Chapter 44 Cybil
Cybil
Dallas, Texas
One month later
The city slips past in a blur of headlights and heat shimmer, the kind of thick summer night that clings to your skin even
with the windows up. Downtown Dallas glows ahead of us, skyscrapers lit like someone strung stars through steel. The hum of
cicadas follows us even here, muffled by the hum of the car’s AC and the low, rhythmic thud of tires over warm pavement.
Joy fans herself dramatically with the gala invite. “Remind me again why these things can’t be held in January?”
I adjust the clasp on my necklace, the AC doing its best against the sticky Dallas heat. “Because if the rich don’t have to
suffer for fashion, they don’t earn their philanthropic street cred.”
She smirks. “Right. Nothing says ‘selfless humanitarian’ like pit stains on a Versace tux.”
She leans forward, peering out the tinted windows as the city lights flicker across her dress. “Hey—wasn’t it somewhere around
here you almost tossed out the FBI agent you kidnapped?”
I see the driver glance at me in the rearview mirror, brows raised just slightly.
“Maybe we don’t talk about me kidnapping a federal agent,” I whisper, though I can’t help smiling. It wasn’t funny then, but now? Now I can find the humor in it. Mostly.
Joy leans in, stage-whispering with a grin, “Okay, what about the FBI agent you shot?”
The car jerks slightly to the left, sending Joy tumbling into my shoulder with a startled squeak. The driver mutters an apology
in a tone that says he very much regrets picking up this ride.
We burst into laughter.
I can’t believe it’s only been a month. It’s felt like both a lifetime and a long weekend with apocalyptic vibes.
The news over the last week has been a carousel of headlines. It’s only been three weeks since the incident at the construction
site, but the federal indictment dropped faster than anyone expected. Wire fraud. Racketeering. Economic espionage. Illegal
export of strategic resources. Jimmy Rook’s name was all over the indictments too—along with a somber little paragraph announcing
the untimely death of financial consultant Craig Miller. RIP, buddy.
There’s no mention of Earl or Sebastian Edmond. Not publicly. Not yet. Maybe there won’t be—because their testimony helped
seal the case against Ramirez. I don’t know what kind of deal they made, but I hope the second chance given to them reminds
them that doing the right thing isn’t weakness. It’s the hardest kind of strength.
When our laughter finally dies down, Joy leans back against the cool leather seat and sighs. “Remember the last time you got
dressed up for a gala?”
I snort, adjusting the clasp on my necklace. “Yeah. I ended up stepping in a public toilet and nearly got caught spying on
my childhood nemesis.”
Joy grins. “Do you think he actually would’ve arrested you?”
“Yes,” I say deadpan. “And he would’ve loved every second of it.”
The car slows as we near the Stratmore Pavilion, a glass-and-granite landmark tucked just off the Arts District. Spotlights
sweep across the facade, catching on the crystal fixtures that glitter like stardust above the main entrance.
The driver pulls up and valets in black tuxedos open our doors. Joy and I step out and into a crowd of guests in evening gowns and sharp suits making their way up the front steps, their laughter and camera flashes echoing into the warm summer air.
Suddenly, I feel like my dress is too tight.
Joy straightens her neckline. “You ready for this?”
“Not even a little,” I admit, but I smile anyway. “But I’ve got backup. And slightly better shoes than last time.”
“Speaking of backup—”
Marcos meets us at the bottom of the steps, all charm in a navy suit that probably cost more than my rent. He spins Joy once,
grinning like they’ve been doing this their whole lives, but they still call themselves just friends. The kind who share inside
jokes and pretend they’re not perfect together.
Then he turns to me and offers a hand. “You two are dressed to kill—and I’m pretty sure one of you might actually do it.”
“Don’t forget it,” I tease.
“Billy.” The name hits like a tremor. I turn—and there he is.
Ben. Tuxedo. Five o’clock shadow. That dangerous, crooked smile that hasn’t stopped giving me heart palpitations since we
first locked horns in the museum not even a block away. His eyes sweep over me in a way that makes me feel seen. Beautiful.
Worthy.
He takes my hand and spins me slowly. “You’re stunning.”
The dress I chose tonight clings in all the right places. Black silk, low back, high slit, and just enough elegance to make
me feel a little invincible. Like I’ll be able to pull this off tonight.
