Therearetoomanyeyes on her.
The room buzzes with the electrifying energy of the fight playing out on the big screen, but every glance towards Darla feels like a weight pressing down on my chest. No one’s doing anything wrong—just guys half-watching the middleweight title match, beers in hand, blood and sweat replaying on the screen. I don't even catch the names of the fighters. My focus is a laser. I can’t pull it away from her.
Each glance from the men in the room lands like a warning bell. Even when it's nothing, just the familiar habit of men clocking a woman, it doesn't matter. It registers deep within me. I can’t help the visceral reaction that tightens my gut and makes my hand clench, making my instincts to protect stay alert.
Darla’s curled into the corner of the couch, knees pulled up, arms wrapped around her middle as if she’s trying to hold herself together. Her hair is still damp from the shower; I know Candace helped scrub the auction off her skin. She looks so smallin one of my long-sleeve tees and sweats, but she’s still sitting like they’re clinging to her—like she’s drowning in the weight of them.
Frankie’s posted nearby. She’s not sitting, not talking. Just hovering. It’s that protective orbit she always creates, head tilted like she’s listening for something we can’t hear, ready to spring into action if necessary.
I lean against the inside corner of the bar, glass in hand, watching everything and nothing. Malachi, Knox, and Nash are all with me, clustered at the end of the bar, our own silent, watchful guard. The fight on the screen is just noise. My real focus is her.
“This makes two,” Knox says, his voice low, cutting through the manufactured noise of the cheering crowd on TV.
Malachi doesn’t answer right away; he just narrows his eyes, contemplating.
Knox presses on. “Two fathers. Two daughters. Same endgame.”
Nash shifts on his stool, arms crossed. “Candace’s dad tried to sell her off for debt. Now Graves is trying to sell Darla off in a marriage contract.” His tone is matter-of-fact, but the underlying tension is palpable.
Malachi exhales through his nose, frustration evident. “That’s not a coincidence.”
“No,” Knox agrees, his voice tightening. “It’s a pattern.”
My jaw clenches. I take a slow sip of whiskey, eyes never leaving the couch. Trent’s still breathing, Winston still has his claws in the city, and I’m supposed to just sit here and do nothing.
“We need to figure out how deep this goes,” Knox says, glancing around as if searching for answers in the chaos of the room.
Malachi’s jaw tightens, determination etched in his features. “Then we trace the pattern. Start with who’s connected.”
“I already started,” I say, my voice low and rough. All their heads turn to me. “I went to my parents' place after she ran to Frankie’s. Used my dad's system to look for a connection between Graves and Moreland.” I take a pull of my whiskey. “I found a thread. A shell corp called the Vassallo Foundation links the two of them. I was going to bring it up at the next meeting, but… things got complicated.” My eyes flick toward the couch where Darla sits, the unspoken chaos of the last few days hanging in the air.
Malachi gives a sharp nod, his expression grim. “Good. It’s a start.”
Behind us, a soft voice cuts in. “Power protects itself. And it feeds on silence.”
We all turn. Frankie is standing right behind us, her pale hands folded in front of her. She doesn’t startle anyone; she just appears, calm as lake water amidst the storm, as if she’d been part of the conversation all along.
“People like Graves don’t work alone,” she says, her voice steady and firm. “They never do. And they don’t just wake up one day and decide to sell their daughters.”
Malachi gives her a long look, not of disbelief, but simply waiting to see if she’s finished.
Frankie’s eyes flick toward Darla, then back at us. “Start looking at who benefits. Not just who pays.”
Candace slides in beside Malachi, her hand brushing his arm in a gesture of solidarity. “She’s right,” she adds, her eyes scanning the room as if the threat is lurking in the shadows.
Then Ruby bounces up next to Knox, her glitter eyeliner catching the light like a spark. “You want dirt from people who eat foie gras and vote against school lunches? I got you,” she says, her tone chipper but her words sharp.
Candace tips her chin at Ruby, curious. “You’re still on those guest lists?”
“My dad’s a judge,” Ruby replies, unapologetic. “They can’t uninvite me without pissing off half the golf course.”
Knox arches a brow, intrigued.
Ruby grins wider, leaning in like she’s sharing a secret. “Let me crash a brunch or two. You’d be amazed what rich people say when they think I’m just the flaky redhead with daddy’s money.” She winks at Nash. He doesn't react, but I see the corner of his mouth twitch, a barely there smirk he fights to suppress.
Malachi nods once, slow and deliberate. “Use it.”
She salutes with two fingers and spins back toward the bar, her energy infectious.
