29. Syn
29
SYN
When I wake up, it’s with a jolt and a slight panic attack. The darkness around me is oppressive, and I slam my hand against the wardrobe door to let in more air. Tarquin has left, and in his place, there is a tray of food. I shove it away, instead reaching for the water. I gulp it back, swallowing mouthful after mouthful just to try to stop the world from crumbling around me.
Scrunching up the empty bottle, I toss it back onto the tray and snatch up my phone. It tells me it’s 4 AM. I unlock it, bring up the number for the PI, and text him.
Anything?
I know it’s early, so I don’t expect him to reply straight away. I jump when the phone vibrates loudly in my hand.
“You found something?” I ask, answering it.
“Actually, yeah,” he says gruffly. “Weird timing. I was just about to ring you anyway when you texted me.”
“What is it?” I daren’t ask ‘where is he’. That would be hoping for too much.
“So I finally found someone with morals that can be bought, and he cracked the banking system. It’s an offshore account in the Cayman Islands, registered to a company called the Hart Foundation.”
My breath catches. Hart. Amélie Hart. I named her that because she was my whole heart. Jeremy hated it, but he got his way with Amélie, so he gave me this. He never uses it. Ever. “What is the Hart Foundation?” I whisper.
“It’s hard to tell. There are layers like a fucking onion. I had to call it quits on the hacker due to limited funds…” He lets that linger there. “But all I’ve managed to find out is that it is registered in Germany.”
“Germany?” I ask, sitting up. “Is that where he is?”
“I don’t know anything else,” he states.
“I’ll pay you more. Get that hacker back. How much?”
He blows out a breath. It’s calculated. Planned. He knows exactly how much. “Another two grand for now, should do it.”
I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Yes. Okay. I’ll send it. Please, we are this close now. I need you to just get me the answers.”
“Send the money, and I’ll ring my guy back.”
“Okay,” I whisper and hang up. I shake off the creeping distrust that this guy is fleecing me because I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. This is news. Big news. It’s way more than I had a few minutes ago. With shaking hands, I send the money. The PI texts back that it has been received, and he will contact me in due course. I flop back to my nest and curl up, gripping my phone, hoping I get something through that I can use to get to Jeremy.
The sun is rising when my eyes close again, and sleep drags me under. Despite having already slept, my body is exhausted from countless restless nights and panic attacks.
I’m woken up moments later by the bedroom door opening. I must’ve only been asleep a few minutes, but when I look at my phone, still clutched in my aching hand, I’m surprised it’s late afternoon already. I peek out of the nest and see Mrs Winters bustling about. She bends down to get the tray and smiles in my direction. “Carry on, love. I’m just here to tidy up a bit.”
“Okay, thanks,” I say meekly from my wardrobe nest.
She frowns and peers closer. “Are you all right, love?”
Contemplating how to answer that for a few moments, I decide to lie. “Yes, I’m fine, thank you.”
“You don’t look it,” she says, kneeling her bulky frame down and opening the door wider. She places her hand on my forehead. “You’re not feverish.”
Her way of telling me she knows I’m not on my heat. “I’m okay. I’m just hungry and tired.”
She nods. “I’ll get you something else to eat, but this time, eat it, okay?”
I nod dutifully, feeling terrible that she is waiting on me and I’m being so rude by ignoring her efforts to feed me. She bustles off and I check my phone. Nothing.
“Dammit,” I mutter and haul myself out of the nest. I’m still dressed in last night’s dress that is now all rumpled, but I don’t care. I have three days left here, and I need to earn my keep, especially if the PI is going to keep demanding more money, as well as Jeremy. I strip off and hit the shower, turning it on full blast and scorching hot. I yelp as I stand under the torrent, but I soon get used to it, and I stand there, letting the warmth seep into my bones.
The heat of the shower does little to wash away the chill of my situation. Germany. The Hart Foundation. The pieces are there, but they still don’t form a complete picture. I scrub at my skin until it’s red and raw, as if I could somehow cleanse away the desperation clinging to me.
When I step out, Mrs Winters has returned with a tray of food. Sandwiches, fruit, and a pot of tea. She’s also laid out fresh clothes on the bed that aren’t mine but are in my size and so expensive, I almost gasp.
“Sir Tarquin asked me to tell you they expect you for dinner tonight,” she says, her tone suggesting this isn’t a request. “No exceptions.”
I nod, towelling my hair dry. “What time?”
“Seven sharp. And love—” She pauses at the door, her expression softening. “Whatever’s troubling you, sometimes sharing the burden makes it lighter.”
After she leaves, I pick at the food, forcing myself to eat enough to function, but not gorging myself so I don’t eat at dinner. Three days left. Three days to either get the information I need from the PI or somehow extract another million from these alphas. Neither option feels particularly promising right now, but I will play the dutiful omega. Yes, sir; no, sir; three bags full, sir.
