Chapter Twenty
Darhg
The cabin sits in darkness like a tomb, and I'm the ghost haunting it.
I lean back in my weathered chair, the leather creaking under my weight as I stare at the cold black mouth of the fireplace.
The generator hums its low, monotonous song, but I've left all the electric lights off.
Only the dying embers cast their orange glow across the wide-plank floors, throwing dancing shadows that seem to mock me with their cheerfulness.
Three hours. It's been three hours since Senator Quinn fired me. Three hours since Rona told me to leave. Already the silence feels like it's trying to swallow me whole.
I know it’s my fault. I put Rona in this position by falling for her.
Still, even with all that happened, I can’t bring myself to regret any of it.
My hands shake as I reach for a glass of water on the coffee table. The liquid sloshes around in the low light, but I don't drink it. I can't seem to make my throat work properly. Instead, I just hold it, watching the firelight catch and fracture through the crystal.
The paint supplies still sit on the kitchen table exactly where she left them, arranged like offerings to a goddess who's been stolen away.
I close my eyes and immediately see Rona's face when she opened those art supplies.
The way her eyes lit up like I'd given her the stars themselves.
The soft gasp of wonder, the way she threw her arms around my neck and pressed her face against my throat.
Never in my life had I ever felt that whole. That happy.
"You did this for me," she'd whispered. Of course I did. I would do anything for her.
Even leave.
All I wanted was to keep her happy forever. I wanted every day of her life to be spent in bliss and comfort. I wanted to be the man who gave her that.
The empty cabin echoes with phantom sounds, her laughter from the kitchen, the soft pad of her feet across these same floors, the way she hummed while she cooked.
Everything here carries her scent, that sweet floral perfume mixed with my own musk, marking this space as ours in a way that makes my chest feel like it's caving in.
Mine. The word still echoes through my skull with brutal clarity. She’s my mate, and I failed to protect her.
The logical part of my brain knows it's not that simple. Knows she was protecting me as much as herself when she stayed silent while her mother threatened me. Knows the threat was real. Senator Quinn would have destroyed my career, made sure I never worked again if I'd fought back.
What Rona didn’t realize is that I would give my career, my money, my reputation away in a heartbeat to be with her. It would be the easiest decision I ever had to make.
The sound of tires on gravel cuts through my brooding, and I’m instantly on high alert. My body goes rigid, every instinct flaring to life even as my brain tries to process what I'm hearing.
It's not Rona. I know it’s not.
But hope is a stubborn thing, and it claws at my chest as I move to the window and peer through the frost-etched glass.
A small sedan I don't recognize sits in my driveway, its silver paint shining under the moonlight next to my black SUV. The driver's door opens, and a tall, slim figure unfolds himself from the cramped interior. Even in the darkness, I recognize the distinctive silhouette immediately.
Malcolm Bridgeman steps out into the cold night and casts a wide look around, his yellow eyes bright in the darkness. I can’t quite make out his expression in the distance and the dark, but I know it’s something close to disgust. Nature scenes are not really his thing.
Then I notice he's carrying a laptop bag, and that stubborn spark of hope in my chest rises up to life like a flare gun.
I open the door before he can knock, cold air rushing in to mix with the cabin's trapped warmth. Malcolm's pale-green hair is disheveled, his bright-yellow eyes wide with excitement.
"Oh, they’re good," he says without preamble, stamping snow off his boots as he pushes past me into the warmth. "But I’m better."
I close the door behind him, trying to wrangle my emotions into a semblance of order.
My pulse kicks up despite the numbness that's been clouding my thoughts for hours. "You found something."
"Found something?" Malcolm laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Darhg, I found everything! But this is big, man. This isn't just a simple tracking app. Someone used Asterion’s backend as a full surveillance system on Rona Quinn."
The words take a moment to penetrate the fog in my head. When they do, rage begins to build between my ribs like a slow fire.
“Explain.” When Malcolm’s eyes become fiery with excitement, I know I have to restrain him. “In plain language. No need to go into details.”
Malcolm seems a bit disappointed that I don’t want to get into the specifics, but he nods and sets his laptop on the kitchen table, shoving aside one of the paint tubes to make room.
"Someone with high-level access to Asterion Media Group has been tracking Rona's location through her phone," he explains, fingers flying over the keyboard. "But hear this, they didn’t just pin her location. No, they've been monitoring her calls, her texts, her app usage. Everything."
Anger makes my vision blur at the edges.
