48. Chapter 48
SEAN
"FUCKING WHORE!"
The words splinter the air as I crouch beside the bathroom sink. More rustling, then a muffled scream.
I risk a glance through the cracked door.
Miller is out of bed, stalking toward the closet.
He yanks it open to reveal a woman bound with zip ties and huddled in a corner.
The gag in her mouth stifles her cries, and her fresh black eye does nothing to diminish her defiant expression.
She's different from the other woman because her body still has plenty of muscle and fight.
She's someone he recently picked up.
He grips her hair and drags her into the room, her bare feet scraping the floor as she flails around.
"I'm trying to fucking sleep!" he shouts, shaking her like a ragdoll. "I have to be on set at five, so will you shut the fuck up?"
He slaps her hard, the sound cracking like gunfire, but she keeps fighting, screaming something unintelligible through the sock gag.
"What's with this attitude?" he sneers. "Don't you want out of the closet? If you'd stop being such a bitch, you'd get your own room like Debbie. Debbie knows how to fucking behave, so what's your problem?"
Another slap, and she whimpers, but still she struggles, a feral determination in her eyes.
She's doing exactly what you should do in a situation like this. Fighting offers a better chance at survival.
He's losing patience, though. I see it in the tightening of his jaw, the way his fingers twitch like they want something to squeeze. He throws her to the floor and straddles her, his weight pinning her down.
"You were a bad pick," he says coldly. "And I don't have the patience to train you. A shame."
His hands close around her throat, crushing her neck like he's juicing an orange. Her eyes bulge, and for a moment, all I can do is watch, paralyzed by the suddenness and the brutality.
Then I move, my heart pounding a relentless rhythm in my ears. I raise my gun with anticipation as I slip from the bathroom and cross the room silently.
Miller is so focused on the woman he doesn't register my presence until the barrel of the gun presses against the base of his skull.
"Get off her," I say, my voice a low, lethal whisper.
Miller startles, releasing the woman's throat and falling to the side with a yelp. A small, dark part of me is satisfied at his reaction.
He sprawls on the floor, staring up at me with wide, disbelieving eyes. "What, what the fuck are you… how?"
He recognizes me from our car chase two weeks ago. Good. Then he knows I'm fucking serious.
"Move," I say, nudging him with the gun and tipping my chin toward the bed. "Slowly."
He hesitates and glances around for an escape.
"Give me a reason to shoot you," I add. "Just one fucking reason."
His shoulders drop because he must know it's pointless to fight. He gets to his feet, hands raised, and backs toward the bed.
I turn my attention to the woman. Her breaths are ragged and shallow beneath the gag. With one hand still pointing the gun at Miller, my free hand yanks out my knife and slices through the zip ties trapping her. I pull the gag from her mouth, and she gasps.
"Thank… thank you." She lets out a sob and then tries to contain it. She doesn't wait for me to say more, doesn't risk another second in this nightmare. She scrambles to her feet and flees from the bedroom, the sound of her retreating footsteps echoing down the hall.
Miller watches her go and several dark shadows cross his expression. He turns back to me. "You think you can get away with this? You think I won't find you?"
I clench my jaw. I've got a lot of power right now. I've always hated that feeling, that responsibility of carrying another's life in my hands.
Yet for the first time in my life, I'm enjoying it. The gun in my hand feels simultaneously too heavy and too light. The power to end a life is compressed into a few ounces of metal.
"I'm planning on it," I tell him.
Miller laughs, a hollow, manufactured sound that belongs in one of his shitty movies. His confidence is returning now that the immediate danger to his life seems to have passed. Amazing how quickly men like him regain their arrogance.
"Why not finish me now?" he asks, eyebrows lifting in a challenge. "You had your chance in that bathroom. You have it again. What's stopping you?"
Don't tempt me, you asshole.
One squeeze of the trigger and this sadistic narcissist disappears forever. But Mike's face flashes through my mind, followed by his kids and pregnant wife. Then Londyn. Our child. All the threads binding me to a future I desperately want.
I lower the gun slightly, not enough to give him an opening, just enough to shift the dynamic from execution to negotiation. An idea curdles my stomach, but I force myself into the role. I have to become the character, some scumbag blackmailer. The kind of person Miller might actually respect.