Then Ben kisses me, soft and certain, and suddenly I’m wondering why we’re not back on my couch watching Survivor and arguing over tribal alliances.
“We’ll meet you inside,” Joy calls as she and Marcos disappear into the crowd.
Ben pulls me aside to a quiet corner near a hedge-lined path. The music is muffled here, the air warm and honey-sweet with
night-blooming jasmine. “Did you get it?”
I grip my clutch tighter, nerves thrumming. “It came an hour ago.”
His hands brush down my arms, steadying me. “What did it say?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I wanted to wait. I wanted to open it with you.”
Ben’s whole expression softens, and I know I made the right choice.
“You ready?”
“I don’t know.” My heart is pounding. I haven’t wanted to think about this email or the results or what it might mean for
me and my future. “It feels like there’s a hoedown happening in my stomach.”
“A what?”
“My nerves are line dancing all over my stomach. ‘Cotton-Eyed Joe’ kind of energy.”
He laughs, then tips my chin up so I meet his eyes. “Billy, you helped take down a crime boss. Wrestled his sleazy lawyer.
Whatever that email says, it doesn’t define you or your future. But I have every hope you’re going to have the future you
deserve.”
I pull out my phone, fingers shaking. I don’t know why I thought it was a good idea to take the LSAT two weeks after everything
that happened. But I was already registered before I knew I was going to be involved in an international anti-terrorism mission.
And Ben helped me study. In between kissing breaks, which—honestly—were a better reward system than anything Kaplan ever designed.
I breathe. Click the link. Find my name. Click again. I stare.
Ben shifts beside me. “Well?”
“I passed.” The words come out on a stunned whisper. “I actually passed.”
“Of course you did.” He pulls me into a hug, lifts me right off the ground, then peppers kiss after kiss along my jaw, my
cheek, until he finally meets my lips.
I return the kiss—deep, grateful, and filled with all the promises of everything we survived to get here.
When he pulls back, he’s breathless. His cheeks are tinged pink and the longing in his eyes tells me he wants more. But his expression is shifting—his smile fading into something sharp. Focused. It’s his federal agent pose and it’s stupidly attractive.
He checks his watch and then looks at me. “Everything’s ready. Are you?”
The Solace Summit Gala, an annual black-tie affair dedicated to “honoring those who make the world a better place.” Which,
in tonight’s case, includes one very polished con artist who’s minutes away from a very public undoing.
Celeste Harlowe stole millions under the guise of helping families invest in their future—then vanished with their money.
But tonight, with the help of the FBI, the charade ends.
She thinks she’s getting an award, but it’ll be a shiny pair of handcuffs instead.
This won’t undo what’s already been lost. Won’t bring back the money. Won’t erase the heartbreak she’s caused. But if no one
else becomes one of her victims, then that’s a win you can measure in dollars.
I look at Ben—my partner, my beginning—and nod. “Let’s finish it.”
I take his offered arm and we ascend the marble steps. Tonight the pavilion is bathed in warm amber light, its dramatic floor-to-ceiling
windows revealing flashes of crystal chandeliers, sculptural floral displays, and the city’s most polished socialites drifting
past white-gloved waiters with flutes of champagne. Strings play something sweeping and rich.
Only a month ago, I walked into a gala like this thinking control was the only thing that kept me safe. That if I wasn’t composed
and capable and two steps ahead, I’d become the girl people whispered about. The risk. The chaos. The one who couldn’t be
counted on.
I built my life proving I wasn’t like my mom. That what I’d overheard Ben say years ago—even if he didn’t mean it—wasn’t true.
Control isn’t the same thing as security. And perfection doesn’t equal worth.
That voice in my head still fights dirty, still tells me if I’m not managing everything perfectly, I’m not enough. But I’m not fighting it alone anymore. Not when I have people who show up. Who stay when things get messy. Risky.
Ben. Joy. Marcos. Even Earl. Not because I made them—but because they chose to. Each of them a reminder that maybe I’m not
the risk I thought I was.
Unless, of course, I choose to be . . .
At the entryway, a hostess flashes us a rehearsed smile. “Names?”
Ben and I glance at each other. A shared look. A silent pact that says we’re on this adventure together.
I smile back at the hostess and say, without missing a beat, “Mr. and Mrs. Smith.”