Chapter 2
Jake
Jake watched Hannah sleep, counting her breaths like he could somehow store them away for later. Moonlight spilled through her bedroom window, painting her skin silver, catching on the dark hair spread across his pillow. His pillow. When had he started thinking of it as his?
The same time you started wishing this was real.
She made a soft sound in her sleep, reaching for him. Even unconscious, she trusted him completely. His chest ached.
He heard his burner phone vibrated in the pocket of his discarded jeans.
Jake's jaw clenched. He knew who it was. Knew what they wanted. But for just one more moment, he let himself pretend. Let himself be the man Hannah thought he was—the man who fixed broken things instead of destroying them.
The phone buzzed again.
Careful not to wake her, he slipped out of bed. Hannah immediately curled around his abandoned pillow, pressing her face into it like she was chasing his warmth. The sight hit him like a punch to the gut.
He grabbed the phone and his jeans, padding barefoot into her small living room. Evidence of his earlier desperation was everywhere—her tank top by the door, his shirt draped over the back of her couch, that bottle of wine they'd never gotten around to opening.
The phone vibrated a third time.
"Cooper." He kept his voice low, though Hannah could sleep through a tornado when she was this tired.
"Where the hell have you been?" Isobel Martinez's voice crackled through the phone. His handler wasn't known for her patience. "I've been trying to reach you for an hour."
Jake scrubbed a hand over his face. "I was occupied."
"With the baker?" The disapproval in Martinez's voice could've curdled milk. "Jesus, Cooper. I told you to get close to her, not—"
"The raid," he cut in, unable to stomach wherever that sentence was going. "What's the timeline?"
A pause. Papers shuffling. "A week, maybe less. We'll move on Richard Everett's office first, then the house. Full tactical team."
"The evidence?" His voice sounded strange to his own ears. Far away.
"Rock solid. Seven years of laundered money, spreading through half the businesses in Crystal Lake. Including your girlfriend's precious bakery."
Jake's eyes squeezed shut. He'd read the files. Traced the money. Hannah's father had built a criminal empire right under everyone's nose, using small-town trust to hide in plain sight.
But Hannah...
"Cooper?" Martinez's voice sharpened. "Are we going to have a problem?"
He looked toward the bedroom, where the woman he'd been sent to betray slept peacefully in sheets that still smelled like them. Like trust. Like love.
"No." The lie tasted like ash. "No problem."
Jake stood in Hannah's darkened living room, staring at his keys on the counter. Every instinct screamed at him to go back to her bed, to curl around her warmth and pretend for a few more hours that this was real. That he deserved her trust.
A week. Maybe less.
Martinez's words echoed in his head as he forced himself to pick up the keys. The sound of Hannah's steady breathing drifted from the bedroom, and his chest ached.
Go. Review the evidence. Do your job.
The drive to his apartment felt longer than usual, empty streets stretching endlessly under yellow streetlights. His fingers clenched the steering wheel until his knuckles went white.
Inside his apartment, the stark reality of his role here hit him like a physical blow. Nothing personal. He'd allowed himself one photo of Hannah, stuck to the fridge. The case files were hidden behind the loose baseboard. The only real things in this carefully constructed lie.
He pulled out the files, spreading them across his kitchen counter. Seven years of financial records stared back at him, damning in their precision. Richard Everett had built himself a perfect little empire, using Crystal Lake's small-town trust as camouflage.
"She has to know something," he muttered, though the words sounded hollow even to his own ears. "Has to have noticed..."
What? That her father paid for renovations on half the buildings in town?
That he'd helped other business owners with startup capital?
From the outside, Richard Everett looked like every small town's fairy godfather—investing in local businesses, preserving historic buildings, keeping Crystal Lake's charm alive.
Jake's gut twisted. He'd watched Hannah light up every time she talked about her father's latest restoration project. The pride in her voice when she told customers how he'd saved the old movie theater, the historic inn on Miller Street.
She didn't see laundered money. She saw her father preserving the town she loved.
The evidence was all here—shell companies, wire transfers, inflated invoices. And Hannah's name was all over the transfers. He'd checked. Double-checked. Triple-checked.
At least Sugar & Spice's books were clean.
He'd gone through every receipt, every deposit, every scrap of paper in that ancient filing cabinet she could barely close.
The money flowing through other businesses in town was obvious once you knew where to look—phantom employees, impossible profit margins.
But the bakery? Hannah ran it exactly like her grandmother had. Down to the handwritten ledger she kept next to the register.
His phone buzzed. A text from Hannah lit up the screen.
Hannah: Bed's cold without you. Sure you had to leave?
Something cracked in his chest. He could picture her perfectly—curled on her side, dark hair spread across the bed, that soft, sleepy smile she got when she was fighting to stay awake.
His thumbs moved before his brain could stop them.
Jake: Hannah, I need to tell you something.
The cursor blinked.
He deleted the message without sending it.
A week. Maybe less. Then federal agents would storm her father's office, and her entire world would shatter.
And there wasn't a damn thing he could do to stop it.
Because the evidence was solid. Richard Everett was guilty. And Jake had done his job too well—built a case so airtight it would put Hannah's father away for decades.
She was involved. Her signature was on too many of the documents. The knowledge sat like lead in his stomach.
His phone buzzed again.
Hannah: Everything okay?
No. Nothing was okay. Nothing would ever be okay again.
Jake: Just missing you. Get some sleep, sweetheart.
He set the phone down, staring at the scattered papers that proved Richard Everett's guilt. But did they prove Hannah's?
His keys sat heavy in his pocket. He could go back. Crawl into bed beside her. Hold her for whatever time they had left.
Instead, he pulled another file from the stack, searching for something—anything—that would make what he was about to do to her feel less like betrayal.