Chapter 37
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SEVEN
The party is disorienting because it barely resembles the real Alistair. That’s the secret, isn’t it? The best monsters hide behind flawless masks.
I’ve left mine behind. Showered and shaved, I’m wearing my own damn shirt to send a message that steers clear of tailored suits or linen uniforms. The story in my pocket is all the leverage I need to get Evie out.
That and a dead man’s switch. It won’t matter if he locks up my phone.
I’ve uploaded my story to the cloud, several copies to several clouds, and if I don’t check in by morning, everything I’ve gathered is set to flood a dozen public sites.
If things go sideways, there won’t be a person on the planet who can unsee what Alistair’s done.
He’s gambling I’ll trade the story for Evie. And he’s right. I’m here to do exactly that. I try not to think about what Evie would do if the roles were reversed.
The crimson carpet runs from the cul-de-sac to his front door, plush enough to swallow footsteps as it funnels me toward two doormen with polite eyes and empty security bags.
“Your phone, sir?”
I hand it over, and the sound of the pouch clicking shut becomes handcuffs locking me to the plan I threw together this afternoon. He wants me desperate enough to bargain, but now, he’s the one who will decide whether this story detonates.
Inside, the air reeks with his overindulgence, suffocatingly thick with exquisite food and expensive wine.
A waiter in a checkered vest and a form-fitting button-down offers me a drink.
I take it without thinking. The glass’s sweat against my palm yanks me back to the consequences of one slipup, and I set it down untouched.
After seeing behind his curtain, it’s obvious how all his guests laugh with one eye open, playing the parts of merry partygoers to leech off his power.
The party is a Russian doll of games within games within games.
Everyone knows they’re playing. Everyone knows Alistair’s in control.
The tuxedos and gowns are quiet announcements of power, wealth, and reputation.
I can’t stop wondering what these people would do for more.
How far could Alistair push before they topple over the edge? Is it even pushing if they jump so willingly?
That’s the gaping hole in my story. On paper, I’m the undercover hero, rescuing victims by exposing the villain. But the victims aren’t chained, the villain sticks to his rules, and the hero’s the one lying about his intentions. I’m the only fox in this henhouse.
So why the hell did Alistair let me back in?
Evie’s face keeps appearing where it isn’t in the crowd. I promised myself I’d go straight downstairs, straight to the inner circle, and straight to him. I came for her. For once I’m going to keep my promise.
Alistair’s waterfall cuts through the floors beside me as I descend, cold mist clinging to my arms.
The bottom level may be the darkest, but its danger is neutered by how obvious it is. Multicolored lights splash across bare shoulders and sweat-slick hair. Music thuds through the floor. The air smells like beer and bodies.
The real danger is quieter. It waits beyond the dance floor, down the private hall, and behind the closet door that leads to Alistair’s inner circle.
The bass dulls the farther I walk, fading to a pulse behind the walls by the time I pass the guest suites and reach the last room. Inside, the air is almost black, but the deepest shadow still waits in the closet.
The smell of leather hits me before the motion light clicks on.
A rack of black gear hangs along the back wall: straps, buckles, rings, studs, chains, and chokers.
They catch the light as I push the two middle pieces aside.
My fingers linger on the harness. For something that looks so cold and wrong, it’s surprisingly warm, as if the last person to wear it had left their heat behind.
I’ve opened this door before, in another life, when I was still pretending that being undercover was different from being myself.
I push the back wall, and it resists long enough for me to wonder if I misremembered. Then the panel swings open with the same quiet sigh.
No. I could never forget this place.
I step through.
The party is muffled behind me as oak replaces leather, and the air cools into polished wood and velvet. The bar and bookshelves loom in the shadows, lined with first editions and artifacts like the island office.
The scene is familiar, even having seen it only once.
In the glow of Edison bulbs, Linus and the others give guarded, surprised waves, but nobody comes toward me.
Jake doesn’t wave. He sits among them with his gaze fixed somewhere beyond me, and the sight of him knocks the triumph out of my return.
Without Jake’s bubbling welcome, it strikes me I hadn’t planned for this part of my glorious take-down—the part where I confront Alistair’s inner circle before he arrives.
I’ve set a trap that, when sprung, will betray everyone here. Once Alistair’s cover dies, so does the game and whatever dreams they’re chasing.
“You bastard.” Dae stomps to his feet from the green leather couch. “How dare you come back.”
