Chapter 17
17
Claudius
I grip the phone in my hand, watching the messages unfold in real time. Watching her on the security cameras at the same time…
I see Cecely in the hallway with Rose, the way she tilts her head, studies the girl like she knows something isn’t right. I see the casual, too-calm way she plays off being around Agnes. I see the way her face drains of color when Gabriel—or whoever the fuck he is—tells her about the trafficking.
And when she disappears into the bathroom, I don’t need cameras to know what happens next. She’s throwing up. It’s what any sane person would do.
I exhale slowly, rolling my shoulders, processing. Because tonight? Tonight, I’ve learned a few things.
One, whoever is watching Cecely is good. Too good. He hacked my security system, keeping tabs on both her and Charles Blanc without leaving so much as a digital trace.
Two, Charles is still in danger.
Three, I have no choice. I’m going to have to do something I never wanted to. I’m going to have to exhume my brother’s body. Because until I see him…until I know for certain what’s buried beneath the earth…I won’t know if the man who’s taunting Cecely is Gabriel… Or a ghost wearing his face.
If I don’t figure it out soon, I won’t be able to keep Cecely safe. And that? That is unacceptable.
My hand trembles as I send out the message. A call for help, so to speak. The reply is instant. They’ll be here in the morning. Relief should come.
It doesn’t.
I exhale slowly, leaning back in my chair, closing my eyes. For a moment, just a brief one, I let myself pause. I should speak with Cecely. Should reassure her I’m not a monster. That no matter how things look, she isn’t trapped with me. She’s trapped with something worse. But instead I push myself up, my movements sluggish.
And I climb the stairs.
Not to Cecely. Not to fix anything. But to my wing of the house, where the shadows are deeper, colder.
A deep, soul-crushing tiredness settles into my bones. Not just from the night. From everything.
Because tomorrow?
Tomorrow, when they arrive… there will be no turning back.
My night is tormented. Sleep doesn’t come easily. And when it does, it’s not rest. It’s a battle. Twisted dreams pull me under, dragging me through shadows and memories that refuse to stay buried.
Flashes of Gabriel’s face. Of his scream as he fell from the cliff, the dark water swallowing him whole. In one nightmare, Cecely appears next to me, wide eyed, as she cries out his name as he falls. When she looks at me, I feel the judgement. The hatred.
I toss and turn, fighting it, but the dreams won’t let go. When I finally wake, I feel like I haven’t slept at all. Sweat clings to my skin, my heart hammering in my chest. The room is too quiet. Too still. And as I sit up, rubbing a hand over my face, one thought settles in my chest like a stone. I don’t know if I’m ready for what’s going to happen today.
Moving on autopilot, I pad naked to the bathroom, my body still heavy with exhaustion. A wry smile tugs at my lips. Cecely isn’t the only one who likes to sleep in the nude. Not that she knows that.
Yet.
I step under the hot spray of water, bracing my hands against the tiles, letting the heat chase away the chill of my nightmares. I exhale slowly, forcing my mind to clear. Forcing myself to focus. There’s too much to do. Too much riding on the next twenty-four hours.
Once Gabriel’s body is exhumed, I’ll need to inform the Elite Members of the results. Then I need to reach out to Blanc. He isn’t safe in Dallas. Which means he needs to be moved. He’s not going to like it. But he’ll have to get over it. Because whether or not he realizes it, he’s a piece in this game. And I intend to keep him alive long enough to see the final move.
I dress in black slacks, the fabric crisp and tailored to perfection. A black button-up follows, the smooth material sliding over my skin, covering the scars, the weight of the past. Italian loafers complete the look—polished, effortless, lethal.
I glance in the mirror.
A man prepared. A man in control. At least, that’s what I need them to see. Because today? Today isn’t about appearances. It’s about power. Precision. Strategy. It’s about taking back control before it’s ripped from my hands.
I make my way downstairs, the air thick with silence, tension curling in the corners of the house like shadows that refuse to lift.
Agnes is waiting for me in the dining room.
She stands poised, a newspaper neatly folded beside a fresh cup of coffee and two pills.
“Good morning, sir.”
I pull out a chair, settling in with a slow exhale.
“Updates?”
Her posture doesn’t shift. Her tone stays neutral.
“The latest batch is settling in good.”
Latest batch. The words feel cold, clinical, like she’s talking about inventory. Not people. I’m the one who did this. I’m the one who made her this way.
I lift the pills, tossing them in my mouth, and chase them with coffee, taking a measured sip as I wait for Agnes to continue.
“I believe one of them may have had an encounter with Ms. Blight.”
My fingers still around the cup. A fraction of a second. That’s all. But Agnes sees everything. Her lips thin.
“I reminded all the girls that they need to remain in their rooms unless instructed to leave.” Agnes moves closer, her presence a cold, calculating force. “I’ve also made sure that there is no need for you to go outside today while our… guests are here.”
Guests.
