Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Wade
Getting Marie to sit down was like convincing a wounded animal to trust that the trap wasn't closing. She'd fought me every step, claimed that she didn't need rest, that food could wait, that we needed to focus on the girls now.
But I'd raised sons who'd come to me broken in their own ways, and I'd learned patience. I knew how to be firm without being forceful, how to make someone feel safe enough to surrender control.
So now she sat in the bed, reluctantly propped up against pillows I'd arranged myself, a bowl of warm oxtail soup cradled in her hands. The chef had prepared it exactly as requested—rich and savory, a comfort food that spoke of home and being cared for.
I watched her take the first sip, and her eyes closed as the flavor hit her tongue. Her throat worked as she swallowed, and a tremor ran through her shoulders.
When her eyes opened again, they were bright with unshed tears that she stubbornly blinked away, her jaw set in determination not to cry over something as simple as soup.
She was breathtaking.
Even now, bandaged and bruised and fighting back emotion, she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. Her braids were still matted in places, her skin marked with cuts, but her eyes were dark, expressive, and full of a quiet, fierce strength.
She took another sip of soup, then another, her gaze drifting to the ocean beyond the glass wall. She couldn't stop looking at it. Every few seconds, her eyes would track back to the water like she needed to confirm it was still there, still real and still hers.
I was grateful I'd found her. So profoundly, inexplicably grateful that she'd run into me and not anyone else. That I'd been standing in exactly the right place at exactly the right time to catch her when she fell.
That I got to be the one sitting here, watching her eat soup and look at the ocean, slowly starting to believe she was safe.
"The bag," she said finally, setting the bowl on the bedside table. Her movements were controlled, like she'd been trained to be careful with everything. "You should look at the evidence. All of it."
I reached for the canvas bag she'd been clutching since last night, still sitting on the bedside table where I'd left it. She nodded permission, and I opened it carefully, mindful that whatever was inside represented her only proof of what she'd endured.
Receipts came out first. Dozens of them, handwritten notes with dates and notes in the margins. I scanned them, and my blood went cold.
I recognized some of the names. They were men whose faces I'd seen at charity galas and political fundraisers, men who moved in similar circles as I did, who wielded power and influence and thought themselves untouchable.
The amounts listed made my jaw tighten—sometimes six figures for a night. Services rendered were coded, but I could easily have those cracked.
"I know you probably won't recognize the names or understand the codes," Marie said, her voice matter-of-fact, like she'd removed herself from what the papers represented. "But it's documented proof of payment, and if we can match it with—"
"Richard Zuini.” I cut her off gently, pointing to one of the names.
"Private equity, married, no children. Sits on the board of two major charities.
" I moved to the next. "James Peal. Shipping magnate known for his 'business trips' nearby.” Another.
"Senator Cado. Currently running for re-election on a family values platform. "
I looked up and saw her staring at me with wide eyes. Surprise and recognition that I understood this world better than she'd expected.
"You know them," she whispered.
"I know their type." I set the receipts down, purposely not elaborating on how I knew, or what corners of the world I'd occupied that made me fluent in this particular language of power and exploitation.
“You did an excellent job documenting this, darling. This is exactly what's needed to build a case that will destroy them."
She flushed, eyes darting down despite everything, and went quiet. Her hands twisted in the sheets, and she seemed to lose track of what she'd been about to say, her mouth opening slightly before closing again.
The praise had done that. It’d made her soft and uncertain, and it was utterly captivating.
I pulled out the next items—small plastic bags, each labeled with a name and containing strands of hair. Nineteen of them, organized and documented. DNA evidence that couldn't be argued away or dismissed.
"And these." I held up one of the bags, impressed despite the horror of what they represented. "You collected DNA samples from all the women?"
"Hair was easiest." She was still a little flushed, still quieter than she'd been moments ago. "I labeled each one. They'll need to be processed properly, but it's enough to prove they were there. That they existed."
"Marie." I used her name, and her eyes snapped to mine. I was grounding her the way I'd learned to ground my sons when the past got too loud. "You did such a good job. This is exactly what's needed. You were so smart to do this.”
