46. Emma
EMMA
The bleachers are cold beneath me, the metal biting through my jeans as I sit alone on the third row.
My old high school football field stretches out in front of me, empty and silent in the late afternoon light.
No practice today. No students. Just me and the ghosts of a life that feels like it belonged to someone else entirely.
I chose this location deliberately. Neutral ground that means something to me but nothing to Langford.
A place where I can control the variables, where the open space makes it harder for him to bring backup without being seen.
Where the acoustics will carry his voice perfectly to the hidden microphones Eduard’s tech team planted in the bleachers, under the benches, and even in the light posts surrounding the field.
My hands shake slightly, and I press them against my thighs to hide the tremor.
I’m nervous as hell, which pisses me off because I shouldn’t be.
I’ve faced down armed suspects, walked into gang territories alone, and survived being sold at a fucking auction.
But sitting here waiting for the man who was like a father to me, the man who betrayed me in the worst possible way, makes my stomach twist with anxiety and rage.
I force myself to breathe slowly, evenly. In through my nose, out through my mouth. The way they taught us at Quantico to manage stress during high-pressure situations.
Except this isn’t just high-pressure. This is personal.
My mind keeps circling back to yesterday, to Eduard’s announcement that still has my head spinning. The first ceremony would be Emma marrying the three of us. The words echo in my memory, impossible and terrifying and somehow not as crazy as they should be.
Marriage. To all three of them. The first bride ceremony restored to what it used to be, alliances sealed through willing participation instead of trafficking and exploitation.
I should have laughed in his face. Should have told him he was out of his mind. But instead, I’d just stood there, my heart pounding, while something warm and dangerous unfurled in my chest.
They want to marry me. Not because I’m useful or because I’m FBI or because I can help unite their families. They want me. The stubborn, broken, pregnant woman who walked into their lives in chains and refused to bow.
Pregnant.
My hand moves automatically to my stomach, pressing against the flat surface beneath my sweater. The baby is real, growing inside me right now, and I still haven’t told them. Haven’t found the words to explain that one of them is going to be a father and I don’t even know which one.
What happens when they find out? Will they still want this marriage? Will they be happy about the baby or see it as a complication they didn’t sign up for? Will they fight over who the father is, or will they somehow share that too?
The questions spiral through my mind, unanswered and terrifying.
A car engine cuts through my thoughts, and I look up to see a black sedan pulling into the parking lot. My pulse quickens as the vehicle stops near the entrance to the field. The driver’s door opens, and Victor Langford steps out.
He looks exactly the way I remember. Tall and distinguished with that silver-streaked hair and commanding presence that makes people trust him instinctively. He’s wearing a dark suit, perfectly tailored, with an American flag pin on his lapel. Everything about him screams credibility and authority.
Everything about him is a lie.
I watch him cross the field toward me, his movements unhurried and confident. His trained eyes scan the area, taking in the empty bleachers, the surrounding buildings, and the tree line beyond the fence. I know he’s looking for threats, for backup, for any sign this is a trap.
He’ll find them. Eduard, Artur, and Rurik refused to let me meet Langford alone, and this was the best compromise we could reach.
They’re positioned in three different locations around the field, close enough to intervene if things go wrong but far enough away that Langford might not immediately spot them.
Except Langford is too good not to notice. I see the moment his gaze catches on something near the equipment shed. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, but he doesn’t break stride. He knows he’s being watched and he’s choosing to proceed anyway.
That tells me everything I need to know about how confident he is in his ability to control this situation.
He reaches the bleachers and stops at the bottom, looking up at me with those warm brown eyes that used to make me feel safe. “Emma. It’s good to see you.”
The casual greeting makes rage flare hot in my chest, but I force it down. I need him calm and talking, not defensive.
“Victor,” I say, keeping my voice neutral.
He climbs the bleachers slowly, his movements deliberate as he checks under the benches, running his hands along the metal supports. Looking for recording devices. I watch him work, my heart pounding, praying he doesn’t find the microphones Eduard’s team planted.
When he reaches my row, he gestures to the space beside me. “May I?”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
Langford sits down, close enough that I can smell his cologne. The familiar scent makes my stomach turn. He reaches toward me, and I tense automatically.
“I need to check,” he says quietly. “You understand.”
I stand and let him pat me down, his hands professional and efficient as they check for wires, weapons, or recording devices. He finds nothing because I’m not wearing any. The wire is hidden in the collar of my jacket, so small and sophisticated that his sweep misses it completely.
