Chapter 8 Cybil
Cybil
Dallas, Texas
Tuesday afternoon
“You sure you’re not just stalking your childhood boyfriend because you secretly want to marry him?”
I glare at Joy Lockhart, who’s slouched dramatically in the passenger seat of my car, one leg kicked up on the dash like we’re
not parked on a busy street mid-stakeout.
“Not boyfriend,” I say between gritted teeth. “Friend. And that’s being generous.”
Joy pops a chocolate-covered almond in her mouth, unbothered. “Is he cute?”
My body betrays me. Heat creeps up my neck as the memory of Ben in a tuxedo flashes back—broad shoulders, sharp jawline, a
smirk that, against all logic, still felt a little like home.
“Irrelevant,” I say, turning my attention back to the towering glass and steel building I’ve been staring at for almost an
hour. It gleams in the sun, a futuristic monster among the older brick buildings on Elm Street, promising luxury, power, and
bottled water that probably costs twelve dollars. And within this fortress of wealth is AJ Finance and its villain—Craig freaking Miller.
“So . . . not cute. Hot,” Joy teases, elbowing me.
“Maybe bringing you was a bad idea.”
“Aw, come on.” She holds up the bag of candy. “I brought snacks.”
“And not enough caffeine for this conversation,” I grumble, covering a yawn. “Hand them over.”
She pours a handful of candy into her palm before handing me the bag like I’m two seconds from setting the building on fire.
Honestly, I might.
Is sleep deprivation a reasonable excuse for arson?
This is why I dragged my most loyal and sarcastic best friend here. Because after four miserable hours of sleep, there’s no
telling what I might convince myself to do without adult supervision.
“How long did you google him last night?” Joy asks, chewing thoughtfully.
“Too long,” I groan, letting my head thump against the headrest. “Searched social media. Court records. Even considered paying
one of those creepy ‘find anyone’ websites.”
“And?”
“And nothing. Nada. Zilch. It’s like he doesn’t exist.”
“Hot, mysterious finance ghost,” Joy says, voice chipper.
I ignore her. If I wanted the truth about Bennett Bradley, one call to Athena would give me everything I needed. But I’m not
ready for that conversation. Not until I get some clarity on why the boy I used to know is lying about who he is.
It’s the question that kept me up all night. The question that had me spending hours digging through the old photo albums
my aunt Renee gave me after every summer spent on the ranch.
Growing up, moving constantly with my mom, we didn’t have much that couldn’t be crammed into the back of a car or borrowed
pickup. Those albums were my proof that, at least for a little while, I belonged somewhere.
It surprised me how quickly the images made the memories come alive—and the emotions too. Especially the memories of Ben.
How I didn’t like him. Until . . . I did. Until like turned into a hopeless teenage crush that had me believing, for one stupid second, that maybe he felt the same way.
It’s been more than a decade since that last summer, since that night.
Ben asked me to meet him there—at the oak tree, the one in the west pasture, where he first teased me about falling off a
fence post and then offered his hand like it meant something. That day, I thought he was going to tell me he liked me. That
our childhood teasing had somehow turned into flirting and that maybe it meant we could be something. I wore my nicest sundress,
the one with little blue flowers that I was saving for graduation the following year. I was two seconds away from believing
in a different future.
But then I overheard him.
Ben laughing with Rex, saying something stupid. Something careless. “You think I’m into her? Come on, Rex. She’s a mess. Reckless.”
It was so long ago, but I remember everything about that moment—where I was standing, the ache in my chest, the heat behind
my eyes. I didn’t go to the tree. I told myself it didn’t matter. That he would’ve broken my heart eventually anyway. And
since that night, I let his words fuel my focus.
So no—Ben Bradley is not my childhood boyfriend. He’s the boy who taught me that love is something you have to earn. And it’s
why I don’t trust him.
Somewhere around three in the morning, after too many memories and too many feelings I thought I had buried, I stuffed the
albums under my bed. Out of sight, out of mind.
Or so I told myself.
I woke up this morning, went to work, organized Mr. Edmond’s schedule for the day, including two investor meetings and a site
inspection, and flagged contracts for his lawyer to look over. And then Mr. Edmond handed me a file with financial service
authorizations he wanted me to scan and archive. Nothing revealing. Nothing criminal. Except for Craig freaking Miller’s name listed as an outside consultant. And here I am.
“Craig freaking Miller,” I say again.
“Maybe he’s in WITSEC,” Joy says deadpan, like she’s already planning to testify at my competency hearing. “New identity.
Terrible name. Very on-brand for you.”
“He’s not in witness protection.” I roll my eyes. “And if he was, he wouldn’t be living in Texas, and he certainly wouldn’t pick Craig freaking Miller as his alias.”
Joy hums, unimpressed. “I mean, if the goal was to sound aggressively boring, mission accomplished.”
“He did it to annoy me,” I mutter, glaring at the glass revolving doors, willing Bennett Bradley to dare step a foot outside.
“And I hate him for it. And who does he think he is”—my voice jumps an octave—“posing like some big-shot financial advisor,
schmoozing the wealthy, and then looking at me like I’m the one who doesn’t belong?”
Joy flicks an almond at my lap. “You’re spiraling. Eat that before you start quoting Taylor Swift lyrics.”
I stuff the almond in my mouth. It doesn’t help.
“I just— He was never the corporate type,” I grumble. “Why finance of all things?”
We sit quietly, watching people hustle in and out of the building. My lunch break is ticking away fast. Another five minutes
pass. Ben still doesn’t appear.
I slump lower in my seat and mutter, “Maybe he doesn’t eat lunch.”
Then Joy straightens with a wicked grin. “I’ve got it,” she says. “Order Uber Eats to the lobby under his name. He’ll have
to come down to get it. And you”—she points dramatically at me—“you intercept the delivery. Instant confrontation.”