My phone buzzes, and I lunge for it, heart hammering. It crashes to my feet when I see it’s just Savvie checking in.
I text her back to say, I’m still here and okay. She sends me a thumbs up, which makes me smile.
Turning to the dress laid out, I pick it up and nearly groan with lust. It’s absolutely gorgeous burgundy silk with lace edging around a cut-out back. I hold it up, and it drops to the floor in a pool of beauty.
I slip into the dress, the silk cool against my skin. It fits perfectly, as if it was made for me. The burgundy makes my blue eyes pop and gives my pale skin a warm glow.
For a moment, I allow myself to imagine a different life. One where I wear dresses like this because I want to, not because I’m playing a part. One where Amélie is with me, safe and happy. One where I’m not constantly paying out money for empty promises.
The fantasy dissolves as quickly as it forms. I have no time for dreams.
I style my hair in loose waves and apply enough makeup to look presentable but not enough to seem like I’m trying too hard. The cut on my side stings slightly as I move, a reminder of what I’ve endured in this house.
At 6:55, I take a deep breath and once again barefoot, I leave the sanctuary of my room. The hallway stretches before me like a gauntlet I must run. Each step down the grand staircase feels like I’m descending into the lion’s den.
The dining room doors are open, revealing the three alphas already seated. They fall silent as I enter, three pairs of eyes tracking my movement. Declan’s gaze is calculating, Tristan’s hungry, and Tarquin’s is unreadable, as usual.
“Ms Fuller,” Tarquin says, rising to his feet. “I’m pleased you could join us.”
I slip into the seat Tarquin indicates with a small gesture, acutely aware of the tension humming in the air. The dress whispers against my skin as I move, a gentle reminder of my role here. Plaything. Entertainment. Complication. Check.
“You look stunning,” Tristan says, his grey eyes drinking me in like a man dying of thirst.
“The perfect colour,” Declan adds, his voice neutral but his gaze sharp.
I nod in acknowledgment, not trusting my voice just yet. The dining table stretches between us like a battlefield, laden with crystal and silver and unspoken truths.
“Wine?” Tarquin offers, already reaching for the bottle of red.
“Please,” I respond, grateful for something to do with my hands.
He pours it out, the rich red liquid cascading into my glass. Our fingers brush as he passes it to me, and I suppress a shiver at the contact. His scent—spiced apple, crisp and dominant—washes over me, mingling with Tristan’s dreamy ocean breeze and Declan’s forest sharpness. The combination is intoxicating, designed to overwhelm an omega’s senses.
Mrs Winters appears with the first course, moving silently around us like a ghost. I take a careful sip of the hot soup, feeling three pairs of eyes watching my every move.
“So, Ms Fuller,” Tarquin begins, his voice deliberately casual. “Did you rest well?”
I meet his gaze across the table, knowing he’s referring to finding me in my nest. “Well enough, thank you.”
Declan’s eyes narrow slightly, sensing the undercurrent between us. “You missed breakfast. And lunch.”
“I wasn’t hungry,” I reply, taking another sip of soup.
“But you are now,” Tristan observes, his tone soft with concern that makes my chest ache. “You need to keep your strength up.”
I almost laugh at that. As if my physical strength is what’s being tested in this house.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, the words so practised they’ve lost all meaning.
“Are you?” Declan challenges, his blue eyes boring into mine. “You don’t look fine. You look haunted.”
I set my spoon down carefully. “Thank you for that assessment, Dr Phil. I’ll be sure to note it in my diary.”
Tarquin’s mouth twitches, the barest hint of amusement before he schools his features back to neutrality. “We have a proposition for you, Ms Fuller.”
My heart stutters. “Oh?”
“Your time with us ends in three days,” he continues, watching me carefully. “We’d like to extend it.”
The soup turns to ash in my mouth. “For how long?”
“Another month,” Tristan says.
“We are nowhere near done with you yet,” Declan adds darkly.
I grip my spoon tighter, trying to hide the tremor in my hands. A month ? More money…
“And the compensation?” I ask.
Tarquin doesn’t answer immediately, taking a measured sip of his wine instead. “We were thinking an additional one million.”
I gulp. Three million. It’s the magic number. “What would I have to do?” I ask quietly.
“Nothing you haven’t been doing already,” Tarquin says. “Only perhaps with less attitude.”
His smile, his genuine smile, makes me snort laugh into my soup. “I’ll try.”
“If you want to leave at any time, the door is open.”
I turn to Tristan, who is gazing at me as if I fell from the moon.
“Why the sudden extension?” I ask, unable to keep suspicion from my voice.
Declan leans forward, blue eyes glittering. “Let’s just say you’ve proven interesting.”
“You mean entertaining,” I correct him, unable to stop the bitterness from creeping in.
