Chapter 48
THE RECKONING
NOLAN
My knuckles strike the door in three sharp raps.
I stand outside Jackson’s suite, jaw clenched, breath seething through my nose, each exhale a barely contained inferno.
The door swings open. Chloe stands before me in a barely-there bikini. I don’t spare her a glance.
Her voice is strained when she starts in, “Nolan—”
“Where’s Jackson?” I plant my hands on my hips, securing them so I don’t rip the door off its hinges.
“In the shower,” she answers, brow furrowed.
I shoulder past her, ignoring the startled gasp she makes and beeline it for the living area. Rage simmers below the surface as I take in the space.
Seconds later, the bathroom door opens. Jackson strolls out completely naked, water dripping from his smug, unbothered frame.
“Jesus Christ,” I groan, throwing up a hand. “Jackson, I’ve seen your dick more than my own reflection. Put it away.”
“Nolan,” he drawls, rubbing a towel through his hair. “Didn’t expect a house call.”
“I bet,” I snap, voice hard. “That stunt you pulled today…the reckless, arrogant, idiotic move you thought was clever? That shit stops now.”
Thankfully, he wraps the towel around his waist with infuriating nonchalance, tilts his head, that same stupid smirk still carved into his face.
“Oh, come on. Don’t be so dramatic.”
I’m in his face before he finishes the sentence. “You don’t get to play goddamn bumper cars on an ATV course, Jackson. You hurt Rorie. She needed stitches. You could’ve ended her if she’d landed wrong. Do you even give a damn?”
He blinks. Shrugs. “It’s a competition. Shit happens.”
I punch him. My fist connects with his jaw so fast it stuns us both. He stumbles backward, crashing into the minibar with a grunt, ice clattering from the bucket.
Chloe yelps behind me.
“You son of a bitch,” Jackson snarls, clutching his nose. Blood gushes between his fingers. “You’re done. I’m telling Thatcher—”
“Go ahead,” I bite out, stepping forward, crowding his space. My voice venom-laced. “Tell him how you sent Rorie flying off that ATV. How you nearly got someone hospitalized because your ego couldn’t handle losing to a woman.”
Jackson opens his mouth—I don’t let him speak.
“And while you’re at it?” I snap, eyes blazing, “Ask him how many NDAs it takes to cover up the trail of women you’ve fucked while on the clock.”
That lands.
Jackson stops short for a beat then his gaze cuts to Chloe. Guilty.
Yeah. That’s what I thought.
“What’s the matter?” I ask, turning toward her now.
“You didn’t know? No, of course not.” I set my attention back on Jackson, who’s turned ghostly white.
“I’ve got everything. Every email. Every message.
Every late-night ‘conference call’ you never knew he had.
Pulled from his company phone. Time-stamped. Cross-checked. Explicit.”
Her face goes pale.
“And before you ask—yes. Some of them overlapped with you. More than some, actually.” I tilt my head, smile cold. “Pretty sure Jackson’s dick made it around more departments than the holiday memo.”
“Fuck you,” Jackson growls, stepping forward again.
“No thanks,” I snarl, stepping right back. “You don’t get to touch this narrative anymore.”
I turn to Chloe again, letting the truth hang heavy in the air between us. “Still think he’s worth it?”
She doesn’t answer.
She can’t.
“You both did me a favor, you know that? You broke something that needed breaking. And because of you…” I exhale once, lips curling. “I found a woman who accepts me. Who challenges me. Who terrifies me in all the best ways. Someone with power in her step, and fire in her spine.”
I lean in, right into Chloe’s space. “So thank you. For cheating. For lying. For showing your true colors. Because I never would’ve found her if you hadn’t fucked up so royally.”
Then I straighten, glance at Jackson one last time, and walk out without looking back.
Because this time?
I win.
My phone is already in my hand before the door closes behind me.
I text Tammy.
You need to start working your CYA magic. Not for Big Stream—for us. Me, Rorie, and anyone else who’s not a raging liability.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
Define scope of “magic.”
Get Imogene to pull every second of security footage from today. Especially the ATV relay. Is that possible?
Please. She could hack into the Pentagon with a smartwatch and decent WiFi. Consider it done.
Another message comes in a beat later.
Who do I need to bury and how deep?
I stare at the screen, the corners of my mouth twitching.
I just shoved Jackson into his own grave. Tell Imogene thanks for the last info she pulled. It was gold. Now it’s Thatcher’s turn.
As I wait for Tammy’s next message, a memory flickers to life.
My dad, standing over our kitchen table with the Sunday paper in one hand and a glass of scotch in the other, muttering, “The smart ones don’t get mad. They get strategic.”
He taught me how to read a room before I could drive. How to keep my voice level even when the world was on fire. How to play the long game so well no one even realized they were playing until they’d already lost.
And now here I am, using every trick he ever hammered into me.
Leverage. Timing. Precision.
Those were the words he used in nearly every speech, every lesson.
And I’m going to incorporate each one. Only this time, it’s not to get ahead. It’s to protect someone who actually matters. Someone who didn’t ask for a war and still got dragged into mine.
Guess I’m more like him than I thought.
Just not the version he was.
Better.
Tammy’s message comes through with a link.
I click it.
And there it is—buried in the fine print. Something I never saw coming. But something I can absolutely use.