Chapter 21
Weeks passed quietly, sliding into March with an almost unnerving calm.
No more anonymous calls. The weight of the hidden money—and the shadow it cast over my life—began to loosen its grip. For the first time in months, I wasn’t scanning rooms or checking mirrors. My guard lowered just enough for me to breathe again.
That should have felt like relief.
Instead, it felt like the stillness before something broke.
Creed became a constant presence, slipping into my life again with quiet authority. He didn’t announce himself. He didn’t demand space. He simply... stayed. Steady. Protective. Unmoving. A force I didn’t have to brace against.
And that scared me more than any threat ever had.
Mornings came with an unfamiliar sense of peace. Nights ended with the weight of Creed’s gaze, the brush of his hand against mine, the sound of my daughters’ laughter echoing down the hall.
Normal.
A word I had learned not to trust.
The first crack appeared on a deceptively calm afternoon.
Celine rolled into my office with a plastic crate stacked high with mail. The wheels rattled softly over the floor, the sound sending a chill through me that had no logical explanation.
“What’s all that?” I asked, glancing up from my desk.
“It’s been months since we emptied the PO box,” she said, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “I stopped by during lunch.”
Elite Staffing.
The name alone felt like a relic. A former life I had stopped acknowledging.
I crossed the room and looked into the crate. Unopened envelopes. Stacks upon stacks. Months’ worth.
“Jesus,” I muttered. “Where do I even start?”
Celine smiled faintly. “Carefully.”
We started sorting. Junk mail. Old invoices. Trade magazines Ray had subscribed to years ago. All of it outdated. All of it irrelevant.
“This is too much,” Celine said finally.
“I know.” I rested my hand on the crate’s edge. The decision settled heavily in my chest. “It’s time to close the mailbox. And the office.”
Her gaze sharpened. “For good?”
I nodded. “For good.”
Elite Staffing belonged to a different version of me. One tethered to a man who had left too many scars behind.
“When?” she asked.
“Thursday. I’ll clear it out and return the key.”
“I’ll go with you,” Celine offered.
I smiled faintly. “You’ve done enough.”
“I don’t mind.”
I sighed. “Fine. Check with the property manager. Utilities. Early termination. Then we’re done.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
I reached over and squeezed her hand. “Thank you.”
“That’s what your assistant is supposed to do,” she teased.
“Oh, if only Isabella could hear that,” I murmured, rolling my eyes.
The phone rang. I waved her off. “Go home. I’ll finish this.”
She hesitated at the door, then left quietly.
The silence pressed in.
I pulled the crate toward me, rolling it to the side of my desk. The overhead lights buzzed faintly as I began sifting through the rest of the mail.
Bills. Junk. Letters from old clients, most of them stale and irrelevant. I worked through them mechanically, my mind drifting. The weight of the decision to close the agency pressed into my chest—a strange mix of relief and loss. Until a postcard slipped from the pile and fluttered to the floor.
I picked it up.
A dusk-lit view of Bourbon Street. Golden light spilling across wet stone. A saxophonist froze mid-note.
I flipped it over.
I’m safe.
No signature. No address.
But I knew.
Relief hit me hard enough to make my knees weaken. Brittany was alive. A tear slipped free before I could stop it.
Maybe peace was possible.
Drawing a shaky breath, I reached back into the crate, determined to finish. I tossed half of it into the trash—advertisements, magazines Ray had ordered, meaningless paperwork.
And then my hand brushed against an envelope.
And froze.
An ivory envelope. Worn at the edges. My name, in handwriting I would recognize anywhere.
Ray.
Ice slid through my veins.
No return address. No postmark.
My hands shook as I opened it.
Peyton,
If you’re reading this, things ended the way I feared they would.
The room blurred.
They’re still watching.
The words pressed in on me, heavy and suffocating.
Trust the right people.
And don’t forget the day we met.
092106 Forever
The letter slipped from my fingers.
The air thinned. My chest tightened. I stood too fast, dizziness crashing over me.
“Peyton.”
I stood too fast, the edge of my desk catching my hip as I stumbled back. My knees weakened beneath me.
I turned. Creed filled the doorway. One look at my face, and something lethal sharpened behind his eyes. He crossed the room in two strides. Hands framing my face. Grounding me.
“What happened?”
I shook my head, but no sound came out.
“Peyton,” he said, his voice low and sharp. “Talk to me.”
My breath broke on a shudder. I grabbed his wrists to steady myself. His pulse hammered beneath my fingers.
“It’s Ray,” I whispered, and nodded toward the floor.
Creed picked up the letter. Read. His jaw locked.
“Sit.”
I obeyed.
When I finished telling him everything, he didn’t interrupt. He didn’t soften it.
“I thought it was over when the calls stopped. I thought maybe the money was gone, or maybe... maybe they lost interest.” I shook my head. “But this letter...”
“They’re still watching,” Creed finished, his tone dark.
I nodded.
Creed leaned back on his heels, his eyes narrowing.
“Log into the account,” he said.
My pulse spiked.
“Do it, Peyton,” Creed said quietly.
I pulled my purse toward me, sliding the zipper open. At the bottom, beneath my wallet and keys, sat the burner phone.
My throat tightened.
I had kept it, even after the calls stopped. Some part of me knew this wasn’t over.
My hands shook as I pulled it out and powered it on. The screen glowed, the battery still sitting at forty-eight percent.
Creed crouched down in front of me. His hand curled over my wrist, steadying me.
“You’re not doing this alone,” he said.
I opened the browser and typed in the bank’s offshore login page. My hands trembled as I entered the username and password.
Incorrect password.
I inhaled sharply.
“Relax. Try again,” Creed said calmly.
I reentered the information more carefully this time. The screen loaded.
A two-step authentication prompt appeared. A text code was already pinging the burner phone.
I showed him the screen.
“Enter it,” Creed said. His tone sharpened.
My fingers fumbled as I typed in the code. The screen shifted, and then the account details filled the display.
My breath stalled.
The money was still there.
All of it.
Three million dollars. Untouched.
Creed’s expression didn’t change. “They’re waiting,” he said.
“For what?” I asked.
“For you to move it.”
Cold slid down my spine. “And then?”
His mouth curved—slow. Dangerous.
“Then,” he said quietly, “we make them regret it.”