“You underestimate yourself.” His voice carried that dangerous edge I knew too well. “Or perhaps you underestimate what you’ve already done.”
I shifted, water lapping at my breasts, but his arms held me steady against him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You walked into my life eight years ago and tore everything apart.” His words ghosted across my neck. “You think I forgot?”
“That was different.” I traced the surface of the water with my fingertips. “I was doing my job. Exposing corruption.”
“And nearly destroyed everything I’d built.” His grip tightened slightly. “You were magnificent. Ruthless.”
“Stop.” The word came out sharper than I intended.
“Why? Because it doesn’t fit your narrative?” His chest rumbled against my back. “The story you tell yourself about who has the power here?”
“I’m not that person anymore.” I stared at my hands beneath the water’s surface. “That Liv was naive enough to think exposing the truth would change things. Would matter. Would be easy.”
“But you’re wrong again.” His lips brushed my ear. “You’re more dangerous now.”
I stayed silent, fighting the urge to turn and face him. To challenge the certainty in his voice. Because he was wrong. I hadn’t brought down his empire eight years ago—he’d rebuilt, stronger than ever.
Eight years ago feels like a lifetime. Back then, exposing corruption had been straightforward—following paper trails, tracking shell companies, connecting the dots between dirty money and dirtier deals. Even handling Remy had been manageable, a dance of careful words and calculated risks. I’d been younger, bolder, believing that truth would triumph if I just dug deep enough.
God, I was naive.
The water ripples as I shift, remembering how simple it had seemed. Find evidence, publish a story, and watch justice prevail. But this? My father’s reach extends beyond anything I could have imagined. His trafficking operation isn’t just about moving bodies across borders—it’s about power, influence, and the kind of wealth that buys silence in blood.
Roberto’s face flashes in my mind again. The determined set of his jaw as he shoved me into that freezer was his final act of protection. My throat tightens. How many others will die because I started pulling at these threads? Every person who’s helped me, every contact who’s shared information, they’re all marked simply for knowing me.
And there’s no stopping now. The evidence on that USB drive isn’t just documentation anymore—it’s Roberto’s legacy, written in the sacrifice of everyone who believed in exposing the truth. If I back down, if I let fear win, their deaths mean nothing. But moving forward means more blood, more bodies, more lives destroyed because I dared to challenge Ano Montoni’s, my father’s empire.
My father. The man who was supposed to be my hero now sends killers after me. Its absurdity would be laughable if it weren’t so terrifying.
“Where did you go?” Remy’s voice cuts through my spiral, his fingers trailing along my arm. The gentle touch anchors me back to the present, to the warmth of the bath and the solid strength of his chest against my back.
“Nowhere good,” I murmur, shaking my head. I can’t share these thoughts, not even during our temporary truce. They’re too raw, too real—admitting them aloud would make their weight unbearable. And how much can I trust Remy? What if everything is just a trap, a sadistic joke? A plan between Remy and my father.
I jolt back to the present at the pressure of Remy’s arms tightening around me, his breath warm against my ear.
“Clearly shouldering the weight of the world and then some.”
“Force of habit.” I try to keep my voice light, but it catches in my throat. The water laps at my skin as I shift, hyperaware of every point where our bodies connect.
I force myself to relax against Remy’s chest, though every nerve ending screams at the contact. His skin is hot against mine, muscles firm beneath wet skin. The lavender-scented water laps around us as I shift, trying to find a position that doesn’t send sparks of awareness through my body.
“Stop thinking so hard,” Remy murmurs, his fingers tracing idle patterns on my stomach. The touch isn’t demanding or sexual—just gentle circles that somehow make my muscles unwind despite myself.
“That’s rich, coming from you.” I let my head fall back against his shoulder, watching the steam rise in lazy spirals. “When do you ever stop plotting?”
“Right now.” His other hand slides along my arm, the calluses on his palm catching slightly on my wet skin. “One-hour truce, remember?”
I close my eyes, focusing on the steady rise and fall of his chest against my back. It’s disconcerting how natural this feels—being held by him, wrapped in warmth and temporary peace. His touches remain maddeningly gentle, more like afterthoughts than intention. A brush of fingers here, a slight squeeze there, as if he’s unconsciously checking that I’m still here.
“This isn’t what I expected,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. Something more…” I wave a hand vaguely, sending ripples across the water’s surface. “Calculated. Seductive. The famous Remy Harding charm offensive.”
His quiet laugh rumbles through his chest. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t actually spend every moment orchestrating elaborate seductions or manipulations.”
