Chapter 22
LILA
I’ve been back in the city for thirty-six hours, and my body acts like it’s been running for weeks.
Ethan got us a short-term rental in a private building with no listed tenants and limited lobby traffic.
There’s no doorman, and the cameras that exist don’t feed to a public-facing system.
I never thought that would make me feel safer, but it does, because it means fewer strangers get to watch me move.
I sit on the edge of the too-soft couch and stare at the blinking cursor on my screen. The email is drafted, rewritten, and sitting in my drafts folder, and I know I’ll have to send it, because waiting doesn’t stop predators, it just gives them time.
He told me I’d be safe, and he told me he’d take care of it.
It still feels risky.
The text I send Gavin is short, and it’s aimed at the exact spot he always pressed.
Me: I’m back in the city. Don’t tell anyone.
I need help. And I know you still want me.
My hands are steady when I type it, and they aren’t when I set the phone down.
Ethan walks in a few minutes later with two coffees and a file folder tucked under his arm, shirt half-buttoned and collar still damp, and he looks like he doesn’t even try anymore to hide how good he looks.
He sees my face and pauses.
“Sent it,” I say.
He sets the coffee in front of me and nudges it toward my hand. “Good.”
“No response yet.”
“He’ll wait,” Ethan says. “He always liked control.”
I nod, and I hate that he’s right.
He opens the folder and lays out printed phone logs, then another sheet with location flags.
“He used the company car last night,” he says.
“Parked it in Queens, then another phone pinged from the same block thirty minutes later, and it’s the one he uses when he’s meeting someone he thinks matters. ”
“Victoria?” I ask.
He nods.
My stomach turns. “So they’re still working together.”
“They’re not just working,” Ethan says. “He’s cleaning for her.”
I blink. “Her what?”
“She doesn’t use outside contractors unless she’s planning something ugly,” Ethan replies. “And Gavin doesn’t know when to shut up or when to walk away.” He slides a thumb drive toward me. “This ties him to her funding, and if he goes down clean, it drags her with him.”
I touch the drive then look up. “Why me?”
“You’re the only variable he never accounted for,” Ethan says. “You’re the one he tried to erase instead of control, and he’ll underestimate you because that’s what he does.”
“I’m pregnant,” I say.
His eyes don’t move. “I know.”
“I might not be able to do this.”
“I won’t let him near you,” he says, and he means it in a way that makes my chest tighten.
My phone buzzes.
It’s him.
Ethan stays still while I read.
Unknown: Where are you?
You owe me a conversation.
Don’t make me come find you.
Three texts, less than a minute apart.
“He’s angry,” I say.
“He’s excited,” Ethan replies, and his voice stays calm. “It means you still matter to him, and that’s what we need.”
I hesitate.
“Lila,” he says, softer. “If this is too much…”
“No,” I cut in, and my throat tightens. “I want to be the one to end it.”
He nods once, then reaches over and brushes hair off my cheek. “The meeting location is already secured. A team will be inside, and law enforcement will be listening. You won’t be alone.”
I press my fingers into my thighs and stare straight ahead. “I want eyes on the street, and I want a signal if I need to abort.”
“You’ll have it,” he says.
I text Gavin back.
Me: Friday. Seven. Wyck & Dove. Come alone.
He replies in under ten seconds.
Unknown: Not a chance. You don’t call the shots anymore.
I exhale. “That sounds like him.”
Ethan shrugs. “He’ll come anyway.”
The next three days are tight and controlled. Ethan works with counsel through secured channels, Harrison traces Sabrina’s burner activity to a dump site in New Jersey, and Victoria’s office gets a subpoena that she pretends not to care about.
I rehearse the meeting in my head until my thoughts blur. I put the wire on with shaking hands, I throw up twice the morning of, and when Ethan tries to help, I snap at him and make him leave the room.
He does, and he doesn’t argue. Before he goes he pulls me into a hug so tight I can’t breathe.
“You don’t have to forgive me yet,” he says. “But I’ll be here when you do.”
Friday night, I walk into Wyck & Dove in a silk blouse and jeans that don’t fit the same way anymore. My belly is still mostly flat, but my body feels different, and my nerves feel louder.
The host recognizes me and leads me to the back room. It’s reserved, it’s quiet, and there’s an exit close enough that I don’t have to pretend I don’t see it. One of Ethan’s men sits in the far corner looking like a bored businessman, and I don’t glance at him twice.
Gavin walks in at 7:03 p.m.
Same arrogant stride, same black shirt with the sleeves rolled, facial hair grown out and poorly chosen, and his smile is lazy in a way that used to make me doubt myself.
“You look different,” he says.
“So do you.”
“You look tired,” he adds, and he sits opposite me. “And scared.”
“I’ve had a long few months.”
He leans forward, too close. “You shouldn’t have run.”
“You shouldn’t have made me.”
He reaches for the drink waiting for him. “You’re not afraid of me anymore?” he asks, fingers closing around the glass as if he’s claiming it.