"You think this is about killing you?" I force a smirk that feels wrong against my lips.
"That would be too easy." I step closer, keeping the gun trained on his chest. My free hand gestures around the room.
"Nice setup you've got. Fancy boat. Expensive sheets.
Good life for a man who should be rotting in prison. "
His eyes narrow. "So what—this is about Londyn?" He spits her name like it's garbage in his mouth. "She's nothing. A whiny little bitch who couldn't handle what she signed up for."
The rage flares so hot I have to lock my knees to keep from lunging at him. My finger twitches against the trigger guard.
"Dead men don't pay," I say, letting a greedy smile twist my features. "And you're going to pay. Handsomely."
Confusion wrinkles his forehead. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
"While I was helping your… guests… find their way out, I took the liberty of documenting your little hobby. I took plenty of pictures and videos. Even of your blow job earlier. High definition. Crystal clear audio. The works."
Miller's eyes widened, darting around my face to search for lies. "You're bluffing."
"Am I?" I shrug. "I have plenty I can send to the media. And I've got two witnesses who are willing to testify. Plus Londyn."
His face pales but he continues to challenge me. "You can't protect her if she goes public."
I don't respond, taking a page from Victor's playbook. Silence shows confidence. When you hold all the cards, you don't need to argue. I give him a slow, bored blink.
Miller swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. A vein pulses at his temple and his gaze wavers. "Fine. What do you want?"
"Fifty million." The number slides off my tongue like I've been planning this for months. "Wire transfer to an offshore account. By noon tomorrow."
He barks out a laugh that's pure disbelief. "You're insane."
"Probably." I shrug, like his opinion means nothing. "But I'm not the one facing life in prison for kidnapping, torture, rape, human trafficking. Multiple counts." I step closer, watching him flinch. "Also, all of Hollywood will hate you. You'll never direct again."
The thought of playing this role—pretending to profit from Londyn's trauma and these women's suffering—makes me want to vomit. But it's working. Miller is calculating something in his head and weighing his options. He's buying my story.
His face twists with rage, but beneath it, I see a flash of real fear. "Ten million," he says. "That's all I can get without raising questions. You want my accountant or business manager flagging something?"
I pretend to consider it. "Fine. Ten to start. We can discuss the rest later."
"I'll need a day to arrange it."
I've interrogated enough liars during my military days to recognize the signs of a liar: the slight flutter of his left eye, the way his fingers flex against the sheets.
Miller is playing me. Whatever he's agreeing to, he has no intention of following through.
Not that it matters since I only need him to remain ignorant until the cops search this yacht tomorrow morning.
"Get on the bed," I say, gesturing with my gun. "I'll text you the account details in the morning."
He moves back, sitting on the edge of the mattress and watching me as anger makes his limbs tremble.
He tips his head to look at me over the end of his nose.
"You know, that bitch loved it rough. Begged for more every time.
She tell you something different? She's lying. Everytime I whipped that little cunt—"
"Shut up."
Miller only smiles from getting a rise out of me; he wanted the satisfaction of making me crack.
I do crack.
It's like someone poured liquid nitrogen into my veins. Every thought freezes. I'm no longer in my body, but watching somewhere above myself. The gun in my hand suddenly feels inevitable, my finger tightening against the trigger as I think of squeezing his throat.
A darkness rises like a tide I've been holding back for too many years.
It's not only about Londyn. It's about Wunmi, bleeding out in my arms. It's about the women I just freed from this boat.
It's about every victim who never saw justice because men like Miller—men with money and power—always seem to slither away unscathed.
How many of these privileged assholes walk free? How many buy their way out of consequences, bribing officials or intimidating witnesses until the cases against them crumble? How many kill themselves before justice catches up, denying their victims even the small comfort of a verdict?
The world is overflowing with people like Miller, entitled predators who see other human beings as toys to be used and discarded. They own people. They break people. And they never, ever pay the price.
But this one could.
I keep the gun level with his chest as my free hand yanks open the nightstand drawer. My fingers scramble for anything I can use to restrain him. Past the expensive watch and a sleek silver pen, I find handcuffs. They're police-grade because of course this sick fucker would have them.
"Lie face down. Hands behind your back," I order.