her jaw, the way her lips press together just a little too tightly.
She’s thinking about something.
Something she doesn’t want to say.
The music hums in the background, filling the emptiness neither of us seems willing to break. I steal another glance at her in the mirror, watching for any sign, any tell that might give me a clue what’s running through her mind.
Nothing.
Just silence, thick and unmoving, even with the music trying to drown it out.
I grip the wheel tighter, forcing my attention back to the road.
Maybe it’s better this way.
We finally reach the private airstrip, the dark pavement stretching wide under the glow of floodlights. The jet is already waiting, sleek and ready, engines humming low like a beast ready to be unleashed. The crew stands outside, their postures sharp and expectant, the chill in the air doing nothing to dull their efficiency.
I pull up to a stop beside the jet, killing the engine of the car.
Cecely shifts in her seat, her gaze flickering out the window. “We’re flying somewhere?” Her voice is tight, uncertain.
I unbuckle my seatbelt and push open the door. “Come.”
She doesn’t move.
I exhale slowly, patience thinning. I knew this moment was coming. The hesitation. The last flicker of control she’s trying to cling to. But we don’t have time for this.
“Cecely.” I turn my head, my voice edged with warning. “We need to leave.”
Still, she lingers, fingers gripping the fabric of her jeans like she’s weighing her options. Like she’s actually considering running.
Sighing, I get out and round the car, opening her door. Her gaze meets mine in surprise. I step closer, leaning down slightly so she has no choice but to really see me.
“You don’t want me to carry you up those steps, do you?”
Her jaw tightens. A second passes. Then another.
Finally, with a sharp inhale, she unbuckles and gets out of the car. Good choice. Because one way or another, she’s getting on that jet.
Cecely all but stomps toward the jet, her movements stiff with frustration. Her boots hit the metal stairs harder than necessary, a silent protest in every step. If she thinks her attitude is going to change anything, she’s wrong.
She disappears inside, and I take a moment to breathe in the cool night air before turning my attention to the pilot waiting for me at the base of the stairs.
“We’ve been cleared for takeoff,” he says.
“Excellent.”
I take one last look around the airstrip, the emptiness stretching under the glow of distant floodlights, before following Cecely up.
The journey ahead will take nearly eight hours, flying straight into a past I’ve spent years avoiding. To a place I haven’t been to since the night my brother died.
Something tightens in my chest, but I push it down.
I don’t have the luxury of hesitation. Not anymore.
I step onto the jet, the familiar scent of leather and polished wood greeting me as I move inside. The cabin is dimly lit, the soft overhead lights casting a warm glow over the plush interior.
Cecely is already seated in one of the leather chairs, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She stares out the window, her expression unreadable, but I can see the tension in the way her fingers grip the armrest. She doesn’t want to be here.
I don’t blame her.
Without a word, I take a seat across the aisle from her, stretching out comfortably. This is one of my favorite jets—sleek, fast, built for both luxury and efficiency. Unlike commercial flights, where everything feels cramped and sluggish, this jet moves with purpose, just like I do.
The engines hum beneath us, steady and strong. The pilot’s voice crackles through the intercom, confirming final preparations for takeoff.
Cecely doesn’t look at me, but I can feel her awareness of me, the unspoken questions still hovering in the air between us.
She’s not ready to ask them yet.
That’s fine.
We have eight hours.
Plenty of time for the breakdown that’s sure to come.
They always break.
As the plane rushes down the runway, engines roaring beneath us, I pull out my phone and start scrolling. It’s muscle memory more than anything. Checking messages. Scanning updates. Anything to keep my mind occupied.
Across the aisle, Cecely shifts in her seat. I can feel her eyes on me before she even speaks.
“You’re not supposed to use electronics on a plane,” she mutters, her tone dry.
My lips twitch, amusement flickering in the corner of my mouth, but I don’t look up. I keep my gaze on the screen, thumbing through notifications like I didn’t hear her. Like her attempt at normal conversation doesn’t register. But it does.
And that she’s saying even something as insignificant as flight safety rules tells me more than she realizes. She’s restless. Uncomfortable. Trying to find her footing in a situation she has no control over.
I let the silence stretch, let her stew in it, before finally locking my phone and sliding it back into my pocket.
The jet lifts off, smooth and effortless, cutting through the night sky.
Still, I don’t look at her. Not yet. I make her wait, wondering what I’m going to say or do next.
Finally, I break the silence. “I can use my phone because I own the jet.”
Cecely huffs out a breath, arms still crossed. “Not sure that’s going to matter when you cause us to crash.”
I glance over. She’s staring out the window, her posture still tense, fingers gripping the armrest a little too tightly. The smooth ascent doesn’t faze me, but she’s clearly feeling every shift, every tilt of the plane as it climbs higher into the night sky.
“Let me guess.” I study her, amused. “You hate flying?”
She doesn’t look at me. “What gave it away? The green sheen to my skin?”
A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. “That. And the death grip you’ve got on the armrest.”
Her fingers twitch, but she doesn’t loosen her hold.
“It’s not the flying,” she mutters after a beat. “It’s the crashing part that worries me.”
I lean back in my seat, watching her for a moment longer before speaking.
“Well, in that case… try not to think about how high we are. Or how far down the ground is.”
Her glare snaps to me instantly, eyes narrowed. “You’re an asshole.”
Now I let my smirk show. “And yet, here you are. Stuck with me.”
She mutters something under her breath, something I don’t quite catch, but I don’t press. I’m sure she’ll tell me soon enough exactly how she feels about me.
Wanting to keep her on her toes, I say, “You said you met Gabriel. What did he look like?”
She turns her head slightly, eyeing me with suspicion. “Well, since I thought you were Gabriel, I thought it’d be obvious what he looked like.”
Her tone is full of spunk, but there’s an edge to it, like she’s testing me just as much as I’m testing her. I ignore the bait.
“Did he have a scar?”
“Yes.”
I hum, thoughtful. “Gabriel didn’t have a scar.”
Her expression doesn’t change. “He does now.”
“He doesn’t.”
She exhales sharply, a hint of exasperation creeping in. “Why? Because you said he was dead?”
I pause. I don’t think I ever actually said those words out loud. But I nod anyway.
“Yes.”
She leans forward slightly, her gaze locked onto mine now, unwavering.
“Well,” she says, voice calm, almost too steady, “he’s not dead.”
The words settle between us like a slow-building storm.
I don’t react. Not outwardly. But something inside me tightens, sharp and immediate.
She’s lying.
Or she thinks she’s telling the truth.
Either option is dangerous for very different reasons.
If she’s lying, that means she’s playing a game, testing me, seeing how far she can push before I react. That would make her reckless. Stupid. And I don’t have time for either.
But if she believes what she’s saying?
That’s worse.
Because it means someone has fed her this lie so well, so convincingly, that she doesn’t even question it. And that makes her valuable to the wrong people. It means she’s tangled up in something deeper, something I might not have accounted for.
I study her, watching the way she holds herself, the way her fingers curl slightly against the leather armrest, the way she doesn’t blink, doesn’t waver.
She’s either an excellent liar or a pawn in a much bigger game.
And I need to find out which. Fast.