Chapter 4
Liam
The house looked wrong.
Even from the outside, I could tell something was off.
The modern glass and concrete mansion perched in the Hollywood Hills like a predator, all sharp angles and cold surfaces, the kind of place that photographed well for Architectural Digest but had no soul.
Floor-to-ceiling windows that should've made it feel open instead made it feel exposed—a fishbowl for the world to peer into.
Six security vehicles in the driveway—three more than usual, according to the intel Diana had sent.
Black Escalades with tinted windows, all waxed to a high shine like that would somehow erase their failure.
Damage control. They were in full ass-covering mode, trying to look competent after the horse had already bolted from the barn.
I parked the rental—a black SUV I'd grabbed at LAX—and got out slow, controlled. Every movement deliberate. The security team saw me coming, started to cluster near the front door like sheep pretending to be wolves.
The head of security stepped forward. Gary Thompson, according to my research.
Ex-LAPD, forced retirement after an excessive force complaint.
Six-four, probably two-sixty, the kind of guy who peaked in high school football and never got over it.
His suit was Tom Ford, probably eight grand, but he wore it like a uniform he didn't quite fit into.
Sweat stains under the arms despite the cool LA night.
His face had that bloated look of someone who drank expensive whiskey for breakfast and called it networking.
“This is a private residence,” Gary announced, stepping into my path like he was used to people stopping when he opened his mouth. His voice had that LA varnish—manufactured authority over a hollow core. “You need to leave. Now.”
I didn’t stop. Didn’t even adjust my stride. Just kept walking with that steady, unhurried pace—the one that made smart men step aside and stupid men piss themselves.
“I said—” Gary reached out, placing a hand on my chest to stop me.
A manicured hand. Soft. Damp with nerves under the cologne. The kind of hand that had never thrown a real punch in its life.
I looked at his hand. Then at him. And I let him see it. All of it. The violence coiled low in my gut, the rage shimmering under my skin, the lethal promise that lived in my eyes like a second heartbeat if he didn’t get the hell out of my way.
He flinched. Actually flinched. Took a half step back before he caught himself.
“My name is Liam Walker,” I said quietly, conversationally—because quiet always scared people more. “Texas Rangers. I’m here for Stephanie Wilson.”
“She’s not receiving visitors.” He puffed out his chest, trying to reclaim control, voice tightening around fake authority. “There’s been an incident, sir, and we’re handling the situation—”
I pulled out my badge. Let the security lights hit the gold star just right. It gleamed like a goddamn warning flare.
“You’re not handling shit,” I said. “You failed. Catastrophically. A man got into this house, past all your cameras, past your team, and put his hands on her. So you’re going to step aside—” I leaned in, lowering my voice to a lethal whisper. “—or I’m going to move you.”
“You have no jurisdiction here,” he shot back, but the bravado cracked halfway through. His pupils dilated. Shoulders hunched almost imperceptibly. He’d realized exactly what kind of man stood in front of him.
“You’re right,” I said, stepping closer. Close enough that he had to tilt his head back to keep eye contact. Close enough to smell his cologne—expensive, citrusy, drowning in fear-sweat.
“I have no jurisdiction.” I smiled then. Slow. Cold. “Which means I’m not here as a Texas Ranger. I’m here as a pissed-off friend.”
I let the words hang, let him feel the weight of them.
“And this pissed-off friend knows sixteen ways to break your arm before you can blink. Want to fucking test me?”
Behind him, the other guards shifted. Big guys. Pretty guys. Gym-built, nightclub bouncer physiques. Not one of them had the weight distribution of a real fighter. Not one of them had predator’s shoulders.
And every single one of them knew it.
Gary swallowed. Hard. Then he stepped aside.
“Thought so,” I said, brushing past him without another look.
Because the man who hurt Stephy was somewhere in this city, breathing her air.
And I was done playing nice.
The front door was open—massive, made of some exotic wood that probably cost more than most people's cars.
Voices spilled out—urgent, argumentative, the sound of people trying to assign blame before it could stick to them.
The foyer beyond was all white marble and modern art, a Basquiat on one wall that was worth more than the entire town of Copper Creek.
I walked through like they weren't there, my boots heavy on the Italian marble, leaving dirt on the pristine floor.