She made a little face, and her breath caught slightly.
She looked away, her fingers still twisted in the sheets.
She liked the praise, I realized. Liked how it cleared her mind and made her soft, made her lose her words and just feel instead of carrying the weight of nineteen women on her shoulders.
She was utterly perfect.
"How old are you, darling?" The question came out gently, but I needed to know. Needed to understand the full picture of this woman who'd crashed into my life.
"Thirty-two." Her voice was still soft, still a little breathless from the praise.
Thirty-two. Fifteen years younger than me.
Young enough that the gap was significant, that people would notice, that it mattered in ways I should probably care about more than I did.
Young enough that she probably saw things differently, felt things differently, experienced the world with a lightness she should have been able to carry.
She was young enough to make me feel every one of my forty-seven years, and simultaneously young enough to make me want to protect that youth, nurture it, keep it safe from men who would exploit it.
"I'm forty-seven," I offered, watching her process that. Watching for when she'd realize the age gap, the difference in our lives and experiences. "Old enough to be set in my ways, young enough to still be useful."
Something shifted in her expression, but it wasn't discomfort. More like... interest. Curiosity. She was warming up to me—I could see it in how her shoulders relaxed, and she held my gaze without looking away.
I pulled out the last items from the bag—security badges, three of them, each from a different guard. She explained how she'd stolen them, her voice gaining strength as she moved back into planning mode. Her hands moved as she spoke, small gestures that were unconsciously expressive.
Her lashes fluttered when she was thinking, a habit that was entirely too distracting.
She’d tuck her braids behind her shoulders, lean forward slightly when she was making a point.
Little things that screamed her age, her relative youth, the fact that she hadn't learned to control every microexpression the way I had.
It was captivating. She was simply captivating.
"So we can use these to get in," she continued, her energy building now that we were talking strategy. "The badges will give us access to the service areas, and I know the layout. I know where the cameras are, I know the guard rotations—"
"Marie,” I called her name firmly, and she stopped mid-sentence. "We?"
"Yes, we." She looked at me like it was obvious. "I need to show you where they are, how to get to them safely. I can't just describe it, I need to be there.”
"Darling, you're not going back there." I kept my voice gentle but firm. "You're barely able to sit up without swaying. You need rest, proper medical care, and time to heal."
"I don't have time." Her voice rose slightly, panic creeping in at the edges. "Every hour I'm here, they're still there. Every minute I'm resting, they're suffering. I can't—I need to help them right now. We need to go now, we need to—"
She was spiraling again. Her breathing getting faster, her hands starting to shake. The guilt of escaping while leaving them behind was eating her alive.
I moved to sit on the edge of the bed, close enough to reach her but not crowding. "Marie, look at me."
She did, those dark eyes wild with desperation.
"I'm going to help them. I promise you that, but I need you to rest. I need you to sleep, to let your body heal, because you can't help anyone if you collapse. While you're resting, I'm going to gather what we need."
"But—"
"Listen to me." I took her hand and felt how small it was in mine, how her fingers trembled.
"I have resources you don't. Connections, people I can call who will move heaven and earth to help because I'm asking.
But I need time to mobilize them, to put together a plan that will work, and I need you to trust me enough to rest while I do that. "
"How long?" Her voice cracked. "How long until we go get them?"
"Give me twenty-four hours." I squeezed her hand gently. "Twenty-four hours to sleep, to heal, to let me build a team and a strategy. Can you do that for me? Can you trust me for twenty-four hours?"
She stared at me, searching my face for lies, for false promises, for whatever betrayal she'd learned to expect. But I'd never been more serious.
"You promise?" she whispered. "You promise you'll get them out?"
"I promise." And I would. Even if I had to burn The Orion to the ground and everyone else in it. "Now please, my darling. Sleep. Let me take care of this."
She hesitated, torn between her desperate need to act and the exhaustion I could see pulling at her. Finally, she nodded. Small and reluctant, but a nod.
"Okay," she breathed. "Okay. Twenty-four hours."