Chapter 9 Cybil
Cybil
Dallas, Texas
Tuesday afternoon
“What was I thinking?”
I should’ve stayed at work. Skipped lunch. Or at the very least, taken my lunch at the bookstore like I always do. But no,
I had to do a stakeout. Like some low-budget spy movie heroine with a bag of chocolate-covered almonds and a best friend who
was supposed to talk me down—not double-tap the Like button on my bad idea.
Now I’m hiding in a restaurant bathroom like a deranged woman running from a bad Tinder date. I check the stalls again, making
sure they’re empty, then brace both hands on the counter. My reflection is a mess of panic and regret. My hair has half fallen
out of its twist, my blouse is wrinkled from trying to wedge myself through the revolving door, and I’m pretty sure I pulled
a muscle in my calf.
“This can’t be happening.” Twenty-four hours ago, I was focused. Undercover. Strategically feeding intel to Athena about my
boss’s shady business associates. My mission was clear—track leads, stay invisible, gather evidence. Now? Now everything is
tilting sideways because Ben Bradley popped back up in my life like the devil in cuff links, threatening every ounce of emotional
stability I thought I had left.
Well done, Cybil. Really crushing the adulting thing.
My nerves are fraying. I spin the ring around my thumb, trying to ground myself before I, as Joy so politely pointed out earlier, spiral. Breathe, Cybil. The ring pops off with a soft ping and clatters across the tile.
“Seriously?” I hiss, dropping to my hands and knees to scramble after it.
The door creaks behind me.
“You okay?”
My gaze jerks upward to find Ben standing in the women’s bathroom, arms folded across his chest, staring down at me with that
aggravating smirk.
I shoot to my feet, ring clutched in my fist. “What are you doing here?” I whisper-scream. “You can’t be in here. It’s harassment.
Trespassing. Emotional distress—none of it felonious yet, but give me time.”
“It’s a misdemeanor at best,” he says, unfolding his arms and slipping his hands into his pockets. “And if we’re talking crimes,
I could argue you’re the one committing them. Stalking me? If you wanted to grab lunch, you could’ve just called my assistant and set up an appointment.”
“I wasn’t stalking you,” I say immediately, slipping the ring back on my thumb. “I was—on my lunch break.”
He doesn’t even try to hide his grin. “In the revolving door?”
I lift my chin. “Getting steps in.”
“Weak alibi.”
“I don’t need an alibi because I wasn’t stalking you.”
“Okay, okay.” He raises his hands in mock surrender. “I believe you.”
Then he winks—and I swear, swear, if looks could kill, the DA would already be filing paperwork.
I glare at him. “I forgot how annoying you are.”
I wash my hands, hoping Ben will take the hint and leave. No such luck. I glance at the mirror. He’s still there, leaning
casually against the wall like he’s not breaking rules of social decorum by being in here.
“What are you doing?” I ask again, quieter this time.
“I told you,” he says, voice gentle. “I wanted to check on you.”
The sincerity in his voice brushes too close to something I’ve tried hard to bury—the version of us that almost existed, once. I snap the faucet off, needing the sound to stop, needing him to stop being so . . . him.
“No,” I say, too sharp. I grab a paper towel. “What are you doing, Ben?”
He exhales and rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t know you worked for Earl Edmond.”
I blink, caught off guard. “What does that have to do with anything?”
He doesn’t answer fast enough.
“You said your name is Craig Miller,” I say through gritted teeth. “Craig freaking Miller.”
One corner of his mouth lifts. Smug. Always smug.
“It’s not funny,” I growl. “Do you even know who you’re lying to?”
His smile fades. “I’m not lying.”
My mouth opens to argue, but he holds up both hands.
“Not entirely,” he amends. “I work with high-net-worth clients. Privacy is everything. The alias protects them.”
I blink. “You’re serious?”
“People like discretion more than dividends. My clients can’t have their names tied to certain deals—lawsuits, regulators,
rivals. So we use aliases. Trusts. Shell corps. It keeps them off the radar. Think of it like a celebrity checking into a
hotel under an alias. Same principle.” He shrugs. “My alias allows me to manage their finances with anonymity.”
