Chapter 20 #2
Because for the first time in a long time, I don’t know what fine looks like.
* * *
Back at the convent, I drop my bag and go straight to the sink.
I wash my hands.
Not because they’re dirty.
Because Iris touched something in me.
The door opens behind me—Blake’s footsteps, the drag of a duffel. He pauses in the doorway.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” I say, not turning.
He watches a beat too long. I can feel it.
“You’re scrubbing,” he says.
“I’m washing my hands.”
“Same thing,” he replies.
I shut off the water and face him. Hoodie, jeans, wind in his hair, eyes sharp. He never looks fully relaxed, even when he smiles.
“Where’d you go?”
“I met someone who claims to be my half-sister.”
His expression changes, small but immediate. “How’d it go?”
I shrug. “She’s… intense.”
He steps closer. “Intense how?”
“Like me,” I say—and it tastes wrong.
His brows lift. “That bad?”
“Maybe worse.”
He studies my face like he’s framing a shot. “So she got under your skin.”
I scoff. “No one gets under my skin.”
Blake’s mouth tilts. “Shae.”
I push past him toward the living room. “She implied she might be The Watcher.”
He stops. “She said that?”
“She didn’t deny it,” I correct. “She liked the idea.”
Something flickers in his eyes—not fear. Interest. Like a producer hearing a better twist.
“And?” he asks. “Do you believe her?”
“I don’t know what to believe,” I snap, harsher than I mean to.
Blake goes still. Then softens, just a fraction. “Okay. Tell me what happened.”
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out at first.
Because I’m not used to telling.
I’m used to directing.
“I asked for DNA,” I say finally. “She lost it. Like… actually lost it.”
His eyes narrow. “Lost it how?”
“Raised her voice. Made a scene. Then snapped back to calm in two seconds.” My throat tightens, annoying. “She wants me to ‘earn’ a test.”
Blake exhales low. “Control game.”
“Exactly.” I laugh once, sharp. “Like I don’t know control.”
He watches me. “But you didn’t have it.”
The words land because they’re true.
I stare at him. “She’s unpredictable.”
“Unpredictable is useful,” Blake says.
“To who?” I ask.
“To her. To whoever wants you to make a mistake.”
I pace once, then stop. The house feels smaller than it did an hour ago.
“What if she’s not who she says?” I ask. “What if she’s just another parasite in my orbit?”
Blake’s gaze sharpens. “You think it’s someone closer.”
“I think it’s someone enjoying this.”
He goes quiet, then says, “Harper.”
I blink. “Harper?”
“Think about it,” he says, stepping closer. “Wholesome on camera. Na?ve. Sweet. Perfect cover if you want to play both sides and keep your story alive.”
I laugh, loud. “Harper isn’t smart enough.”
“Maybe she doesn’t have to be,” Blake says. “Maybe someone’s using her. Or maybe she’s smarter than you think.”
I shake my head. “No. Harper can’t lie without sweating. She cries if someone honks at her in traffic.”
Blake’s mouth quirks. “That’s what she shows you.”
Harper wears softness like it’s her natural climate—no filters, no lighting tricks, no strategic pauses.
I manufacture mine. Watching her be the real thing feels like standing beside someone who doesn’t need the script you memorized.
And the thought arrives, clean and brutal: there’s only room for one survivor in this story—and I didn’t claw my way out to be an understudy.
I cross my arms. “She’s not The Watcher.”
“Okay,” Blake says, easy. “Then who?”
“I don’t know,” I snap, and I hate myself for it.
Blake touches my shoulder. Gentle. Anchoring.
“You’re not used to being cornered.”
“I’m not cornered.”
His eyes hold mine. “You feel cornered.”
I swallow. The honesty sits between us like a loaded gun.
“I don’t like her,” I admit quietly.
Blake nods. “Because she’s you.”
I flinch. “No.”
“She’s a mirror,” he says. “And you don’t like what you see.”
My voice goes cold. “I like myself.”
Blake smiles slowly. “You like your control.”
I stare at him.
Then, because I’m tired of pretending, I say the thing I don’t say.
“I’m scared,” I whisper.
Blake stills. His hand tightens on my shoulder—not comfort. Possession.
“Of what?”
“Of her,” I say. “Of what she knows. Of what she could do.”
His eyes darken with something like pleasure. “Then we handle it.”
“No,” I say instantly.
His brows rise. “No?”
“I handle it,” I correct. “I don’t need you to—”
Blake steps closer, voice low. “It would be a pleasure.”
Too calm. Too sure.
I search his face for softness.
There isn’t any.
I force a laugh. “You sound like a villain.”
Blake shrugs. “Maybe I am.”
My skin prickles.
“I need time,” I say. “I can get the upper hand.”
“How?”
“By letting her trust me,” I say—and I hate how it sounds like tenderness. “By making her think I want what she wants.”
“And what does she want?”
“Me,” I say simply. “Access. Attention. A sisterhood fantasy.”
Blake nods. “So you give her a taste.”
I exhale. “Yes.”
He watches me. “And if she really is The Watcher?”
“Then she’s sloppy,” I say, but my voice wobbles. “She wouldn’t show her hand like that.”
Blake glances toward the window, toward the washed-out town. “Unless she wanted you to know.”
I stare at him. “Why would she want that?”
He looks back at me. “Because fear makes people interesting.”
My mouth goes dry.
“You’re enjoying this,” I accuse.
Blake smiles without warmth. “I’m documenting it.”
“Same thing,” I mutter.
His phone buzzes on the counter. He checks it, then looks at me. “You want me to stay tonight?”
I should say no. Send him back to the motel. Keep my boundaries. Keep my walls.
But Iris’s eyes are still in my head. That look that said I know you. That look that threatened without trying.
“I want you here,” I say.
Blake’s smile softens. “Okay.”
I hate that part of me relaxes. I hate that I need anything from anyone.
I turn away before he can see it too clearly.
“We do nothing,” I say. “Not yet.”
Blake nods. “Not yet.”
“And if you try to play hero—”
He lifts his hands. “I won’t.”
I glance back. “Promise.”
He meets my eyes. “I promise.”
I should believe him.
But I’m not stupid.
I pour water into a glass. My hands are steady now; my mind isn’t. Blake sits on the edge of the couch, watching me like he’s already cutting this into an episode.
I take a sip and say, too casually, “If Harper ever turns on me…”
Blake’s eyes sharpen. “She won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
His smile is thin. “I know people.”
“So do I,” I say.
He crosses the room slowly, stopping close enough that I can smell his soap.
“You’ll win,” he says quietly. “You always do.”
I swallow.
Because I’m not sure that’s true anymore.
And I hate that the first time I feel truly out of control…
…it’s because Iris might be like me on purpose. Not a victim. Not a pawn. A reflection.
I set the glass down.
“I’ll call her,” I say, mostly to myself. “Set another meeting.”
Blake nods. “Good.”
“And I won’t tell anyone,” I add. “Not Harper. Not Lila. Not my PR team.”
His mouth tilts. “Good.”
I look up at him. “You’re too agreeable.”
He smiles. “I’m adaptable.”
I don’t like the way my body reacts to how calm he is.
Outside, life keeps moving like nothing matters.
Inside, I hold my perfect face and feel something unfamiliar in my chest.
Not guilt.
Not love.
Not remorse.
Just the ugly realization that my games have finally attracted someone who plays without rules.
And I don’t know which of us will blink first.