Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Shae
The convent house is quiet—too quiet. No Blake. No cameras. No charity applause. Just the wind working the old property like a set of lungs, and the old bell tower answering sometimes, faint and wrong. The sunlight presses through the kitchen window like it’s trying to catch me in the act.
I’m not doing anything wrong.
That’s the funny part.
I see his truck before I hear it, parked crooked in the gravel like he didn’t bother correcting himself. Like he expects the world to adjust around him.
I don’t open the door right away.
I let him knock twice.
When I finally do, he’s holding an envelope.
His casual nonchalance pisses me off.
“Hi, Shae,” he says, like this is normal. Like he’s a friend stopping by with a casserole and concern.
I don’t invite him in. “What do you want?”
Declan’s eyes slide past me into the house. Checking. Always checking.
“Well, what a warm welcome. It’s been over a month and I haven’t heard a word from you—not even a thank you for the man that helped engineer your release.”
“Ha, dramatic much?” I spit.
He grunts.
“A letter came for you at the facility,” he says. “The day you got out.”
I lift a brow. “And you drove all the way here to hand-deliver it?”
“They gave it to me to read,” he says.
I smile without warmth. “That’s not how mail works.”
“It is when you’re an inmate,” he replies. “All correspondence is screened.”
I lean into the doorframe. “Screened isn’t the same thing as read.”
His mouth tightens—irritation, the reflex of a man who hates being corrected.
“I read it. It’s my job,” he says.
The word lands heavier than he intends.
“You read it,” I repeat.
“I was authorized—”
“You read my mail,” I say again, quieter now.
He lifts the envelope like evidence. Off-white. No return address. My name printed carefully—not rushed. Someone took their time.
“It’s from your half-sister,” he says.
That gets my attention.
“Funny,” I say. “I don’t have one.”
“She says you do.”
He doesn’t hand it to me yet. Deliberate. He wants the moment. He wants leverage.
“She says there are things you don’t know about your father,” he continues. “Sounds like bad things. My guess is that evil doesn’t fall far from the family tree.”
A laugh slips out of me—sharp, sudden. “Oh, wow. That’s poetic.”
His frown deepens. “This isn’t funny.”
“No,” I agree. “It’s lazy.”
I take the envelope from his hand, slow and deliberate. I don’t open it. I don’t need to—yet.
“You drove all the way here,” I say, “to warn me?”
He hesitates. “I thought you deserved to know.”
“What you thought,” I say, “is that this would make you important again.”
His eyes flash. “That’s not fair.”
“Nothing about us was fair,” I say. “You just didn’t mind it when you were the one holding the keys.”
He steps closer. I don’t move.
“You used me,” he says.
“There it is.”
“I stuck my neck out for you,” he snaps. “I took risks.”
“You enjoyed them,” I say. “Don’t rewrite history now.”
A car crunches into the driveway.
Blake.
Perfect timing. Always.
Declan turns as Blake gets out, camera bag slung over his shoulder, sunglasses on like he’s walking onto a set instead of into a confrontation. Blake clocks Declan immediately—curious, not threatened.
He kisses my forehead like it’s instinct. Like it’s practiced.
“I’ll be in the guest room,” Blake says easily. “Need to finish some B-roll.”
And then he’s inside, gone, like he didn’t just plant a flag.
Declan’s face darkens.
“The camera guy?” he asks. “Really?”
I shrug. “It’s a work thing.”
Declan’s eyes narrow. “He looks at you like he wants to eat you. You replaced me fast.”
I laugh again. “You weren’t irreplaceable.”
His voice rises. “You don’t get to just move on like nothing happened.”
“I absolutely do,” I say. “That’s the whole point. New chapter, new me. You should try it.”
He takes a step toward me. I don’t retreat.
“I could ruin you,” he says. “I could send this letter to Netflix. TMZ. Every outlet that ever ran your story.”
“You already read it,” I say. “So what’s stopping you?”
He blinks.
“Let me guess,” I add, sweetly. “You thought I’d panic. Beg. Thank you.” I smile. “You really don’t know me at all.”
His jaw flexes. “You don’t scare me.”
“That’s a shame,” I say. “You should be afraid of women who don’t need you.”
He scoffs. “You think you’re untouchable now.”
“No,” I say. “I think you’re transparent.”
I step closer and lower my voice—soft enough to make him lean in without realizing.
“You pre-read my mail,” I say. “You showed up uninvited. You’re threatening me with tabloids.” I tilt my head. “That’s not heroic behavior, Declan.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it.
“And the anonymous troll online,” I continue. “The one leaving comments about karma and prison justice?” His eyes flicker, just once, and I laugh. “It’s you.”
“That’s not—”
“You stalked me,” I say. “From behind a keyboard. Adorable.”
He snaps. “You don’t get to mock me!”
“I do,” I say. “Because you let me.”
Silence stretches—thick, humid.
Finally, he steps back. “This isn’t over.”
“I know,” I say. “You’re not subtle.”
His eyes harden. “Ya know, it’s ironic, you livin’ in a convent paradin’ around like a saint considering you’re practically the devil’s daughter.”
I laugh. “That has a nice ring to it, might copyright that line. Thanks again, Declan. As always, it’s been a pleasure.”
I shut the door in his face. He pauses a long moment on my porch as if he’s actively plotting my revenge before he turns and walks off, the threat lingering behind him like heat on asphalt.
I close the door. I lock it. I stand there for a long moment, the envelope still unopened in my hand.
Declan is a problem now.
Not a big one. Not yet.
But problems like him don’t go away on their own.
They escalate.
I glance toward the guest room where Blake is editing, headphones on, absorbed in the footage of my redemption.
I smile.
I always clean up my messes.