Chapter 34 Phoenix
Phoenix
My phone vibrates steadily against the dresser with message after message.
Unknown
Miss me, angel?
God, Firebird. You have such pretty screams.
Next time I want to hear them in person.
You can’t be around them all the time, princess. I can get to you anywhere, anytime.
See you soon, kitten.
I won't stall this time. No excuses. Secrets only rot in the dark, and I’m done letting them fester. I won’t hurt them again. I can’t leave them vulnerable.
I shower fast, scrub away the sweat and salt on my skin, and admire the purple fingerprints on my ribs, my hips and the little lines that still haven’t completely disappeared on my wrists.
Today I’m dressing not as a poor girl, in ragged Goodwill rejects, or as the Titan’s plaything in a dress that barely covers my ass.
No, I want others to see me as a Titan, even if I’m not. I want to feel powerful, like they do in a suit. To see if I can harness that same air of sex, power and money.
I find an oxblood leather skirt and a black sleeveless turtleneck in the softest fabric I have ever felt. I keep my makeup simple—a brown smokey eye and just a little blush and a dark red on my lips. I leave my hair down, keeping the long, loose waves my men love.
When I find a pair of black pumps with daggers on the heels, I know I have a solid power outfit. One look in the mirror and I don’t recognize myself. I look like a woman who knows what she wants and will take it, no matter the cost.
I look like I am ready to battle demons with my men, and that is exactly what I intend to do.
I’m buckling a little black belt around my waist when my phone vibrates across the dresser.
Unknown number.
My stomach drops, then hardens. I unlock the screen and dismiss the call immediately.
It doesn’t matter, though. I know he’s not finished with me.
Which is why I head directly to the men.
The Titans are already gathered in Conrad’s office, spread out across the wide desk and long table with papers, tablets, and empty mugs scattered like the wreckage of a war room. They’ve been here for a while, and a brief pang of regret hits my stomach. I should’ve been here with them.
The air smells like fresh coffee and toasted bread from the new service cart in the corner of the room, the silver room service domes glinting in the lamp light.
Conrad looks up first. His eyes drag over me, slow and assessing, then his mouth tips into the barest approving nod. Just that slight gesture makes my chest loosen, like I’ve passed some test. Just as quickly as the approval appears, it leaves, and his jaw tightens as he looks away.
Before I can even step further in, Maverick is out of his chair, sliding an arm around my waist and guiding me toward the table.
“You’re late, sunshine,” he says, voice low but warm. He pulls out a chair beside his, pours a fresh cup of coffee into the heavy white mug, and presses it into my hands.
Then he lifts one of the domes from the tray and produces a plate piled with golden pancakes, drowning in maple syrup, and one solitary apple fritter on the side. “Eat. You need it.”
I almost laugh. There’s a death threat in my pocket, and he’s feeding me pancakes. His entire world is on the brink, but he’s going to make sure I eat. But at least he got me my favorite.
That’s Maverick. That’s all of them, honestly.
I take a sip, the bitter heat of the coffee with chicory grounding me, then set the mug down and pull my phone out. My thumb hovers only a second before I swipe to the message thread. “I got another one,” I say, voice steadier than I feel.
Conrad’s expression shutters as I hand him the phone. He scans it quickly, jaw flexing once, then tosses it across the table to Atticus like it’s just a piece of evidence, not a direct threat on my life.
Atticus catches it, then reads aloud in that clipped, precise voice of his. “Miss me, angel? God, Firebird. You have such pretty screams. Next time I want to hear them in person. You can’t be around them all the time, princess. I can get to you anywhere, anytime. See you soon, kitten.”
The room goes still.
Storm’s thumb grazes the blade of his knife, the sound a whisper in the quiet. Maverick is motionless for once, his usually bouncing knee inert. Conrad taps his fingers against his thigh, his gaze distant as he thinks.
I wrap my arms around myself, fighting the urge to shrink. “I don’t know who it is. But every single one of the threats has come from the same number.”
I wait for them to be mad at me again, but I don’t know why. We’re past that. I know this.
Atticus studies the screen again, then sets it down with a sharp tap of his finger. “We’ve got ten minutes before the spa opens. We’re going in, all of us.”
Conrad’s dark eyes flick to me, and there’s no room for argument. “Eat fast. You’re coming too.”
A thrill of fear and relief tangle in my stomach. They’re not shutting me out. Not this time.
Storm leans across, plucks a piece of bacon from my plate, and brushes a kiss against my cheek before biting into it. “You look like murder, baby. Sexy as fuck.”
I shake my head, but the corner of my mouth betrays me with the smallest smile. Murder chic. That’s a new one.
Suddenly hungry, I eat quickly so we can leave.
The spa feels like an entirely different building. The second I cross into the area, we’re surrounded with fake serenity.
White stone walls, minimalist furniture, trickling waterfalls, and music that’s supposed to lull you into peace but only makes me want to grind my teeth.
Everything is clean, perfect, controlled. Which means everything here is also a lie.