I stare at him, processing. And the thing is . . . it tracks. I’ve seen plenty of contracts come through Edmond’s office with
third-party names on them. Half the properties he owns were bought under holding companies. This, I learned, is how the rich
protect themselves.
Ben steps forward, his chin dipping so he’s looking directly into my eyes. “Cybil, I know this seems like an unusual request,
but it’s imperative to my job and to my clients that you use my alias.” His voice lowers. “Craig Miller is the wall between me and the kind of people who would do anything to protect their assets.”
It sounds like a warning. And suddenly, I don’t know whether to believe him . . . or report him. For the first time, I wonder if Ben is in deeper than I thought. Not just with Mr. Ramirez, but with the kind of people Athena watches—criminals who use their wealth like camouflage.
It leaves me unsettled. I want to warn him. But I don’t. Because I can’t. Because if I do, I risk everything—my mission, my
paycheck, and the small chance I still have at law school.
He’s looking at me like he can read the hesitation on my face, and I hate that. Hate that he still knows how to press every
emotional pressure point like it’s muscle memory. Hate that a single glance from him has me doubting every line I’ve drawn
between right and necessary.
Then—like a switch—he smirks and adjusts his tie in the mirror. The return of that smug grin is both wildly annoying and unfairly
attractive.
“Besides, Billy girl, you wouldn’t want me to lose my job. I’m the one handling the finances of the deal between your boss and Mr. Ramirez.”
My jaw drops. “Did you seriously just—”
Maybe it’s the arrogance. Maybe it’s the fact that he used the worst nickname known to mankind, gifted to me by him and Rex
one unfortunate summer. Either way, I swallow down my warning and force my expression back to neutral.
There’s a line being drawn that only I can see. On one side? Ben handling the finances for the deal is the exact kind of intel
Athena needs. It’s why I took this job. Why I agreed to spy. Why I can’t afford to quit until I can drag myself out of debt
and into law school.
But on the other side?
It’s Ben. And I don’t know if he’s just the wrong guy, hired at the wrong time by the wrong people, or if there’s something
more to his involvement. Something criminal.
The idea makes my chest tighten. He sounds like he’s just doing his job, but there’s something too polished about his explanation. Too smooth about the way he waltzed
into the meeting last night. I’ve seen men lie before—seen how easily truth slips into fiction when money’s on the table.
If I blow the whistle too early, I could ruin his career for no reason. But if I don’t, and he is involved, then I’m giving him a front-row seat to a crime that will have his name all over it.
So maybe for now, I don’t move. Maybe I just watch. Take notes. Send Athena what I can. And if it gets too risky . . . I’ll
warn him. Somehow. But until then, I’ll play along.
Because I need this paycheck. And maybe—just maybe—I need to know who Ben Bradley really is and why after all these years,
and against every ounce of logic, my heart is doing that ridiculous, traitorous skip when he’s near me.
“It’ll be like old times,” Ben says, stepping into my line of sight again. “You and me, hanging out. Playing games.”
Something sparks behind my ribs. Something I don’t like.
“Why Craig?”
He pauses, surprised. “What?”
“Why use the name Craig Miller?”
His smile returns, full wattage this time. He shrugs. “It’s a forgettable name for a forgettable guy.”
I narrow my eyes on him. “Really? All these years and you’re using the name of my high school ex-boyfriend. Seems like the
only one who hasn’t forgotten about him is you.”
Ben’s eyes light with a fire, and before I’m drawn to it, I brush past him, hand on the door. “Let me check the hallway. Make
sure no one sees you walking out of the women’s restroom.”
I’m halfway out when he calls softly, “Cybil.”
I glance back.
“You were way too good for Craig Miller.”
My heart stutters. I force a smile. “Still am.”
Then I slip into the hallway without looking back, weaving past two ladies heading toward the restroom. I should warn them. But instead, I smile. Game on, Craig.