Chapter 13 Wyatt
Wyatt didn’t move until the pathetic, rattling cough of her engine finally faded down the street.
He stood at the edge of the secure lot, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his eyes fixed on the exact spot where her sedan had bounced too hard onto the public road.
The rear bumper had shuddered violently on its rusted bracket, looking like it was a single pothole away from tearing clean off.
It was a deathtrap. A rolling mechanical failure. The fact that she was driving that piece of junk on frozen roads made his jaw tighten until his teeth ached. Worse, that crumbling cage of rusted steel was currently carrying the most brilliant network asset he’d run across in a decade.
The image of her back seat was burned straight into his retinas.
He had tracked every micro-expression on her pale face when she opened that driver's side door, the cold afternoon light completely exposing her secrets.
The thin fleece blankets folded with a desperate, heartbreaking neatness.
The travel-sized pillow. The undeniable visual footprint of a girl treating her car as a primary residence.
“They’re just for emergencies,” she had lied. Her voice had cracked just enough to give her away, that tiny, fragile smile fracturing under his stare. “Safety precaution.”
She was lying straight to his face, and it made something dark and fiercely protective snap deep in his chest. It had nothing to do with Enigma or corporate boundaries.
From the second she had walked into his office, looking so incredibly small and defensive, his instincts had demanded that he step in and take care of her.
He wanted to claim her entirely, to strip away that exhausting, desperate panic she carried, and force her to let him handle the weight of everything.
She was going to learn very quickly that deception didn't work with him, and once she was settled, he'd address the lie with the kind of firm, unyielding discipline that would make her realize she didn't have to hide anymore.
But right now, his immediate priority was just getting her somewhere warm.
Turning on his heel, Wyatt walked toward his own vehicle—a heavy, armored luxury SUV that sat like a silent beast in his reserved spot.
The doors unlocked with a low, satisfying click, a sharp contrast to the mechanical groans of Bitsy's car.
He climbed inside, the pristine scent of hand-stitched leather and subtle eucalyptus instantly enveloping him as the engine roared to life with a quiet, powerful purr.
He pulled out of the Enigma lot, his mind already churning through variables as he navigated the quiet Saturday afternoon traffic toward the private garage of his penthouse suite.
The drive was short, his focus split between the road and the internal mapping of Bitsy.
She was an anomaly—a brilliant, terrifyingly fast mind trapped in a fragile, starved body that looked like it would break under a stiff breeze.
She was living on the ragged edge of existence, yet she had successfully bypassed a perimeter that private military firms couldn't crack.
He had bought her brain today for six figures, but his instinct was already demanding total control of her well-being.
When he got back to his place, Wyatt went straight into the home office, ignoring the rest of the dark, quiet penthouse.
He shed his heavy overcoat, tossing it over the back of a chair before dropping into the leather seat behind his desk.
The room was cold and silent, lit only by the ambient glare of his workstations—a secure, private extension of Enigma’s main network loops that stayed entirely off the public grid.
He picked up his phone, resting his elbows on the desk. Before he went digging through whatever digital trail she’d left behind, he needed to give the rest of the guys a heads-up.
Wyatt: It’s official. The hacker from last night is on the books as of one o'clock.
The response was almost immediate.
Zane: You actually put her on payroll? Bold move, big guy. Is she a security risk or a permanent fixture?
Wyatt: She's an asset. Her architecture is cleaner than anything our current tier-one group is running. But she’s a flight risk. High anxiety, severe trust issues, and she's running on pure survival adrenaline.
Silas: Survival? Meaning what?
Wyatt paused, his fingers hovering over the glass screen as he recalled the sheer weight of Lennon’s heavy winter coat swallowing Bitsy’s tiny frame.
Wyatt: Meaning she showed up to a perimeter meeting in forty-degree weather with nothing but a sweater. I had to let her borrow Lennon's spare coat from her office just to get her across the street to lunch. She claimed her own coat was in the wash. She was lying.
Silas: She can keep the coat, Wyatt. Don’t worry about replacing it. Lennon won’t care once I tell her where it went. Tell her it’s hers.
Wyatt: I already told her she's keeping it for the weekend. She’s bringing it back Monday morning, but if the coat she claims to have doesn't materialize by nine o'clock sharp, I’ll be buying her a full winter wardrobe myself. Along with a few other necessities.
