“Then what is?”
“What doyouhave?” he asks. “Not yesterday. Not ten years ago. Not in a story that was written for you to survive. What do you have now that you can build with?”
“I have the hotel,” I say. He lifts a brow. “I have the people,” I correct, “I have a staff that works for tips and pride and would follow a leader who made both easier. I have a dog who’s famous in the service corridor. I have a brain that doesn’t stop and hands that know how to write a policy and make it sound like a promise instead of a punishment for the employees that it will help. I have three men—four—” The word snags in my throat like a fishhook. “—I have men I love. And I have a father figure who makes it easy to ask for something big, which is amazing when the men I was raised around are the worst kind.”
He presses his lips tight together for a moment. “And if the test comes back with an answer you don’t like?”
I want to say it won’t. I want to say it will. Both are lies until a lab tech prints a sheet with the answers on it. I set my palms on the table and feel the wood. It’s solid and nicked and real.
“Well…I never planned to marry a last name for the money it brings,” I say. “I will not let a piece of shit decide how we speak about each other in rooms that matter. I will not be a secret, and I will not let anyone make me into a symbol that excuses their bad behavior. If the result says I’m a Masterson, I will turn that name into policy, and a charity line item and a five-year plan. If it says I’m not, we will eat celebratory cake and get back to work. Either way, I’m going home.”
He grins. It changes his whole face. “That sounds like a good plan.”
I don’t get to put on a brave face for very long. The tears are slower than I expect, like my body doesn’t want to waste the water on a possibility instead of a certainty. They come anyway, hot and surprised, and I put my head in my hands because there’s something undignified about crying upright. Zeus noses my shin and then leans the full, stupid weight of his head on my foot. Spencer slides a box of tissues across the table without commentary and looks out the window until I’m finished.
When I am, he speaks like we’re reading from a list of tasks that need to be done.
“Here is what happens next,” he says. “We stay dark for twenty-four hours. The lab calls me as soon as they have anything worth hearing. You do not get ambushed by a ringtone or by one of your men trying to be with you. When we have that, we decide the order of operations. If it’s the worst version, we talk to an attorney before we talk to your boys so we know exactly what landmines exist that are legal and not emotional. If it’s the other version, we call your boys and tell them to stop bleeding in the war room and get the house ready for you to come back and terrify everyone.”
“I don’t terrify everyone,” I say, sniffling.
“You terrify men who should be terrified,” he says, amused. “Which is good.”
Jace pops his head in with a knock like a courtesy. “Perimeter’s clean. I’ll rotate with Ortiz at two. Got you the caffeine you like,” he adds to me, setting a bottled cold brew on the counter. He hesitates. “We’re with you, Ms. Jones. If that’s not forward. It’s easy to cut a paycheck and demand loyalty. But you… You take care of your people.”
“It’s forward,” I say, touched. “And absolutely perfect. Thank you.”
“We signed up to work for a queen,” he says, like it’s just a fact he kept in his pocket until now. “Kings are fine. But they always make it about them, little punks.”
I laugh, an actual sound. “You’re not wrong.”
He tips two fingers and disappears.
“Does everyone think I’m a monarch?” I ask Spencer.
“They think you’re a center of gravity,” he says. “They’re not wrong either.”
The afternoon moves on to small tasks. Spencer writes down a list of things he wants me to consider not because they’re rules but because they’re the kind of anchors you want in place before the boat takes on speed again. Who on staff is vulnerable. Which vendors he knows to be dirty. Two names at the DA’s office with spines that I can use. Three judges who don’t like theater and will be likely allies in the upcoming shitstorm. The house lawyer who should be fired as soon as there’s a ladder built under the new one because he’s going to feed information to the old guard.
I draft the escort and lighting policy language and send it to the anonymous email Atticus will be refreshing like it owes him money if I know him at all.
Once I’m done with that, I rework the housekeeping route structure.
I put together a preliminary memo to the staff that doesn’t use the word “trafficking” because they already know the word. Instead, it uses “safety” and “dignity” and “we saw you” and “we will not let this happen again.”
By evening, the light in the little house turns the color of tea. Spencer grills chicken on a rickety Weber like he’s happy with cheap meat and a fight worth having. I sit on the porch steps with my plate and let the night come in layers. Jace eats standing, back to the railing, eyes on the road. Ortiz eats on the hood of his car and tells Zeus he’s a handsome boy. Zeus agrees with every bite of chicken Ortiz tosses.
The burner rings at nine. Spencer answers with a neutral “Yes.”
He listens. He asks two questions that I don’t have time to process. He says “thank you” and hangs up and looks at me. He won’t make drama where there isn’t any. He won’t soften what matters either.
“Prelim says no match,” he says. “You are Masterson’s daughter, but there aren’t enough markers to make the worst version possible. The twenty-four-hour will confirm or correct. But the fast read says he was playing a game, because you and Conrad are not related.”
The air comes back into my body like I’ve been underwater and didn’t notice. I close my eyes and let myself sway once. Spencer is a wall without moving.
“Thank you,” I say, voice thin.
The truth is hitting me in waves. I don’t want to think about what this means. I’m Masterson’s daughter. Conrad is not my half-brother.
