Chapter 23
JADE
The relentless vibration of my phone on the glass nightstand carves its way directly into my light, restless sleep.
I toss my head to the side, blinking against the harsh sunlight flooding through the gaps in the heavy curtains, and grope blindly for the device.
My fingers brush the cool glass, grip the edge, and pull the phone under the warm duvet.
One look at the lit display is enough to send my pulse from zero to a hundred. Tom Collins.
My editor-in-chief never calls at six on a Monday morning just to check on my well-being. A call from Collins always means trouble. I sit bolt upright in bed, pushing a stray hair from my face and clearing my throat to scrape the sleep from my voice.
"Sterling," I answer, forcing a wakeful, professional tone.
"Jade. Tell me why my inbox looks like a goddamn desert," Collins barks into the receiver without warning or greeting. In the background, I hear the typical clatter of keyboards and the muffled shouting from the Chronicle’s open-plan newsroom. "We’ve keyed next month’s entire cover story to this feature.
The layout team is holding twenty pages for you.
And what do I get? Nothing. A giant black hole. "
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, the soft carpet under my bare soles. Tension tightens like a heavy rubber band around my chest. "I’m on it, Tom. I’m gathering the material. Miller isn't a guy who shows his hand in the first hour."
"You’ve been stationed there for exactly one week," he cuts me off harshly, the impatient clicking of his pen coming through loudly.
"A full week, Sterling. In my world, that means I should have seven detailed updates on my desk.
A brief progress report every morning. Instead, I get radio silence.
No status, no rough structure, not a single transcribed quote. How is it really going?"
I stand up and begin to pace restlessly between the massive wardrobe and the floor-to-ceiling window.
My mind searches feverishly for an answer that doesn't sound like a total loss of control.
"Everything is on schedule," I lie. "I’m accompanying him to games; we’re doing the interviews in his library.
I have mountains of notes on the stadium deal, his past, and the plans for the Royals. "
Collins snorts contemptuously. "That’s boring PR fluff, Jade.
I can get that from press releases or Hayes’ company.
I need the man behind the mask. I need the dirt, the friction, the real emotions.
And above all, I need something goddamn written from you.
Your answers sound like memorized phrases from Miller’s PR team.
Are you out of your depth with this assignment? "
Screw you, you arrogant bastard, I think, but say nothing. I stop in the middle of the room, pressing the phone to my ear so hard the plastic hurts. Out of my depth. I don't want to admit it, but he hasn't even the slightest clue how accurately he’s hitting the nail on the head.
"I’m not out of my depth," I squeeze out through gritted teeth. I force my legs to move again to burn off the rising panic. "I’m digging deep. Miller shuts down if you go too fast. He builds a wall the moment he doesn't like a question. I have to be tactical to get the real answers out of him."
"Then change your tactics," Collins demands relentlessly.
His volume rises noticeably. "I’m not paying you for a vacation in a Westmount villa.
I want results. By tomorrow afternoon, you will have a solid draft uploaded to the server.
Three thousand words. The thread, the first sharp quotes, the direction the profile is taking.
If that draft isn't on my monitor tomorrow, I’m pulling you from the project and sending someone with the teeth for this story. Are we clear?"
"The draft will be on your server tomorrow," I answer, not knowing if I can keep that promise.
"Don't screw up this story for me, Sterling," he warns one last time before abruptly hanging up.
I take the phone from my ear and stare at the dark screen. The threatening silence of the massive guest room crashes back down on me. I let my arm drop and toss the device onto the rumpled sheets of my bed.
Are you out of your depth? A joyless, bitter laugh escapes my throat. My hands go to my face, rubbing my burning eyes. My entire life is so overwhelming right now that I barely know which way is up.
My father is fading away in a locked ward, probably not even recognizing my mother’s face anymore—my mother, who is literally breaking under the weight of the new care bills.
My editor is threatening to fire me from the most important job of my career, the one that’s supposed to pay those bills.
And at night, I lose myself willingly in the arms of the man I’ve been fleeing for twelve years, only to hurl the worst accusations at him the next morning out of sheer panic and drive him from his own house.
I turn and look into the large wall mirror. The woman staring back looks pale and exhausted. No makeup in the world can hide the dark shadows under my eyes.
Cayden was gone without a trace for the rest of yesterday. After our disastrous fight in the library, he left the estate and didn't return, even late in the evening.
Parker and I spent the evening in the massive private cinema room on the ground floor.
The screen took up almost the entire wall, the audio of the hockey documentary series thundering from hidden speakers, making the deep armchairs vibrate slightly.
