17. Liam
17
LIAM
A va hasn't let go of my hand since she showed me the text.
She's curled up beside me on the couch, her fingers gripping mine like I'm the only thing tethering her to solid ground. The picture of her brothers still burns in my mind—too clear, too calculated. Whoever sent that message knew exactly what they were doing.
But right now, Ava's looking at me, not the phone. Her expression is tight, but her voice is steady when she finally speaks. "Stay."
I blink, thrown by the shift. "Ava?—"
"Please."
It's not just about the threat. It's about everything. The gala, Vanessa, the way we just were before that text shattered the illusion.
The smart thing would be to leave, to put some distance between us before the lines blur even more.
But I've never been smart when it comes to Ava Bennett.
So I nod. "Alright."
She exhales, relieved, then gestures toward the couch. "I'll get you a blanket."
I arch a brow. "You know, at this point, I should just bring a bag over."
She huffs a laugh, standing. "As if you'd actually use it. You'd just show up in another one of your overpriced suits and act like it's totally normal."
I smirk because she's right.
A minute later, she returns with a pillow and a thick, worn blanket, tossing them onto the couch beside me. I shake my head, grabbing the pillow and stuffing it behind me.
She tilts her head. "What?"
I hold her gaze. "We both know I'm not sleeping out here."
Ava blinks, and I see the war in her expression—the push and pull of what's wise versus what she wants. Then, with a quiet sigh, she mutters, "Just shut up and get in bed."
I chuckle as I follow her to the bedroom.
She flicks on the TV and climbs onto the mattress, grabbing the remote as I settle in beside her. The bed is small, warm, scented like her—honey and lavender and something inherently Ava.
She scrolls through a few options before settling on an old heist movie, tossing the remote aside.
We watch in comfortable silence for a while, the glow of the screen flickering across her face. But my attention keeps drifting—from the film, from the threats, from everything except her.
Her legs stretch out beside mine, bare and smooth. Her fingers twist absently in the hem of my shirt, the one she stole from me earlier tonight.
And I think about the first time I ever wanted her.
It was years ago—too many, if I want to stay sane—but I remember it with crystal clarity.
Dean and I were in his back yard, drinking beers, talking about his new project. I heard laughter from inside, loud and unfiltered, and when I glanced through the screen door, I saw her.
Ava, eighteen and wild, dancing around the kitchen in mismatched socks, a wooden spoon in her hand as she belted out a song that was definitely not in tune.
She was carefree in a way I'd never been.
And when she turned, catching me watching, she had the nerve to wink.
I laughed it off at the time. Told myself it was nothing. But later that night, when I was alone, I realized I was in trouble.
Ava shifts beside me, dragging me back to the present. "You're staring," she murmurs without looking away from the screen.
"You're very pretty," I say, because I don't have the energy to lie.
She laughs, rolling her eyes. "You are so full of it."
I grin, nudging her. "You love it."
She makes a pfft sound but doesn't argue.
Eventually, her eyelids start drooping, and I don't fight sleep either.
And for the first time in a long time, I sleep easy.
When I wake, it is to sunlight and the smell of coffee.
For a moment, I forget where I am.
Then I shift, the blankets rustling, and I remember. Ava's bed. Her apartment. The way she fell asleep curled against me, warm and trusting and soft in ways she doesn't let most people see.
I run a hand through my hair and sit up, glancing around the room. It's small, nothing like the sleek, polished spaces I'm used to, but there's something about it—about her—that makes it feel like home.
I get up and gingerly move to the kitchen, where I find coffee already made. The pot is old, the buttons worn, but the scent is rich and perfect.
As I pour a cup, my mind drifts back to the arrangement.
Because no matter how much I want this—want her—I have to be realistic.
Ava is a firecracker. A free spirit. A woman who thrives on spontaneity and laughter and chaos. She deserves someone who can chase adventure with her, who won't weigh her down.
I'm not that guy.
I'm the man who builds things, controls outcomes, keeps his world neat and contained.
I can't ask her to be part of that.
But the problem is… I don't want to walk away.
The sound of footsteps pulls me from my thoughts.
I glance up as Ava walks in, hair mussed from sleep, one of her legs peeking out from under my oversized shirt.
She grins, grabbing a cup for herself.
We settle at the counter, the warmth between us quiet but steady. But then her fingers tighten around her mug, and I see it—her mind is still stuck on last night's message.
"We need to talk about the texts," she says.
I nod. "Agreed."
She takes a slow breath. "I think we should be careful. Whoever this is, they're calculated. I don't want to rush into anything and give them the upper hand."
I frown. "Ava?—"
"I mean it, Liam. I know you want to act now, but we have to be smart."
I don't want to be smart. I want to hunt this bastard down and put an end to it. But she's looking at me with this quiet determination, and I realize she's not the same woman I started this arrangement with.
She's thinking things through. Being strategic.
I exhale. "Alright. We'll be cautious."
Her shoulders relax, just a little.
My phone buzzes.
It's Tyler.
Need to meet. Found something. Soon as possible .
I set my mug down. "I need to see Tyler. He's got something."
Ava straightens. "Where?"
"My place." I grab my keys. "Come with me. I don't want you alone."
She hesitates—just for a second—but then she nods.
Once we're ready, I walk her to my car. We get in and I start the engine.
Willow Creek rolls past us in fragments. Cobblestone streets slick from last night's rain, brick storefronts with gold-lettered signs, strings of Edison bulbs still glowing above sleepy cafés. The morning fog clings stubbornly to the river, twisting around the iron bridges like something alive.
