“Am I?” He tosses the tracker onto the table, and I grab it, my cheeks still hot. “Put it in your pocket or inside your waistband, wherever works. It’s just a precaution. You wander off, I’ll know.”
I roll my eyes, pocketing the tracker, but my heart’s racing, and not just from embarrassment. His teasing, that Daddy edge—it’s doing things to me I don’t want to admit.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But you’reridiculous.”
Travis chuckles, sipping his coffee.
“Get used to it.,” Travis says, a wry smile on his face. “Now, go prep for work. Do a good job today, gather some intel, and you might just get a reward tonight. Like a good boy.”
My breath catches, and I blush so hard I’m sure my face is glowing. The way he says “good boy,” all low and commanding, sends a shiver through me, my body humming with excitement and arousal.
I’m under the thumb of a vigilante Daddy, and God help me, I’m not hating it as much as I should. I nod, submissive despite myself, and stand, heading to the guest room to change. Mymind’s a mess—part of me wants to fight him, part of me wants to please him, and all of me knows I’m in deeper than ever.
The tracker’s a small, cold weight tucked inside the waistband of my smart chino pants, hidden beneath my blouse as I step into the open-plan office of Knox & Rain Law. The buzz of the workplace hits me—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, the hum of colleagues chatting over morning coffee.
It’s familiar, comforting, but today it feels like I’m walking into a lion’s den with a secret strapped to me. I giggle under my breath, the absurd image of Travis, all stern and Daddy-like, slipping that tracker somewherewaymore invasive—like my butt—flashing through my mind.
My cheeks flush, and I shake my head, muttering, “Get it together, Miles.”
The thought’s ridiculous, but it sends a tingle through me, that mix of embarrassment and thrill Travis seems to spark without trying.
I wave at Sarah and Mike, two junior associates, tossing them a cheery “Good morning!” as I head to my desk. They smile back, oblivious to the storm in my head.
My desk’s a mess of case files and Post-its, a stark contrast to Travis’s sterile apartment, and I settle in, my heart pounding. I’m here to do my job, act normal, but Travis’s words from this morning echo:Look for something hiding in plain sight.
I’ve never doubted Knox & Rain before—they’re the good guys, the ones who fight for people like my grandfather. But that note—Next time, you’re dead—and Travis’s insistence that my firm’s dirty have planted a seed of doubt I can’t shake.
“Okay, let’s get to this,” I say, my mind whirring and in full work-mode.
I boot up my computer, sipping the coffee I grabbed from the office kitchen, and dive into the firm’s internal records…
It’s routine stuff at first—client lists, billing records, case logs. I’ve accessed these before, but today I’m looking with new eyes, searching for anything off.
The coffee’s bitter, not as good as Travis’s, and I’m on my second cup when something catches my attention. A client file labeled “Obsidian Ventures”—the same shell company I flagged in my Night Ops Guard research.
It’s buried in a subfolder, marked as inactive, but the payment records are recent, large sums wired to offshore accounts. My stomach twists. This isn’t the kind of case Knox & Rain usually takes—no small-town plaintiffs, no underdog fights. Just money, and lots of it.
I dig deeper, my pulse racing.
Another file links Obsidian Ventures to a shipping company I recognize from a case three years ago, one tied to a cartel I helped expose. The numbers don’t add up—consulting fees for services never rendered, invoices with vague descriptions.
It’s the kind of thing I’d have glossed over before, assuming it was just sloppy bookkeeping.
But Travis’s right—my eyes are open now, and this looks wrong.
Reallywrong.
I glance around, making sure no one’s watching, and snap screenshots on my phone, my fingers trembling. I don’t dare save anything to my computer—what if IT flags it? What if Kyle or the senior partners are watching?
The thought makes my skin crawl.
I’ve trusted this firm with my career, my purpose, but what if Travis’s suspicions are true?
By late afternoon, my head’s spinning, and the office is emptying out.
I’ve got a dozen screenshots, each one a puzzle piece that doesn’t fit the Knox & Rain I know. I lean back, rubbing my temples, the tracker a constant reminder of Travis’s control. He told me to come straight back to his place, to report what I found, but the weight of the day—those irregularities, the doubt about my firm—has me craving something normal, something safe.
Jack’s café pops into my mind, his giggles and warm hugs a balm for my frayed nerves.
