Chapter Twenty-Eight
Nikolai
I run a hand through my hair as I scan through my inbox. Unread emails stack up in neat, color-coded rows—meeting summaries, status reports, financial projections. Most of them aren’t urgent. Some are flagged by my father’s assistant for review.
And then there’s an email from Byron. No subject. No message. Just an attachment.
I exhale through my nose, clicking it open. More files. Printed copies of them are already stacked neatly on my desk, like someone dropped them off earlier.
They’re nothing urgent, either—just work. Busywork.
But intentional, knowing my father.
I flip through them, frowning. There’s no clear reason for these to be on my desk. It feels like a test.
Or a distraction.
I still have the conversation with my father lingering in the back of my mind. His words have been circling in my head like a noose.
“This is the first step.”
The first step toward what? I still don’t know.
And that’s what bothers me most. Byron doesn’t waste words.
He doesn’t make empty threats. He tells you exactly what you need to know—no more, no less.
So, when he said it’s the first step, it wasn’t just to rattle me.
It was because something was already happening.
I just don’t know what.
I glance down at the files again, flipping a page over. Are these connected? Are they a hint? A warning? Or am I reading into nothing?
A muscle in my jaw tightens at the irritation of being kept in the dark.
The door swings open, and I glance up.
Dawn.
She doesn’t hesitate as she steps inside, her fingers curled around her phone. Her expression is neutral, but there’s something beneath it. She tilts her head slightly. “Hey.”
I rest my elbow on the desk, rubbing my fingers against my jaw. “Hey. Here to work today?”
She gives a small smile, shaking her head. “Not quite.”
I lean back in my chair, watching her as she moves closer. She looks fine. Relaxed, even. But there’s something in the way she keeps her grip on her phone. “What have you been up to?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Not much. Just... noticing things.” She glances toward the windows, then back at me. “Everyone in the building seems overly energetic today.”
I glance past her toward the glass walls, observing the movement outside my office. She’s not wrong. There’s an edge of restlessness in the air today. But that’s to be expected after the election.
I exhale, rolling my shoulders. “Yeah. I’ve been catching up on a lot since I’ve spent most of my time with you, lately. You can only do so much work from home.”
She nods, a small crease forming between her brows. “Listen, I have something I want to show you.”
I lean forward, my focus narrowing on her.
She holds up her phone. “I don’t think this is right.”
I take Dawn’s phone from her, my eyes scanning the screen. At first glance, the website looks normal—Luke’s campaign homepage, the familiar branding and color scheme all in place. But the longer I stare, the more I notice the gaps.
Entire pages missing. Sections stripped. The subtle, unsettling realization sinks in my chest.
I pull out my own phone and type in the campaign URL, my thumb hovering over the search bar for a fraction of a second before hitting enter.
The same thing.
A sharp exhale leaves me as I set my phone down and reach for my laptop. Maybe it’s an issue with the mobile version of the site. Maybe his team is restructuring, clearing outdated content, preparing for some kind of rebrand.
I search through the website.
More pages disappear before my eyes.
Not just outdated ones. Not archived event listings.
Press releases. Statements. Policy stances.
A slow, cold tension reels in my spine. My fingers stiffen over the trackpad as I scroll back, searching and verifying. The site isn’t just changing. It’s being wiped.
I lean back, inhaling deeply through my nose, forcing my expression to stay impassive even as my pulse ticks in my throat.
This isn’t a delay. It’s deliberate.
Someone is taking him apart. Piece by piece. Scrubbing his digital presence.
I pick up my phone again and dial. The line rings twice before a clipped voice answers, “Yes, sir?”
I keep my tone flat, controlled. “I need to know what’s going on with Luke Carter’s digital assets. His campaign website. Any information under his name.”
A pause. It sets off an alarm bell in my head.
I shift slightly, fingers gripping the edge of the desk.
“I’m not sure what you mean, sir.” The voice on the other end says. Even through the line, I can hear the careful neutrality in their tone. A deliberate choice.
