Chapter 38
CHAPTER
THIRTY-EIGHT
Static fizzes in the background of a live mic.
“And you left town so quickly,” Alistair says. “I do appreciate a dramatic return.”
The sound shifts, as if they’ve turned into a stairwell.
“How could I deny a handshake after such a well-fought match,” Evie says, cool amusement threading her tone.
“I did wonder about the wardrobe request at first. Then I remembered how meticulously you curate every room you walk into. You’ve built the whole myth far too deliberately to let me show up however I want. ”
Jake’s gone still beside me. Even Dae stops fuming.
“I must admit,” Alistair says, “you’ve executed this elegantly.” A keypad chirps two quick beeps through the speaker, followed by the sound of a door opening. “My legal team has countersigned, and funds transfer at nine a.m. You’ve secured your million dollars.”
Evie’s exhale sounds satisfied. “You should’ve paid me years ago. Would’ve been cheaper.”
“The thought did cross my mind. Would you indulge me in sharing how you did it?”
“By letting you keep doing what you always do,” she says. “Buying silence from anyone who got too close made you predictable.”
My tongue goes numb. She knew. She knew exactly what she was doing.
“Predictable?” Alistair makes it sound like a foreign language.
“You respond to pressure,” Evie says. “So I applied it.”
“And not alone.”
“Marcus was my lever,” Evie says. “I wedged him deep enough to make you flinch, but the work was mine. The research, the preparation, the timing.”
I clench my fists so hard my knuckles start to throb.
“Mm,” Alistair murmurs. “You mistake desperation for weakness.”
“He’s obviously both. Desperation’s what makes him weak.”
“He’s wounded,” Alistair corrects with a precision that makes me feel naked. “There’s a difference. Wounded men are… interesting. They surprise you.”
“You mean he surprised you,” Evie says, too sharp. “I knew how to use him.”
“Yes. He did.”
The audio’s faint echo of their footsteps deadens.
“You could’ve installed an elevator,” Evie mutters. “And don’t worry about Marcus. I own his story. He wrote it on my payroll, and now that I got what I wanted, what do I care if you keep playing your game?”
“He still hasn’t articulated his heart’s desire.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” she says. “Marcus has no idea who he is. How could he know what he wants? Oh,” she adds, a little too excited. “You actually built a stage for this.”
“Something like that,” Alistair says. “Wait here.”
“I’m a very patient person,” she purrs, closer now, too close.
Every eye in the room shifts to me, seeing me now through Evie’s and Alistair’s eyes: empty, pitiful, and wounded.
Then the bookcase shudders in that all-too-familiar way, the green wallpaper splitting down the middle while the shelves glide apart to reveal a dark mouth beyond.
Red light spills over the raised stage inside like blood.
A swing sways faintly, and wall hooks hold all the usual instruments.
There she is. Evie is on the raised stage wearing a leather corset cinched hard enough to change her posture, one hand resting lightly at her sternum as she watches the wall between us complete its costume change.
She scans our room with wide eyes, taking in the leather furniture and eight confused men, like she was shoved onstage for a part she hasn’t learned. When her gaze lands on me, her face flashes something honest—annoyance.
Then she drops into character.
“Marcus?” Her voice trembles on cue. “What is this?”
“Cut the bullshit. We heard everything.”
“Heard what?”
“Who the fuck is this?” Dae’s voice slices through the dark.
“My editor,” I say. “The one who sent me.”
“Are we going to be in the news?” one of the guys asks, voice trembling.
“No,” Evie says. “You won’t.”
“You don’t own shit,” I hiss.
“I own the contract you signed,” she says. “The one that makes you my employee who wrote my story.”
“Fuck you.”
“Real nice, Marcus,” she grumbles. “I should never have come here. I don’t do costumes.”
Her expression tightens almost imperceptibly as Alistair appears through a hidden door in the playroom wall, finally assuming his place as the center of gravity. The game might be over, but his show is just beginning.
“How wonderful,” Alistair says as he steps into the red light. “My most talented player, his boss, and…” His gaze lands on Jake. “What are you, then? A weekend fling?”
Jake’s lip curls. “Ick.”
“Evie—” I start, but her name tastes too rotten. “What do you want, Alistair?”
“Good to see you too, Marcus.”
He moves to the bar and pours whiskey over one perfect cube, taking his time while everyone waits.
I turn to Evie. “You lied.”
“Please.” She barely spares me a glance as she tugs at the corset, more irritated by the wardrobe than by what she’s done.
“Your résumé was fiction, and your references were you faking stupid accents on a burner phone. You didn’t fool me for a second.
But looking like that, I figured you’d fool him. ” Her mouth curves. “And I was right.”
“So you used me. And the paper.”
“Cable Car Chronicles was already dying.” Her tone stays light. “Another billionaire would’ve bought it for optics, gutted the newsroom, and buried anything inconvenient. Alistair’s giving me a million to end it on my terms.”
“You sold out the truth.”
“Come on,” she says. “You’re getting all righteous all of a sudden?”
“I don’t know who you are,” Dae says, stepping forward, “but nobody’s publishing anything.”
Evie looks at me. “He’s not going to publish.”
“I’ll do whatever I want,” I say, refusing the tug of her leash.
And all at once, it isn’t Alistair I want to take down. It’s her. The need to win goes white-hot just as a game I hadn’t even realized I was playing comes to a close.
She already won, just like Alistair said.
My gaze skitters across the room, rage clawing for something solid until it catches on one last truth.
I turn to Alistair. “You still owe me.”