The living room was full of suits. Her management team, lawyers by the look of them, and a publicist I recognized from photos.
They looked like they'd been ordered from a catalog—everyone with the same perfect teeth, the same Botoxed foreheads, the same dead eyes that calculated everything in terms of profit margins.
A woman in a cream suit was typing frantically on her phone with nails so long I wondered how she managed it—probably dictating damage control to some underpaid assistant.
A younger guy in designer jeans and a blazer had three phones out, managing what looked like social media accounts.
They all turned when I entered, their conversation cutting off mid-sentence.
Robert Kellerman stepped forward. Her manager.
The one who'd called LAPD three times about "containing the narrative" instead of finding Stephy help.
Fifties, but fighting it with hair plugs and subtle fillers that made his face look like it was stretched too tight.
Silver fox wannabe in a suit that probably cost more than most people's monthly salary, Italian leather shoes that had never walked anywhere real.
"Who the hell are you?"
"I'm the person taking Stephanie out of here." I didn't stop moving, heading for the hallway that led to the bedrooms. The hallway was lined with platinum records and magazine covers—Stephy on the cover of Rolling Stone, Variety, Billboard. All different versions of someone I barely recognized.
"Wait just a minute." Robert moved to intercept me, his hand reaching out like he was going to grab my arm. Soft hands with a Rolex that caught the light—Daytona, probably a hundred grand. "You can't just walk in here. There are protocols, NDAs to sign, image considerations—"
"Image considerations." I stopped, turned slowly. The look on my face made him step back. "A man broke into her home. Sexually assaulted her. And you're worried about image considerations?"
"We have to control the narrative." His voice took on that lecturing tone people use when they think they're the smartest person in the room. "Stevie's brand depends on maintaining a certain image. Victimhood doesn't sell records—"
"Her name is Stephanie." The words came out sharp enough to cut glass, deep enough to be a growl. "And her brand can go to hell."
"Now listen here—" A lawyer type stepped forward, all three-piece suit and indignation.
Probably UCLA Law, probably never saw the inside of a real courtroom, just conference rooms and settlement meetings.
His face had that look of someone who'd never been hit and didn't think it could happen to him.
"Ms. Wilson has contractual obligations.
There are liability issues, insurance concerns—"
“Stop talking.”
My voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t have to be. It hit the room like a pressure drop before a tornado—sharp, sudden, unmistakable.
Every man in the place froze.
“All of you. Shut the fuck up.”
Chairs scraped. Someone swallowed. No one tried to speak again.
“You failed her.” I took a slow step forward, letting the weight of that truth crush the air between us. “Every single one of you. Your one goddamn job was to keep her safe—and you fucked it.”
My pulse was steady. Too steady. The kind of calm that only came right before violence.
“So here’s what’s going to happen,” I said. “I’m going to get Stephanie. I’m going to take her somewhere safe. Somewhere you people can’t screw it up again.”
I swept my gaze across the room—each person flinching like the look itself burned.
“And if any of you try to stop me…” I took another step, slow, deliberate. “…or even think about getting in my way…” I leaned in, voice dropping into a quiet meant only for fear and death. “I’ll show you exactly what happens to men who hurt someone I love.”
Silence. Thick. Absolute.
They believed me. As they should. Because I wasn’t bluffing. And they could see it.
"You're threatening us?" Robert's face was going red under his spray tan, that particular shade of entitled fury when someone doesn't bow to their authority. "I'll have your badge—"
I took one step toward him. Just one. He scrambled backward so fast he knocked over a glass sculpture that probably cost more than my truck.
"I'm taking her home." My voice was flat, final. "Get out of my way."
They scattered like roaches when the lights come on, designer shoes clicking on marble as they backed away.
The hallway stretched before me, more modern art—abstract pieces that looked like someone had thrown paint at canvas and called it genius.
Photos of Stephy with various celebrities—all smiling those fake Hollywood smiles, all part of the machine that had failed to protect her.
At the end, her bedroom door—closed but not locked.
I knocked soft. "Stephy? It's me. It's Lee."
Silence. Then footsteps—slow, uneven, like she was hurt. The lock clicked, and the door opened just a crack.
"Lee?" Her voice was so small, so broken.
"Yeah, sweetheart. It's me."
The door opened wider, and I saw her.
Jesus Christ.