I blink at her. “That’s . . . brilliant.”
She shrugs. “I know.”
Excitement surges through me. I open the app, order a sandwich under “Craig Miller” from the closest restaurant, and sit back,
heart thundering. This is it. This is how I get answers. Not feelings. Not clarity on why Ben’s infuriating smirk still makes
my pulse jump. Nope. Definitely not thinking about him. I’m cool. Calm. This is peak professional focus. I’m like a Bond girl
if she had student loans and an overactive conscience.
“It’s kind of cute,” Joy says. “You know—classic enemies-to-lovers story.”
I wrinkle my nose. “If by cute you mean the time he released my aunt and uncle’s deranged rooster in my bedroom, then yes.
Total fairy tale.”
A sharp laugh bursts from Joy’s lips, which to her credit she quickly covers with her hand across her mouth, but the laughter is swimming in her expression.
“It’s not funny,” I grumble, fighting my own smile at the memory. “Kentucky Fried showed no mercy coming after us kids. He—”
“Kentucky Fried?” Joy squeaks between her fingers, and that’s it. She doubles over in laughter and it’s contagious. I’m laughing,
too, even though nothing about my aunt and uncle’s deranged rooster is comical. I still have nightmares, but it feels good
to laugh.
“Have I told you about my new book?”
Relief washes over me. Books are a safe subject. One I’m happy to discuss as opposed to the unsafe topic of Ben. Ben freaking Bradley. Yep. It works that way too.
“So this book . . .” Joy’s lip quirks and I recognize my mistake immediately. She doesn’t give up that easily. “It’s about
jungle warfare and there’s a section on psychological methods for information extraction.”
“Fascinating,” I deadpan.
She stares at me. I stare at her. It’s a showdown and I refuse to bend.
Joy shrugs. “Fine. If you don’t want to tell me that Ben was the love of your life. The one who got away. The one who broke
your heart. The one you’ve been praying about . . .” Her eyes sparkle and mine begin to twitch. “The one you thought you lost
forever but who has now returned and—”
My phone buzzes with a notification that the Uber driver is arriving—perfect timing.
“It’s time,” Joy says, her tone flat like a mafia boss giving final orders. “Ready?”
“Yes. No,” I say, suddenly unsure of the plan. “I don’t know.”
A chocolate-covered almond hits my forehead.
“Hey!” I rub the spot and then grab the candy from my lap and pop it into my mouth. “We don’t waste chocolate.”
She turns to me, voice low and dead serious. “March over there. Be polite. Be direct. Be the reason he needs therapy.”
I huff out a laugh. It’s wildly irresponsible advice. It’s also exactly what I need. I get out of the car, square my shoulders, and march toward the building like I have a plan. I’m crossing the parking lot just as the Uber driver pulls up to the curb.
Or attempts to. A man in a yellow vest waves him forward, giving me a chance to push through the revolving doors and get inside
the building first. A minute later, the driver walks in, brown paper bag in hand, and heads toward the security directory
desk.
I’m at a safe distance not to be noticed but close enough to catch bits of the conversation. A phone call is placed by the
security officer, and he frowns. Not expecting lunch, Craig? A back-and-forth conversation takes place between the security guard and the driver before the driver sets the bag on the
desk and leaves. The security guard nods and hangs up the phone, and I hope that means Craig is on his way down.
The elevator opens with a ding. And out walks Ben. Laughing. With a woman. Not just any woman—a beautiful woman. Polished.
Confident. Looking like everything I’m not.
Ben says something and they share a laugh like they’ve done it a thousand times. My stomach sinks. Hard.
Abort mission. Abort now.
I spin around quickly, ducking my chin and heading straight for the revolving door. And this is where the universe decides
to humble me. I misjudge the timing—completely—thinking I can slip through without waiting. I can’t.
The revolving door smacks me square in the shoulder, spins me backward, and traps me inside one of the glass compartments
like a very confused hamster. I panic and push. Too hard. The door lurches. The person behind me yelps. The entire mechanism
shudders on its axis and stops moving.
I’m stuck.
Inside a clear, spinning tomb of shame.
Through the glass, I see Ben turning at the commotion—brows furrowed, steps slowing, definitely noticing.
“No,” I hiss under my breath.
Panic kicks my adrenaline into overdrive.
I wedge my shoulder into the frame and shove the door manually with everything I’ve got.
It moves inches—but it’s enough. With one final, desperate twist of my body, I squeeze through the tight space and hurl myself out of the revolving door.
I stumble onto the sidewalk, breathless, hair sticking to my forehead, dignity shredded into fine confetti.
“Cybil?”
Nope. Nope. Nope.
I bolt.
“Cybil!”
Ignoring Ben’s voice calling after me, I fix my gaze on Joy. She sees me and frantically waves her hands in big slicing motions
warning me, Don’t come back here! And immediately slides down in her seat like she’s trying to pretend she doesn’t know me.
“Cybil, wait—”
Ben’s voice carries, confused and way too close. Panic fires through me. I need to get away from here. I take off down the
sidewalk, narrowly missing a man carrying a tray of iced coffees, and duck into the first place I see—a busy restaurant, packed
with lunch-hour chaos.
Heads turn. Silverware clatters. I jolt to a stop, paste on a smile, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. Calmly,
I breeze past the hostess stand, radiating the energy of someone who definitely has a lunch reservation and is definitely
not fleeing the scene of her own public humiliation.
Behind the bar, I spot a hallway, the blessed Restrooms sign, and make a break for it. I push through the swinging door into
the women’s restroom. A quick scan of the open stall doors and I slump back against the cool tile wall, gasping for breath.
This is fine.
Everything’s fine.
This was all part of the plan.