Eduard’s tech team really is exceptional. I wish we’d had this kind of equipment in the FBI.
Satisfied, Langford steps back and gestures for me to sit again. I do, my entire body tense as he settles beside me.
For a long moment, neither of us speak. We just sit there on the bleachers of my old high school, two people who used to trust each other completely now separated by betrayal so deep it feels like a physical wound.
“I’m glad you reached out,” Langford says finally, his voice warm and concerned. “When you disappeared, I feared the worst.”
The lie is so smooth, so practiced, that if I didn’t know better, I’d believe him. “Did you?”
His expression shifts to something that might be genuine regret if I didn’t know what he’d done. “Of course. You were one of my best agents, Emma. Losing you was devastating.”
“Devastating enough to declare me dead and close my case within days?” The words come out sharper than I intend.
Langford’s jaw tightens, but his voice stays calm. “The evidence suggested you’d been killed. We had no leads, no witnesses, and no body. Keeping the case open would have been a waste of resources.”
“Bullshit.” I turn to face him fully, letting him see the fury in my eyes. “You knew exactly what happened to me. You set me up.”
For a heartbeat, I think he’s going to deny it. Then something shifts in his expression, the warm concern replaced by cold calculation. “You’re recording this conversation.”
It’s not a question.
“No,” I lie smoothly. “You just patted me down. You checked the bleachers. There’s nothing here.”
Langford studies my face, and I force myself to hold his gaze without flinching. After a long moment, he nods slowly. “Then we can speak freely.”
My pulse quickens. This is it. This is where he either confesses or walks away and everything we’ve planned falls apart.
“Why did you do it?” I ask quietly. “Why did you sell me out?”
Langford leans back against the bleacher behind us, his posture relaxed despite the tension crackling between us. “Because you were getting too close to something you didn’t understand. Something bigger than one trafficking network.”
“The auction,” I say.
“The auction is just one piece.” His voice is calm, almost professorial, like he’s explaining a case study instead of his own corruption.
“The network intersects with senators, defense contractors, and intelligence operations that span multiple countries. Exposure would collapse federal funding channels we’ve spent decades building. ”
My stomach drops. It’s nothing we haven’t already suspected, but hearing the admission still stings. “You’re protecting politicians who use the auction.”
“I’m protecting national security.” Langford’s tone hardens. “The men who participate in those networks provide intelligence, funding, and political leverage we can’t get through official channels. They’re assets, Emma. Valuable ones.”
“They’re criminals who buy and sell women like property.”
“They’re necessary evils in a world that doesn’t operate on idealism.” He turns to look at me, and there’s something almost pitying in his expression. “You were always too idealistic. Too focused on individual justice to see the bigger picture.”
The words hit like a slap. “So you sold me to them. Damage control.”
“It was nothing personal.” Langford’s voice softens slightly. “I hoped you’d disappear quietly. That whoever bought you would keep you contained, maybe even turn you into an asset yourself. I never expected you to survive.”
The admission steals my breath. He’d expected me to die. Hoped for it, even, because it would be cleaner than having to deal with me as a loose end.
“You were like a father to me,” I whisper, my voice breaking despite my effort to stay controlled.
Something flickers across Langford’s face. Regret, maybe. Or just discomfort at being confronted with the human cost of his decisions. “I know. And I’m sorry it had to be you. But when you started investigating the auction, you became a threat I couldn’t ignore.”
“So you used Cole’s credentials to access my files. You fed my location to the auction organizers. You made sure my backup never arrived.” Each accusation comes out flat and cold.
Langford doesn’t deny any of it. “Yes.”
The single word hangs between us, final and damning.
My entire body shakes with rage and grief. This is the man who held my hand at my parents’ funeral. Who encouraged me to join the FBI. Who praised my work and supported my career. And he sold me to criminals without a second thought because I threatened his carefully constructed web of corruption.
I stand slowly, my legs unsteady beneath me. Langford watches me with those calm brown eyes, probably already calculating his next move.
“Got that?” I say clearly, my hand moving to touch the hidden microphone in my jacket.
Langford’s eyes widen, genuine shock breaking through his controlled facade. “What—”
Before he can finish, movement catches my attention near the equipment shed. A figure steps into view, walking toward us across the empty field with steady, purposeful strides.
Not Eduard. Not Artur. Not Rurik.
An FBI agent in full tactical gear, his badge visible even from this distance.