"How long?"
"A few weeks." Malcolm's expression is grim as he turns the laptop screen toward me. "Look at this."
He gestures theatrically as lines of code scroll across the display, meaningless to me but clearly damning to Malcolm. He points to specific entries, his voice taking on the rapid-fire pace he gets when he's excited about something most other people don’t even begin to grasp. Including me.
“This is the installation time stamp.” He points to a line of code with a date embedded into it.
The date is a week before the deepfake leak.
“But listen to this: the malware was planted with legitimate Asterion Safety admin credentials, meaning whoever did this has insider access to their systems. High-level access.”
A cold hand furrows up my spine, and the hair on my nape stands up. This is not what I expected.
I frown. “Why would someone within Asterion Media Group attack Rona Quinn?”
“That is the million-dollar question, my friend.” Malcolm shakes his head, his eyes glued to the screen.
She’s a young woman, graduating from college in a few months. It’s highly doubtful that she has any enemies. Making her a target makes no sense to me.
But she’s also the daughter of a powerful senator. What Rona lacks in enemies, her mother certainly makes up for. Senator Melissa Quinn certainly knows how to ruffle feathers.
"There's more," Malcolm continues, pulling up another screen. "Whoever did this needed not only an Asterion admin access, but access to Rona’s physical device as well. Or at least be close enough to send a short distance signal to her device."
My hands clench into fists so tight my knuckles crack. “So it’s definitely someone she knows?”
“Well, it’s someone who knows her, that’s for sure. It’s someone she wouldn’t mind being close to her.”
Anger churns in my gut and turns into rage. Cold, icy rage. This is personal, then.
"Can you trace it back to the source?"
Malcolm makes a face that tells me he’s been incredibly frustrated by that same question.
"They’ve been clever in hiding their tracks.
I’ve pulled my hair out trying to pin their IP address, but all I managed to do was run around in circles.
” He shakes his head, and his eyes narrow into slits.
“They’re either super genius, or they know Asterion inside and out like they programmed the app themselves. "
His fingers dance across the keys, pulling up more screens, and his slim face slips into a feral grin.
"But here's the interesting part. I can trigger an alarm on their phone when we're in close proximity."
I lock eyes with Malcolm as what he tells me registers.
“If we get close enough, you can turn their device into a beacon for us?”
“Yep,” Malcolm hoots. “And they won’t have a way to turn it off. It’ll just keep blasting and blasting.”
“You can do that?” I frown at him, honestly a bit frightened of the tech guy. He may be lanky and hate everything to do with nature and manual work, but it would be a mistake to underestimate him. He’s clever and ruthless.
“Oh, my friend.” Malcolm chuckles. “They’re good, alright. But I’m the best. Once I trap that asshole, I’m not letting go. I’ve even set a tracker on the beacon. I’ll follow them to the other side of the globe if I have to.”
The hollow ache in my chest transforms into something sharper, more purposeful. My mate has been harassed and exposed, but now I have a way to identify the person responsible for her pain.
And they won’t get any mercy from me.
"It has to be someone close to Rona," I say slowly, pieces clicking into place. "Someone with inside knowledge of both Asterion's systems and Senator Quinn's schedule."
The picture becomes clearer with each detail Malcolm reveals. This is coming from someone who knows her and she should be able to trust. It has to be coming from the senator’s immediate entourage.
And I'm going to find the bastard responsible.
Starting now.
"Get your gear. We’re leaving."
I move toward my coat hanging by the door, purpose crystallizing into action for the first time in hours.
"Absolutely. Just like old times!" Malcolm grins, the expression transforming his normally serious features into something almost feral. "Let’s go catch that mole."
"There's something I need you to understand," I tell Malcolm as I shrug into my coat. "This isn't about proving a point. This is about the woman I love. This is about protecting my mate."
“I get it.” Malcolm's expression sobers. "And for what it's worth, whoever did this is about to have a very bad day."
I pause with my hand on the door handle, looking back at the paint supplies still scattered across the kitchen table. They can wait a little longer. But justice? Justice can't wait another minute.
I’m coming, Rona.
I step out into the bitter night air, Malcolm beside me with his laptop bag clutched tight. Snow crunches under our boots as we make our way to my SUV, breath forming white clouds that dissipate immediately in the dry cold.
As I start the engine and back out of the driveway, one thought burns bright and clear in my mind. I made Rona a promise before I left that hotel room. I told her I would make this right.
Time to keep my word.