“More than that,” Tristan says softly. His gaze holds mine across the table, and I have to look away from the raw emotion I see there.
What I see makes me want to spill my secrets out to him, but I can’t do that. It’s not his, or their, problem.
“I will take you up on the offer, but I need the money up front,” I say boldly. “You have my word, and a signature if you want to make it official, that I will stay and behave and do whatever you want me to do or need me to be. But I need the payment now.”
Silence descends, just as I expected. But if you don’t ask, you don’t get, right?
Tarquin’s eyes narrow, the blue in them turning to ice. “That’s not how this works, Ms Fuller.”
“I understand it’s unorthodox,” I say carefully, setting my spoon down. “But I need the money now. Not in instalments, not at the end. Now.”
Declan leans back in his chair, a predatory smile playing on his lips. “You don’t pull any punches, do you, Synthia? Quite the cutthroat business woman.”
I bristle at his slightly mocking tone but keep my voice level. “I’m being practical. You want me for a month, I need guarantees. I have other clients who I will have to let down?—”
“Who won’t pay you nearly as much as one-tenth of what we’re offering.”
“We’ve already paid you handsomely,” Tarquin points out before I can respond to Declan. “More than fair compensation for your services.”
“And I’ve more than earned every penny,” I counter. “I’ve been cut, my blood used as paint, fucked within an inch of my life, debased, humiliated and subjected to your collective alpha mood swings. I think I’m entitled to ask for what I need.”
Tristan watches me with those storm-grey eyes that seem to see too much. “What do you need the money for, Syn? What’s so urgent that you can’t wait even a few weeks?”
My heart hammers against my ribs. I could lie. Should lie. But something in his expression makes me hesitate.
“It’s personal,” I finally say. “But time sensitive.”
“Extortion?” Tarquin asks bluntly.
I nearly choke on my saliva and freeze, my wine glass halfway to my lips. His question hangs in the air like a live grenade. For a moment, I consider denying it, but there’s something in Tarquin’s gaze that tells me he’s not guessing.
“What makes you say that?” I ask carefully, setting my glass down with a hand that refuses to stay steady.
“You’re desperate for large sums of money on specific timelines,” he says evenly. “You’re willing to endure significant physical and emotional stress to obtain it, and when I mentioned extortion, your pupils dilated, and your scent spiked with fear.”
Declan leans forward, his gaze suddenly intense with curiosity. “Who’s extorting you, Synthia?”
“I didn’t say anyone was,” I reply, but my voice lacks conviction.
“You didn’t have to,” Tarquin counters softly.
Tristan reaches across the table, his hand stopping just short of mine. “We can help you, Syn. Whatever trouble you’re in?—”
“I don’t need your help,” I snap, then immediately regret my tone. These alphas hold my financial future in their hands. “I just need the money.”
A heavy silence falls over the table. I can feel all three of them assessing me, calculating, recalibrating their understanding of who I am and what I’m doing here.
“I already have an investigator, an expensive and well worth every penny investigator, already looking into you,” Tarquin says.
Tristan looks up sharply with a soft hiss. I’m not sure about his expression. It’s hard to read.
“And what has this grand investigator found on me?” I ask, eyebrow arched, not surprised per se, but irritated, nonetheless. If I’m being honest, I’m surprised it took him this long, what with his control freak tendencies. But here’s the thing. He won’t find out jackshit. Or at least, if he does, it will take some time.
“Who are you regularly sending payments to in an offshore account in the Cayman Islands?” he asks, making my blood run cold.
Okay. I underestimated this investigator. Or maybe my own investigator is a pile of shit but was all I could afford. Yeah, it’s probably that.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say stiffly, rising.
Tarquin leans down to pick something up and then throws a stack of bank statements at me. My bank statements, with little notes highlighted across the page in neat black pen.
The papers flutter across the table like autumn leaves, each one a damning piece of evidence. I stare at them, my heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. My entire financial history laid bare.
“Sit down, Ms Fuller,” Tarquin says quietly. It’s not a request.
I sink back into my chair, my legs suddenly too weak to support me.
“I don’t have patience for lies.”
Declan picks up one of the statements, examining it with clinical detachment as Tristan stares at me, his expression haunted. It looks like they didn’t know Tarquin was investigating me.
“Two years. That’s quite the commitment.” Declan lays them back down and picks up his wine, sipping it but never taking his eyes off me.
Tristan, concern etched into every line of his expression, says, “Who’s threatening you, Syn?”
The walls close in around me. Three alphas, three pairs of eyes, all focused on me with laser-like intensity. The dress that felt so luxurious minutes ago now seems to constrict around my chest, making it hard to breathe.
“It’s complicated,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Uncomplicate it,” Tarquin states.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. They already know too much. Denying it now would be pointless but revealing everything could be catastrophic.