Zane: Wait, hold on. Personal wardrobe logistics and you’re tracking her laundry schedule?
There was a brief pause in the chat, the typing bubbles dancing simultaneously before Hudson broke the line.
Hudson: Are you planning to Daddy her, Wyatt?
Wyatt’s jaw tightened slightly, a dark trace of amusement flickering in his eyes, though his response remained flat.
Wyatt: I plan to ensure her safety, her nutrition, and her absolute stability. Her well-being is my direct responsibility now. She is a highly volatile, highly unprotected asset.
Zane: Right. So basically, she’s completely off-limits. Got it. Hands off the tech prodigy.
Silas: Don't start, Zane. If Wyatt says she’s a fragile asset, she’s a fragile asset. Last thing we need is you tracking dirt into his sandbox.
Zane: Hey, I have nothing but respect for the big guy's logistics. I’m just saying, it sounds like he’s already building a fence around her. Does she know she’s been claimed yet? Or are we waiting for Monday morning for the hammer to drop?
Wyatt: She knows she has rules to follow.
She doesn’t know the extent of them yet.
She tried to pay for her own street tacos with a crumpled ten-dollar bill she was hiding in her pocket.
Her survival instincts are forcing her to calculate the cost of water versus a cheap meal.
I had to block her arm at the register just to get her to order two steak tacos and a sweet tea.
Silas: Jesus. Foster care background?
Wyatt: Verified. Aged out at eighteen. The rest of her history is heavily redacted or completely blank, which means she knows how to clean a trail. I’m pulling her deep digital logs now.
Zane: If she’s that starved for stability, she’s going to fight you on the control, Wyatt. A stray cat doesn't just let you put a collar on it because the bowl is full. They bite.
Wyatt: Let her try. She’ll learn quickly that my perimeters aren’t negotiable.
Hudson: Well, if she does bite, make sure you document it. I need some entertainment for our executive briefings. Speaking of entertainment—are we still on for tonight?
Wyatt glanced up at the digital clock on his monitor. It was already creeping past three.
Wyatt: Yes. Nine o’clock in the theater. Silas, is the space prepped?
Silas: Everything is locked down. The theater is cleared of standard staff. We’re doing the private impact play demo for the upper tier members at ten, but I’ll have the back lounge stocked for us by eight-thirty. Bring your appetite.
Hudson: I’ll be there by nine. I need a drink after dealing with the harbor customs array all morning.
Wyatt tossed the phone onto his desk, the screen going black as the conversation concluded.
He leaned back in his chair, the leather groaning softly under his weight as he stared at the blank monitors ahead of him.
The office was dead silent, save for the faint, familiar whisper of his own server towers tucked behind the soundproofed wall.
He woke the monitors with a sharp tap of his keyboard, his fingers moving with practiced, efficient speed as he pulled up Enigma’s highest-level administrative portal.
He didn’t just want her basic background file; he wanted the deep data.
The digital residue she thought she had scrubbed when she spent years navigating the fringe of the state system.
He ran her parameters through three separate proprietary tracking algorithms he had developed for federal defense contracts. Within ten minutes, the data began to cascade across his glowing screens in long, cold lines of green text.
No current registered address. Her last verified apartment lease had terminated six months ago in North Bridgeport—an eviction notice for non-payment of rent, followed immediately by a total disappearance from all utility databases, credit monitoring agencies, and voter registries. She had effectively gone ghost.
He tracked her vehicle registration. The sedan was an eleven-year-old model, currently listed under an expired temporary tag from a low-end buy-here-pay-here lot on the edge of the county line. No insurance policy on file.
Wyatt’s expression darkened as the pieces of the puzzle clicked into a brutal, undeniable picture.
She wasn't just struggling. She was completely unanchored, drifting through the frozen Bridgeport winter inside a mechanical failure because she had nowhere else to store herself or her life. And yet, when he had given her a baseline of security today, her first reaction wasn’t relief—it was absolute, paralyzing terror that he would realize she didn’t belong in his world.
"Stubborn little thing," Wyatt rumbled into the empty room, his voice a low, dangerous growl that vibrated in his chest.