The beauty, the quiet… I'd love to appreciate it, the way this town always seems like it belongs in a painting instead of real life.
But I can't.
Because Ava is beside me, staring out the window, chewing her lip, thinking. And when Ava starts thinking too hard, I know I'm about to lose my damn mind.
My hands tighten around the wheel as we pass the Riverwalk District, where her apartment sits above a bookstore with ivy creeping up its brick walls. A few blocks away, the first morning joggers cut through the park, their sneakers slapping against wet pavement. It's a picture-perfect morning, the kind that should belong to people who wake up worrying about coffee orders and dinner plans, not blackmail and burner phones.
But here we are.
"Are you going to talk or just keep brooding?" Ava asks, cutting her gaze toward me.
I exhale through my nose, keeping my eyes on the road. "Not brooding."
She snorts. "Please. You have Brooding Billionaire practically stamped across your forehead."
I glance at her, biting back a smirk. "Billionaire, huh?"
"Oh, shut up."
The tension in my chest eases for half a second, but then we hit the highway, and I remember where we're going and what we're walking into.
Tyler texted again just before we left. He's waiting at my loft, ready with whatever new lead he's uncovered. I don't like the feeling in my gut—the one that says we're about to step onto even thinner ice.
And I especially don't like that Ava is walking right onto it with me.
She shifts beside me, pressing her fingertips against the foggy glass. "Liam?"
I flick my gaze toward her. "Yeah?"
Her voice is quieter now, like she's almost reluctant to ask. "What happens when this is over?"
The question hangs between us, thick as the mist curling over the river.
I grip the wheel harder. "We find whoever's behind this. We make them pay."
"That's not what I meant."
She doesn't look at me, but I don't need her to. I can hear the real question in her voice. What happens to us?
I should have an answer. Hell, I should have a hundred answers, all neatly arranged with exit strategies and contingencies. But the truth is, I have no fucking clue.
So I do what I do best. I deflect.
"We'll figure it out," I say.
Ava laughs, but it's hollow. "Right. Just like we figured out that fake dating would make things less complicated?"
I don't have a comeback for that.
The city skyline rises ahead, the glass and steel buildings cutting through the haze. My loft is on the upper floor of a converted warehouse, sleek and modern—a far cry from the warm chaos of Ava's apartment. It's always been my retreat, my carefully curated world where everything is controlled and predictable.
Now, it just feels cold. It feels like a world I don't belong to, even though I've been part of it forever.
When I pull into the underground garage, Tyler is already waiting outside the elevator, leaning against the wall, flipping a coin between his fingers. He straightens when he sees us, pushing off the wall with a low whistle.
"Damn, Carter. You look like hell."
"Good morning to you too," I mutter, unlocking the elevator.
Tyler grins as he steps inside. "And Ava. Always a pleasure."
"Tyler," she greets, crossing her arms. "Give us the bad news."
His grin fades as the elevator doors slide shut. He glances at me before speaking. "Tracked the burner phone. It was purchased with cash from a gas station just outside the city, but here's the kicker—the security footage is conveniently missing for that day."
Ava frowns. "So it was wiped?"
"Looks that way. And before you ask, yes, I checked nearby ATMs, street cameras, even traffic light footage. Whoever this is? They knew exactly how to cover their tracks."
"But you found something."
Tyler nods. "Got a name. Cliff Reyes."
Ava's brow furrows. "Who's that?"
I don't even have to think. "A fixer. Works in the art world, mostly for shady gallery owners who need problems handled quietly." My brows knit together. "Vanessa's used him before."
Ava's eyes darken. "So she is involved."
"Looks that way," Tyler says. "But here's the problem—Cliff isn't just some hired thug. He's smart. Careful. If we go after him without a solid plan, he'll slip through our fingers, and we'll lose our best lead."
I exhale sharply. "I don't care. We track him down, now."
Tyler gives me a look. "Did you miss the part where I said we need a plan?"
Ava steps forward, arms still crossed, but there's a sharpness in her gaze now. "Then let's give him one."
I frown. "What do you mean?"
She tilts her head, as if it's obvious. "Vanessa thinks she's in control, right? She thinks she's playing us." A slow smile tugs at the corner of her lips. "So what if we let her?"
Tyler raises a brow. "Keep talking."
Ava leans against the counter, the soft glow from the city skyline illuminating her features. "Vanessa is obsessed with winning. She needs to believe she's breaking me down, getting under my skin. So what if I let her believe it? What if I act like I'm cracking under the pressure?"
I go completely still.
"No," I say immediately.
Ava groans. "Liam?—"
"No." My voice is sharp, leaving no room for argument. "We're not using you as bait."
She rolls her eyes. "You're not using me. I am making a calculated move to get what we need."
"No."
"Why?"
"Because it's reckless. Because it's dangerous. Because—" I snap my mouth shut, forcing myself to take a breath. "Because I said so."
She glares at me. "Not a good enough reason."
I grit my teeth, my pulse pounding.
Tyler looks between us, then shrugs. "I hate to say it, but Ava's got a point. If Vanessa thinks she's winning, she might slip up."
I turn to him, scowling. "Not helping."
He smirks. "I'm not here to help you, Carter. I'm here to solve a case."
Ava smirks too, like she knows she just won.
I curse under my breath.
Because deep down, I know she's right.
I just really fucking hate it.