Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Atlas
According to my phone, Sanford’s message comes through thirty minutes after I hit send.
In that time, I manage to convince Blythe—she prefers that name—to eat some crackers and drink ginger ale.
I’m not sure why I even have some in this place, but at least it was useful.
When I open the text, I’m .
. . I wasn’t prepared for the information he gathered about Winston Reginald Worthington IV.
The name alone drips with power, old money, and corruption so deep it doesn’t leave trails—it leaves bodies.
It seems like Henrietta Worthington ran from a fucking monster.
A monster who has ties to one of the most powerful syndicates in Miami.
He has political reach.
And the man is legally untouchable.
The only way to get rid of him will probably be with a bullet to his head.
My grip tightens around the phone.
I expected a rich bastard with a superiority complex—a controlling husband who thrived on power behind closed doors but could be exposed if you pulled the right thread.
This?
This is a different level of fucked.
Winston isn’t just an abuser with money.
He has the connections to make people vanish.
He doesn’t operate with threats—he operates with consequences.
No wonder Blythe’s scared for her life.
I stare at my phone, my fingers twitching to type out, “ How do we get rid of him?” Better yet, something like, “ Can we make this happen tonight?”
But that’s not something I can just ask from Sanford or anyone from his circle.
During my years working with Sanford and his network, I learned exactly what kind of people they deal with.
They might be musicians, but they also work for a high-security intelligence company called The Organization.
It operates in a gray area the law can’t touch.
Their jobs aren’t about following rules—they’re about controlling threats before they escalate.
I trained with them, worked full-time for a few years before stepping back.
Right now, I take a few jobs when they need me, but only if I feel like it’s worth the risk.
So yeah, technically, Sanford’s network could bury Winston.
Unfortunately, you can’t make men like Worthington disappear without setting off alarms. You erase someone with that much reach, and you’re not just dealing with the fallout—you’re lighting a match in a gasoline-soaked room.
This isn’t about vengeance.
It’s about giving a new life to Blythe and a chance for her child.
Sanford: We can give her a new identity and send her to another country.
Maybe he’ll never find her there.
But then what? She’d still be running.
She’d never stop looking over her shoulder, never feel safe.
She’d never be free.
That’s not a life. Not for her.
Not for the kid.
I exhale and type back: That’s not a way to live.
I’m not saying to take care of him—obviously—but is there another way?
I lock my phone and glance toward Blythe, she’s still there—curled into herself, silent.
The woman I met earlier, the one brimming with stubborn defiance, is probably still in there.
I just need to assure her she no longer has to run so she can start being herself again.
Well, that, and she needs to rest. She’s noticeably exhausted.
It’s in her posture, in the way her shoulders sag, no matter how hard she tries to hold herself up.
She’s spent too long-surviving, and now she’s running.
Not only running—but pregnant, barely eating, and almost out of options.
She needs a reason to stop.
A reason to believe she has something to build instead of something to escape from.
I have to give her that.
I push off the counter and walk toward her.
She notices me before I speak.
Not because I make a sound—I don’t.
But because she’s conditioned herself to react.
To anticipate movement before it gets too close.
She’s probably planning on how to defuse my anger before I even open my mouth because that’s what her husband used to do with her.
One wrong look, and he would slap her.
One wrong word, and he might break a bone.
Too much alcohol and .
. . fuck, why are there men like him still breathing in this world?
That alone makes my jaw clench.
“You need to see a doctor,” I tell her.
She flinches.
It’s quick, barely there, but I catch it.
“You have to go to the doctor,” I insist.
“Not happening,” she mutters, shaking her head.
“It’s not only too risky, but I also can’t afford it.”
I hold her gaze.
“You need to get checked out—for yourself and the baby you’re expecting.”
Her jaw tightens, hands pressing harder into the fabric of her sleeves.
“I take care of myself just fine.”
“What have you eaten today?”
I nod toward the half-eaten crackers sitting pathetically on the counter.
“Other than those.”
Silence.
Her fingers twitch, curling slightly like she wants to tuck them away, like she doesn’t want me to notice.
I step closer, then lower myself to a crouch in front of her.
She stiffens. Doesn’t pull back, but she doesn’t lean in either.
Good. She’s still here.
Still listening.
I keep my voice level.
“You’ve been running for months. And now you’re running yourself into the ground.” I pause.
Just long enough to make sure she hears me.
“That’s not survival, Blythe.”
She exhales, knuckles paling as she grips her sleeves.
“And what if I don’t have a choice?”
“You do. I’ll give you all the choices,” I say.
“The only question is how you want to live.”
She blinks, something shifting in her expression.
I don’t press further.
Not yet. Instead, I lay out a solution.
“This is what we’re doing,” I start.
“We’ll go to the doctor. No one’s seen you around yet. People around here believe what they want, so you’re my girlfriend.”
She snorts, the disbelief clear on her face.
“Really? Just like that, I’m your girlfriend?”
“Yep. And I’ll take you to the doctor.” I fold my arms, waiting for her to argue.
“That way, it won’t be weird that I’m paying for?—”
“No.” Her expression hardens.
“I won’t let you pay for?—”
“It’s part of the benefits,” I cut in smoothly.
“You’re going to be working for me full-time, right? I can’t just give you insurance. That would leave a trail, and I’m guessing we’d both like to avoid your ex-husband showing up at my doorstep.”
She fidgets with her lip as she studies me, her eyes narrowed, like she wants to find a hole in my logic but can’t.
Like it makes sense, but she still doesn’t trust me.
And I get it. Trust isn’t something that’s given—it’s something that’s earned.
Someone like her?
A woman who’s spent too long under a tyrant’s rule, a man who was supposed to love her and not abuse her .
. . A woman who learned that safety is an illusion wrapped in false promises.
It’ll take time.
It’ll take patience.
It’ll take proving, over and over, that I’m not another person who’s going to trap her, control her, or break her down just because I can.
“Fine, but can we go somewhere that’s not here?” she asks.
“I’m sure the doctor will be publishing my life in the town square before we’re out of the clinic.”
I can’t help but laugh.
“You’re not right, but not wrong either. The staff can be chatty, but maybe . . . let me ask to see if we can go somewhere else.”
This is really the last thing I wanted, Sanford involved in the town and my current situation, but there’s no other way to help her.
When I give him the rundown, he says he’ll take care of it.
In the meantime, I should just head to the hotel to get her stuff out and just move her upstairs.
The unit has the basics, a bed, and a table, but next week he’ll have the rest of the furniture.
Of course, he’ll send me the bill once everything is settled—unless The Organization needs a job, and then that’s how I’ll pay my dues.
I’m not sure if this is a good idea, but we don’t have that many options, do we?