My grip tightens against my desk. “I think you do.”
Another pause. Longer this time. Measured.
They’re deciding what to tell me.
My eyes flick to Dawn. She hasn’t moved, her hands lay neatly in front of her as she watches me, waiting. There’s no fear in her expression—at least, not yet. Just expectation. She thinks I’ll have answers. That I’ll be able to explain this away, make sense of it.
I pinch the space between my brows, inhaling slowly. “Find out. Call me back in five.”
I hang up before they can stall again.
The office is quiet for a moment. But I turn my gaze toward Dawn. She’s waiting patiently.
“It’s not a glitch.” I sigh.
Her brows pull together. “So, what is it?”
I exhale, gripping my phone a little tighter. “They’re erasing him.”
She doesn’t react at first. She just stands there. Gripping her phone. Brows drawn together as the words settle. Slowly, she sighs, shaking her head slightly. “What does that mean?” Her voice isn’t sharp or demanding. It’s quieter. Uncertain.
I watch her for a moment, the slight crease between her brows, the tension in her shoulders. That worried look in her eyes.
I want to pull her into me, tilt her chin up, tell her not to look at me like that. But we’re in my office. I can’t.
Instead, I shift, resting my hands against the desk. “It means what it sounds like.”
She swallows. “You mean—like deleting files? Covering things up?”
I shake my head. “Not just that.”
Her fingers tighten around her phone. “Then, what?”
I exhale, glancing toward the window before settling my gaze back on her.
My voice lowers. “When someone becomes a problem, Blackthorn doesn’t just make them disappear.
We erase them. Digitally. Legally. Publicly.
We strip away every trace of them—business records, financials, digital footprints, articles, media connections.
” I pause, choosing my next words carefully. “That was my job.”
Her breath hitches slightly.
I continue, keeping my voice even, controlled. “My father handled where they were sent physically. I never asked, and he never told me.”
Dawn takes a slow step back, like she’s putting the pieces together in real time. “So—what? Luke’s being erased?”
I run a hand through my hair. “It’s worse than that.”
She swallows. “What do you mean?”
I exhale. “When Blackthorn erases someone, they don’t do it overnight.
It’s a slow process. Strategic. You don’t make someone vanish—you make them forgettable.
You start by reducing mentions, pulling their name from articles, removing photos from websites.
Then you control the narrative. Replace them with someone else.
Eventually, when people look back, it’s like they were never there to begin with. ”
Dawn stares at me. Silent. For a second, I see the cracks in her composure. The subtle way her fingers twitch, the shift in her breath.
I want to close the space between us. I want to hold her, smooth my thumb over the tension in her face.
But I just watch her.
Finally, she exhales. “So where do they go?”
I lean back. “Like I said, that was always Byron’s job. I never knew. And this time—” I tap my knuckles lightly against my desk. “No one has told me anything at all.”
She presses a hand against her stomach, looking away. Then, after a long moment, “I need to find him.”
I knew that was coming. I exhale through my nose, dragging a hand over my face. “Dawn—”
“I can’t just sit here, Nikolai.” She cuts in, her voice sharper now. “I need answers.”
I study her, watching the way she stands taller, even as her pulse beats visibly at her throat. She’s terrified. But she’s not backing down.
My strong girl.
I lean forward slightly, resting my elbows on my desk, choosing my next words. “If you start digging, you might not like what you find.”
Her jaw tightens. “I don’t care.”
I let out a long exhale, running my hands through my hair. I should’ve seen this coming. All of it. The signs were there—my father’s silence, the tension in the last meeting, the photos given as a power move.
I thought I had more time.
I press my tongue against my teeth, voice quieter when I speak again. “If we do this, it will be dangerous.”
Her arms cross, chin tilting up, full of strength and defiance. “I don’t care about dangerous.”
I huff a quiet, humorless laugh. Of course she doesn’t.
She stares at me. Waiting.
I could tell her to let it go. To back off.
But I don’t.
Instead, I meet her eyes, keeping my voice low and steady. “Then we do this carefully.”