As if the men coming to exhume Gabriel’s body are here for a weekend retreat. As if they’re just old acquaintances, here to sip whisky and play a round of golf. Not to dig up my brother’s corpse and finally confirm whether I killed him or if I’ve been chasing a ghost.
I set the cup down with deliberate care.
And just like that, I know. I know. Cecely isn’t the only one trapped here. I am too. And it’s happened right under my nose. A slow, cold burn spreads through my chest. I’ve been so focused on keeping Cecely contained that I never noticed who was keeping me contained.
Until now.
And that? That is going to be a fucking problem.
I keep my expression neutral, my voice casual as I lean back in my chair. “Agnes, remind me how long you’ve lived here.”
Her brows furrow, hesitation flickering behind her cold exterior.
“How long, sir?”
I wave a hand, as if the answer is of little consequence. “Yes. How long?”
She straightens, smoothing her hands over her apron, as if reaffirming her place here.
“I’ve lived here since Mr. Gabriel bought this island, sir.” Her voice is steady, certain. “He brought me in when he needed someone to manage the household.”
My chest tightens. Not from surprise. But from the sheer, mind-twisting way she believes it. Her perception of why she came to live here is… skewed. Warped. Rewritten.
Did she arrive when Gabriel bought the island?
Yes.
But she didn’t walk onto this island as a manager.
She arrived in a cage. With three other women.
Women that my brother bought. And now? She’s standing here, pretending like none of that ever happened. Like Gabriel saved her instead of buying her. A slow, cold understanding settles in my bones. Agnes isn’t just loyal to this house. She’s loyal to Gabriel. Which is why I sure as fuck won’t be sitting inside when the crew arrives to exhume the body while she runs free.
I dip my head, masking my thoughts beneath a carefully measured tone.
“That’s right. I couldn’t remember if you arrived then or when the main house was expanded.”
A casual deflection. A deliberate misdirection. I set my cup on the table with precise care.
Then, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes, I say, “What would I do without you?”
Agnes straightens, her shoulders squaring, as if she’s absorbing the praise like a drug.
But then she says it. The mistake. The slip.
“It’s my honor, Mr. Gabriel.”
Silence. The kind that sinks its claws in, suffocating the space between us. Her eyes widen. Her breath hitches.
“I’m so sorry, sir. I don’t know why I called you that.”
A mistake. Or something else? Something ingrained in her. Something she still believes. For a second, I let the pause stretch, let the weight of it settle on her shoulders.
Then, easily, I say, “No worries, Agnes. We have the same face. I’m sure this isn’t the first time it’s happened.”
But even as I say it, I know the truth. It’s not just about the face. It’s about who she still serves. That makes her dangerous.
I stand, smoothing my shirt, keeping my expression unreadable.
“Well, I have some business to attend to.”
Agnes nods, her hands clasped in front of her like a soldier awaiting orders.
“Please make sure the girls stay out of the way and let me know when Cecely wakes up.”
“Yes, sir.”
She dips her head, stepping aside to let me pass. I don’t hesitate. I move. Down the hall. Toward my office.
I step inside, closing the door behind me. Locking it. The moment I’m alone, I go straight to the desk. Pulling open the top drawer, fingers closing around cold metal. The handgun is waiting. Reliable. Deadly. I check the clip, the weight of it familiar in my palm. Fully loaded. Good.
I tuck it into the back of my waistband. The press of steel against my spine is like a silent promise. I grab my leather jacket, slipping it on, rolling my shoulders. One last breath before this begins. I don’t take the main door. I slip out onto the terrace, taking the stairs. Because whatever is waiting for me today, I’d rather meet on my own fucking terms.
The morning sun is relentless, pressing down on my back as I cross the grounds. Each step feels heavier, like the weight of the past is settling in my bones. Ahead, the cemetery comes into view. A lonely, fenced-in plot of land that is isolated and untouched, that sits by a lone tree. There’s only one headstone. Gabriel’s.
I come to a stop, staring down at the weathered stone. The name etched into marble feels like a taunt. Like it’s mocking me. I exhale, dragging a hand over my jaw before resting it on the smooth surface of the grave.
“I’m sure you’re getting a fucking kick out of this.”
The wind doesn’t stir. The stone stays silent.
“We’re going to dig this hole, and you’re going to be inside, aren’t you?”
No answer. There never is.
But for a long time there was. In the weeks after his death, I used to hear his voice. Soft. Mocking. I’d talk to him, and in my head, I could hear exactly what he’d say back. The sarcasm. The sharp-edged amusement. The way he always thought he was one step ahead.
But over time, the voice faded. Until I could barely remember the mannerisms that made him him . Until it was just silence. Just a name on a stone.
But now? Now, I feel his presence like a ghost against my spine. Not real. Not quite gone. And for the first time in years, I wonder what I’ll find when we dig.
Because if Gabriel isn’t in that grave…
Then everything I thought I knew is about to burn to the ground.