20. Lena #2
“One more thing. We haven’t talked about this yet, but… be careful where you store everything you’ve collected on Anton.” His voice lowers. “You can’t risk your work ending up in the wrong hands.”
I lean in slightly, locking eyes with him. “No worries. I went with the old-school method. Right in plain sight. But safe.”
His brow lifts, intrigued. “Where?”
I take a breath, allowing myself a small moment of satisfaction. “A bank deposit box. And the old music box that belonged to my grandmother. Lexi knows and has access, too. In case anything happens to me.”
His jaw tightens slightly. “I wish you trusted me with that too,” he says, voice dipping almost to a whisper. He doesn’t like that someone else knows more than he does.
“I do now,” I finally reply.
“Thank you, baby.” He steps back, already turning. “I’m off to shower. Feel free to barge in.”
I watch his bare back disappear around the corner, and for a few precious seconds, I forget. About Anton. About the threats. About the clock that’s running out. But only for a moment. Because deep down, I know the war has just begun.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table. I freeze. This is how it’s going to be now. Constant alerts. Constant dread. I have to get used to not flinching every time. I’ve prepared for this moment. Time to focus.
I reach for the phone, still thinking about what Dominic said.
Unknown number. A cold knot tightens in my stomach.
I open the message. Dozens of image attachments.
And one short line of text that slices like a blade: “If you destroy me, I’ll destroy you.
Let’s see how long you stay credible as the wife of a Monti who’s tearing this city apart.
” Fucking Anton. Of course. He didn’t even have to sign it.
I tap the first image. My blood freezes. A scanned deed of sale for the land where the shelter used to be. The buyer: a real estate company I don’t recognize. Next image: zoning plans. Same company. Then a list of investors. One name is circled in red: Dominic.
I swipe faster. More scans follow. Contracts. Land transfers. All tied to Rosehill. And in every document, somewhere in the list of names, there’s Dominic Monti . His signature, again and again.
Another message comes through: “Let me know if you like my version for the press. I was kicked out of City Hall because I tried to expose them. The mayor. Monti. Their cronies. And you? You’ve abandoned your so-called journalist ethics to help frame me.
I’ve got dirt on your precious mayor. And your husband’s little business ventures.
So drop the whole immaculate justice crusader act.
You’re about to find out what it feels like to be the target for the press.
Biggest mistake of your life, selling yourself to Monti. ”
My stomach twists so hard I think I might throw up.
The room tilts. I snatch the phone and storm into the bedroom, fists clenched like it’s a weapon.
The bathroom door’s ajar. Steam spills out into the hall, thick and warm.
I don’t knock. I don’t hesitate. Dominic is in the shower, mid-rinse, soap sliding across his chest. He sees me, blinks, water streaming over his face, shoulders tense.
“Lena…?”
But I don’t move. I stop in the doorway, frozen, phone clutched in both hands like it might detonate. My voice comes out low. Cold. “You knew.” My voice is sharp, shaking. He turns off the water and steps forward, confused.
“What are you talking about?”
I hold up the phone, the screen glowing between us like a warning flare. “This,” I snap.
He can’t see the image from where he’s standing, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need to.
“You knew,” I say, each word like a strike.
“You knew when you came after me at the shelter. You knew it was your name on the documents. That the land was bought out by one of your companies.”
His eyes narrow. A shadow crosses his face. Still, he says nothing.
“You offered to send supplies only to ease your guilt,” I spit, my voice climbing with every word.
“You stood there, playing savior. Letting me believe you were helping, while those women were being pushed out of the only place they felt safe. And I believed it. I believed you, I actually thought you were different.”
Tears of rage burn hot behind my eyes, but I don’t stop. “And then this morning, you still had the nerve to ask me to trust you. After that joke last night about the contract clause? About how I belong in your bed.”
My voice breaks. “You’ve been lying since this whole thing started, haven’t you? Mocking me. Using me. It’s all just a game to you, isn’t it?”
I shake my head, my heart pounding. “What do you even want from me, Dominic? Because I’m done. From this moment forward, I want nothing from you. Not your help. Not your touch. Not you. Not anymore.”
He wraps a towel around his waist. No excuses. No outburst. Just silence and that unreadable look in his eyes.
“It’s not what you think,” he says at last. “This has nothing to do with you. Or us. It’s a terrible coincidence that I thought I had time to fix before you ever found out. I was going to tell you after.”
“Right,” I snap. “That’s why you disappeared for hours last night? You left the shelter to clean up your mess. And then had the audacity to act jealous over Mario.”
I’m shaking now. Every word feels like a slap. “Saint Dominic. The outraged husband. Must’ve felt great playing both sides.”
He doesn’t respond. He gets dressed in silence, like I’m not even standing there, like I don’t even deserve a fight. The silence is worse than yelling.
I shove the phone toward him. “Is that your signature?” My voice is cold and sharp. I already know the answer. I see it on his face. He stops and exhales hard. “It’s mine.”
Something in me cracks open. The pain floods in, blinding me. “You and your rich friends… I thought I could trust you. I thought this was all Anton. But it was you.” My voice breaks.
He runs a hand through his soaked hair, water dripping onto the clothes he’s hastily throwing on. “It’s not what you think,” he says again, rougher this time. “I didn’t know the shelter was part of the deal—that it was one of the properties being cleared. Not when I signed.”
He drags a hand down his face, breathing hard. “There were dozens of contracts, grouped into bulk real estate deals, hidden in layers. This operation’s massive, Lena. I don’t oversee every line of every deal.”
He meets my eyes. “But I did it. I signed.”
His honesty cuts deeper than any lie could. He grabs his jeans, shirt, phone, keys, and wallet. At the door, he pauses and looks back, his eyes storm-dark.
“I need time. And I need your trust, Lena. You won’t regret it. Just wait for me. Please.”
And before I can answer, he’s gone. The door slams shut. I stand there, still clutching my phone, hands trembling. So is my heart.