“I never was.”
I say it clean, and my hands stay on the table, palms down, nails pressed into the wood until I feel the edge of myself again.
He grins like he knows I’m lying. “Then why the whisper-text routine?”
“I had to be sure it wasn’t a trap.”
His smile vanishes.
I add, “Not yours. Hers.”
That gets his attention in a way my pain never did. His posture shifts, and his eyes sharpen.
“What’s she offering you these days?” I ask. “Same terms you gave me, or did she upgrade?”
He tilts his head, an old move meant to make me feel irrational. “You think I work for her?”
“I think you don’t know who you are unless someone tells you what to want.”
His face darkens. “You don’t know shit.”
I watch his fingers tighten on the glass, and I keep my shoulders down.
“I know you choked me the last time I told you I was leaving,” I say.
He flinches, barely, then recovers.
“You were hysterical,” he says. “You always get hysterical when you don’t get your way.”
I lean forward. “I know you emptied my savings. I know you used my name to open a second line of credit for a trip I never took. I know I wasn’t the first.”
His eyes flick past me, then back, measuring the room. His voice drops. “You need to stop talking.”
“No,” I say, and I push his glass away an inch. “I’m not scared anymore.”
He laughs once. “You should be.”
I breathe through my nose and keep my gaze on him.
“You think you’re clever,” he says.
“I think I’m awake.”
His gaze drops down my body, and it isn’t desire, it’s assessment. He looks at my stomach and smiles like he found an old lever.
“You got bigger,” he says.
Heat hits my face, and I refuse to let it show as weakness.
“I’m not here to be reviewed,” I say.
“You always were sensitive,” he says. “You’d eat a cookie and punish yourself, and you’d still blame me for noticing.”
“You didn’t notice,” I reply. “You collected weaknesses and used them.”
His smile widens. “Listen to you. Therapy words.”
“They’re words,” I say. “You’re the one who made them mean something.”
He leans back, and his voice goes sweet. “You think someone’s going to save you? Your rich boss going to scare me off?”
I don’t give him Ethan’s name.
He reads the silence anyway and grins. “There it is. You got yourself a man with money, and you think you’re untouchable.”
He tips his head. “He know what you are?”
“What am I?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Needy. Easy to buy. Easy to scare.”
My stomach twists, and I hold it down.
“I liked surviving,” I say. “I confused it with love.”
“You don’t get to rewrite it,” he snaps.
“I just did,” I answer.
His hand drifts toward mine like touching me is a right. My body recoils internally, but I don’t move my hand because I want him to see I’m choosing stillness.
He stops short.
“You miss me,” he says. “You miss someone who knows you.”
“You didn’t know me,” I say. “You knew how to manage me.”
His face tightens. “Don’t get brave. You always do this before you fold.”
“But I’m not folding,” I say. “I’m documenting.”
The word lands, and I see him register the threat.
He scans the room again, hunting for cameras and exits and attention.
I keep my voice level. “You texted me from an unknown number. You showed up at my work. You put your hands on me in public. You sent reminders to prove you can reach me.”
“You’re making a big deal out of nothing,” he snaps.
“That’s your favorite sentence,” I say. “That’s how you made it normal.”
His fingers drum once on the table. My body remembers that sound, and I refuse to let it move me.
“You want money,” I say. “Or you want control. Pick one.”
“You owe me,” he says.
“I don’t.”
“You vanished,” he spits. “You embarrassed me.”
“I escaped.”
He pushes his chair back. “We’re done.”
“Sit down,” I tell him.
He doesn’t.
So I stand.
My knees shake, not because I’m going to fold, but because I’m standing in the same room as him and not giving him the ending he wants. The man in the corner rises at the same time, and Gavin’s eyes lock on the earpiece.
Rage flashes across his face as he realizes the room isn’t his.
“This was never about the conversation,” I say. “It was about the proof.”
His shoulders tense as if he’s weighing violence against witnesses, and I watch him decide.
He bolts.
Ethan’s team blocks the exit line, and two plainclothes officers move in fast, controlled, and practiced. Gavin shoves once, then he’s pinned, and the sound that comes out of him is pure fury with nowhere to put it.
I stay where I am, palms pressed to the table, heart running too fast. An officer touches my shoulder and tells me I’m clear to leave, and they move me out through the staff entrance while Gavin shouts in the alley and gets loaded into a vehicle.
I don’t look back.
When I get back to the apartment, Ethan is already waiting, and the moment I walk in he shuts the door, pulls me in, and cups my face.
I let him.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Better than okay.” My voice shakes anyway because my body is catching up.
He nods once.
“He knew,” I tell him.
He frowns. “About the baby?”
“About the trap,” I say. “He felt something was off, and he ran.”
“Good,” Ethan replies. “That means he walked straight into it anyway.”
“He didn’t get away,” I say.
“No,” Ethan answers. “He didn’t.”
We stand in the quiet for a beat.
Then I smile, and it feels real. “One down.”
He smiles back. “Two to go.”