Parker was wrapped in a thick blanket, a huge bowl of salty popcorn on his lap, staring captivated at the pros' fast plays.
But his concentration was repeatedly broken by glances toward the heavy oak door. He chewed on his lower lip, shifting restlessly on the soft leather of the cinema seat, waiting for a sound from the hallway.
When the episode ended and the credits rolled, he finally set the popcorn bowl on the small side table.
"Where is Mr. Miller, anyway?" he’d asked, and the quiet disappointment in his voice gave me a sting that was painful.
I’d sat up in my chair, pulling the blanket around my legs to hide the slight trembling of my knees. The taste of my own life-lie was bitter on my tongue.
"He’s away on business, sweetheart," I’d replied, trying incredibly hard to make my tone sound casual. "He got an urgent call and had to meet some investors. The stadium project takes up a lot of time."
Parker had knit his brow into deep furrows—a gesture he inherited exactly from the man who was likely sitting at some bar right then, trying to drown our fight in high-proof alcohol.
"Even on Sundays?" my son had pushed back. "People don't work on Sunday nights."
"Yes, even on Sundays," I’d confirmed, turning my gaze to the now-dark screen because I couldn't face his big blue eyes in that moment. "Men in his position are never really off the clock. They always have to be available."
I’d lied straight to his face to cover my own mistakes. Cayden wasn't working. He wasn't with investors. He’d fled from me because I can't handle my own emotions.
I forcibly tear myself away from the memory and switch into work mode. Collins wants a draft. I need a watertight document of journalistic facts that proves I’m doing my job.
I go into the adjacent bathroom, turn on the cold water, and splash it hard into my face several times. The shock wears off, replaced by a new energy. I rub my face with a fluffy towel, slip into slim jeans and a cream-colored sweater.
As I step into the hallway, the crushing silence of the villa greets me.
Henry drove Parker to school downtown over an hour ago.
Cayden is almost certainly not in the house.
There’s only the distant, barely perceptible hum of the vacuum cleaner Helena is using somewhere in the west wing.
These giant, empty walls feel like they’re moving closer every minute.
I have to get out of here. I need a change of scenery before I sit at my laptop and try to turn the wreckage of my notes into a readable draft. I need loud street noises, strangers, normal coffee in a paper cup. I reach for my phone and scroll hastily through my contacts.
My finger stops at Hailey’s name.
The thought of the pact and my double betrayal makes me hesitate, but the sheer desperation of suffocating in this house outweighs it. Hailey is my anchor and the living proof that there is life outside this isolated billionaire bubble.
I press the green call icon. It only rings twice before she picks up.
"Jade!" she answers, her cheerful voice a sharp contrast to my internal destruction. In the background, I hear the sound of tires on wet asphalt. "Please tell me you have half an hour for me. I’m standing in front of a shop window and urgently need a second opinion on a pair of boots."
A genuine, deep exhale escapes my lips, and the tension in my shoulders loosens just a fraction. "Hailey. You’re my last hope."
"That sounds like you just escaped a burning building," she notes immediately, the laughter in her voice giving way to attentive concern. "What happened? Did my big brother finally drive you insane?"
"Collins called me at the crack of dawn and gave me hell," I skillfully dodge the actual truth, steering the focus to my job. "He wants to see a draft by tomorrow, and I have major writer’s block. The walls in this villa are crushing me. Parker is at school, and I desperately need a distraction."
"Then get your coat and get over here," Hailey orders without hesitation. "We’re pushing that article far away for a few hours. We’ll meet on Sainte-Catherine Street. We’ll drink overpriced coffee, do some excessive shopping therapy, and talk trash about Collins until you feel better. That’s an order from your best friend."
"That’s the best plan I’ve heard all week," I reply, and for the first time this morning, a small, grateful smile creeps onto my face. "I’m on my way. Send me your location."
"Already doing it. Hurry up before someone snatches these boots from under my nose!"
The call ends. I tuck the phone back into my pocket, grab my black coat, and slip into my flat ankle boots.
As I walk down the wide staircase, that inner voice speaks up again, asking how much longer I can keep this whole tower of lies standing.
Because fleeing into the city is just a tiny bandage on a major wound.
I know perfectly well that I’ll have to return to my desk in this villa by afternoon.
I know I’ll have to look Cayden in the eye sooner or later.
And above all, I know I’ll be lying to Hailey all morning while we walk through the shops.
But for the next few hours, I’ll cling to the illusion of normalcy. I push open the heavy front door, step out into the fresh, cool Montreal air, and leave Cayden Miller’s golden cage behind for a moment.