The manager is waiting in the lobby, middle-aged and lacquered in composure that doesn’t quite hold.
Her smile is stretched so tight the tendons in her neck say what her mouth won’t.
She’s polished—glass-smooth skin that screams diligent serums and peels, a neat chignon, navy sheath, low heels—but her fingers worry the edge of a tablet, betraying nerves.
“Mr. Masterson,” she says to Conrad, voice pitched pleasant, “gentlemen. I didn’t expect—”
“That’s the point of surprise inspections,” Conrad interrupts smoothly, tilting his head in the direction of her office. “I was hoping to have a chat about your vendors?”
Her eyes flash, just for a second, before she pastes the smile in paste and follows him.
I start to follow and then hesitate, awareness filtering in. Of course, Conrad is going to peel her away with talk of contracts and supplies.
It’s the perfect distraction. The staff wouldn’t be as forthcoming if she were around.
Storm and Maverick slip down the hallway toward the treatment rooms, already blending with staff. Atticus disappears into a side corridor, no doubt aiming for the surveillance feeds. Which leaves me exactly where I want and need to be: the front desk.
The receptionist is young, maybe early twenties, with dark circles under her eyes and a quick, nervous smile. She glances at me, then at the hallway where her manager just vanished.
Relief floods her face, as though she’s been waiting for someone, anyone, who isn’t that woman.
I lean against the counter, casual but close. “Morning. I’m Phoenix.”
Her shoulders sag a little. “Hi. Rachel.”
“Busy day already?”
She huffs out a humorless laugh. “Always.”
We let the silence stretch just long enough for the music and water sounds to fill in the gaps. Then, I tilt my head and lower my voice. “I’ll cut straight to the chase. I know there’s a regular menu here. And then there’s the…other menu.”
Her eyes widen, darting toward the office. “I don’t—”
“You do.” I keep my voice soft, steady. “Look, I’m not here to trap you. I’m here to stop people from getting hurt. And people are getting hurt.”
For a moment I think she’s going to deny it again. Then her lips press into a thin line and she leans closer. “Mr. Carrow isn’t here to scream at me and fire me?”
The girl is practically shaking as she shoots terrified looks at where Storm wandered off to.
I grab her hand to calm her. “No, we just need you to be honest with us.”
She looks at me for a long moment then nods. “She calls it premium aftercare. Injections, antiwrinkle shit, lip boosts, weight loss shots. She is even talking about doing the fat dissolving shots soon. None of it is on the books.”
My chest goes cold. “Where’s it coming from?”
The receptionist bites her lip. “Some guy. He comes in through the back hall with a bag. Most of the clients have eye masks on when he is here. She says it’s ‘sensory relaxation.’ But it’s because he doesn’t look like a doctor.
He does all of it, and then he sneaks out. In and out before anyone notices.”
I glance at the waterfall, at the calming music, at the pristine perfection of the spa. And I want to set it all on fire.
“How often?” I ask.
“A couple of times a week. More since…” She hesitates. “Since the senator’s wife.”
Of course. Mrs. Langford.
“Did you see his face?”
“Not really. He’s tall. Wore a hat. Kept his badge tucked inside his shirt like he knew where the cameras were.”
It’s enough. It’s more than enough.
“You did good,” I tell her. “Really good.”
Her mouth twists. “I hate all of this. Am I going to lose my job?”
“I know.” I squeeze her hand on the counter, tracking her chipped lavender nail polish as I do. “And no, of course not. And if something happens with the manager before we catch it, come to me. I will make sure you are placed wherever you want in the casino or resort.”
Then I glance toward the hall. Conrad’s still working on the manager, voice low and inaudible. Storm is in a doorway with one of the techs, all charm on the surface and steel underneath. Maverick has a masseuse laughing. And Atticus—he’s reappearing now, a folder in his hand, eyes sharp as blades.
I lift my fingers, signaling him over.
“Come here; show her the picture,” I say when he reaches us.
The receptionist nods as he pulls it out, already bracing herself. “Yeah,” she whispers. “That’s him.”
Atticus and I share a look. Finally, a crack in the wall. And this time, there are no secrets between us.
When my phone starts to vibrate, I pull it out and see it’s Conrad’s father calling. I turn slightly away while Atticus continues speaking to Rachel.
“Mr. Masterson.” I say as soon as I answer.
“I expected an update this morning, and did not receive one.” His voice cuts through, all business, like always.
“I’m sorry, sir. There was an issue here.” I debate on how much to tell this man that I hate. “I’ll have an email to you this evening.”
“Don’t bother,” he snaps. “Every family has a dynasty, Ms. Jones. You signed a contract tying you to the Titan empire, and I expect top performance from my employees.”
“Sir—” I try to get a word in. Panic is clawing its way up my spine. Does he mean I’m fired?
“No,” he snaps. “I’ll make arrangements, and you’ll come to me for a meeting. There are details that you failed to mention in your last report. Things that change the very basis for the contract in the first place.”
“How?” I manage. “You’re overseas.”
“That’s what private jets are for, Ms. Jones.”