I thought I was using Brad and Dae’s fling as leverage, but looking at Dae now, it’s clear they were more than that. Maybe like what Jake wanted with me.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know,” Dae snaps. “Who the hell knows! On the island? Dead?”
“Girl, he’s not dead,” Jake says, still refusing to look at me. “Alistair doesn’t kill his toys.”
“What about his mom? If Brad’s out, who’s gonna pay for her treatment?” Dae’s lip trembles, eyes flicking between the guys before locking on me. “Why are you here? You passed your tests.”
“Dae.” I point at the red camera light in the ceiling trim, then try to protect him from himself by repeating Alistair’s rule. “Stay in role. Stay in bounds.”
“Bitch, please.” Dae rakes his fingers through his curls. “I’m tired of your bullshit. You used him, us, like bait to get your prize. You think you’re better than Alistair? At least he’s honest about what he is.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, quieter now.
“You ruined our lives,” Dae says. “His mom’s life. You think sorry’s good enough?”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“You knew exactly what you were doing.”
“I didn’t think it through.” My voice cracks. The only excuse I have is that I thought the ends would justify the means. I wanted control, and I thought I had it until Alistair snatched it back. “If I could undo it, I would.”
I’m surprised to find that’s the truth. If I could, I’d save them all, get Evie out, and make things right with Jake.
But if I have to choose…
The memory of Brad’s wide eyes in the office doorway flickers along with the rush I’d felt controlling him.
I hadn’t planned on Jake. Or the monster I’ve been feeding inside me.
“Who are you?” Dae demands. “Why are you back?”
My lip trembles before two sad truths slip out in three words. “I don’t know.”
“Bullshit.”
“Alistair asked me to come,” I say.
“You get your heart’s desire, you leave. That’s how it works.”
“Not this time.”
Dae stands rigid in the center of the room, seething.
I turn to Jake instead, and the steadiness in his gaze reminds me how strong he is.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have left. But you have to know it wasn’t because I regretted you. I left because I wanted you.”
His brow flickers, one crack in his armor.
“You told me what you wanted,” I say. “And I wanted it too. It’s just… too much control. All I could hear was my father’s voice and Alistair’s booming in my head.”
“So you punished me for trusting you,” he says.
“Yes,” I say, because lying now would be worse. “And I punished myself. I saw what I wanted from you, and I hated it. I hated that it felt… right.” Whatever came through that door in the playroom stirs again, and I try throwing certainty over it like a lid. My voice goes cold. “But it isn’t.”
Jake’s laugh is quiet and brittle. “Right. Because what I want is a sin, and you’re making me pay.” He sweeps a hand toward the semicircle before I can object. “Do they even know about your story? About what it might do to all of us?”
“What story?” Dae asks.
Their eyes pin me. My skin tries to crawl off my body, as if it could shed and step away from this unfamiliar urge to tell the truth.
“I work for a paper,” I say. “Or I did. My name’s not Marcus Wilder. I’m a reporter, and I wrote a story exposing Alistair.”
The room absorbs it as one collective inhale.
I barrel forward before they can decide what it makes me. “We have to shut this down. He abuses his power. He gets off controlling us. The manipulation, the way he uses what you want—”
“And what’s so wrong with being used?” A guy I don’t even know cuts me off.
His question hits squarely in my gut.
“Alistair told me,” another says, “that control is the purest form of care.”
“It’s a choice,” a third adds. “We choose to be controlled.”
My father.
Alistair.
Jake, shivering under the control I should never have had.
Jesus. It’s not just Jake. They all like it. They like submitting.
My whole life has been running from control. My whole body aligns with a truth so old it bursts out as rage.
“I will not be controlled!” I shout.
The lights go out.
Anger sinks back under cover, leaving me raw and exposed. It felt good to own my truth, but just saying it out loud somehow plunged the whole room into shadows.
Someone yelps in the dark.
“What the fuck is happening?” Jake says, more angry than scared.
A single light flicks on, and my heart jumps, expecting Alistair. Instead, a matte-black speaker is revealed, sitting on a tripod in a corner. Aimed like a rifle, the speaker fires static at the cluster of confused guys.
“So glad you could make it.” Alistair’s voice comes through. “Do you mind if we walk and talk?”
“I have literally always wanted to meet you.”
My jaw locks at the other voice, at the recognition already crawling through me. It’s Evie.