“Maybe not,” she says. “But it is my reality now. So I need to deal with it.”
She straightens her shoulders, stepping away from Diego’s protective arm. He pouts, but she doesn’t see it.
“So what now?” she asks, looking at each of us in turn. “What’s the plan?”
Before any of us can answer, the sound of my phone vibrating cuts through the tension. I pull it from my pocket, glancing at the screen. A number I don’t recognize.
“Sterling,” I answer, my voice clipped.
“Mr. Sterling, this is Detective Forbes.” The voice on the other end is gruff, professional. “We need to speak with Ms. Clarke about some new developments in the gallery case. As soon as possible.”
I feel my spine stiffen. “What kind of developments?”
“The kind I’d rather discuss in person,” Forbes says. “With Ms. Clarke present. We’ll be at your building in twenty minutes.”
He hangs up before I can respond, leaving me staring at the phone with a growing sense of unease.
“What is it?” Tristan asks, watching my face.
“That was Detective Forbes,” I say, turning to Zoe. “He’s coming here. About the gallery case.”
Her face pales, but her chin lifts with that same quiet determination I noticed before. “Good,” she says, though her voice trembles slightly. “Maybe they’ve caught whoever did it.”
But something in my gut tells me it’s not that simple. Nothing about this has been simple from the start.
I look at my brothers, taking in their expressions. Tristan, for once, isn’t trying to lighten the mood with a joke. Diego’s eyes are dark with worry, his hands clenched at his sides as if physically restraining himself from reaching for Zoe again. Dane stands like a sentinel, his phone still in his hand, already planning three moves ahead for whatever is coming.
And in the center of it all, Zoe. Our beta. Ourmate. The woman who wandered into our lives and unwittingly claimed a place at the center of our pack.
This is our life now. Fighting off gossip reporters disguised as florists. Preparing for police interrogations. Trying to protect her from threats we may not see coming, all while pretending we’re not quickly becoming addicted to the peace that she brings.
We need a better plan. Because right now, we’re just reacting. And in my experience, the ones who only react are the ones who eventually lose.
I won’t lose her. Not to a reporter with carnations. Not to whoever vandalized her gallery.
Not to anyone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Dane
Detective Forbes sits on our couch like he’s afraid it might break under him, his massive hands dwarfing the coffee mug Diego insisted on offering.
“We’ve been going through the gallery’s client list,” he says, glancing down at his notepad. “Looking for anyone with a grudge. But so far, nothing stands out.”
I stand against the wall, arms crossed, watching. Observing. It’s what I do best. Rett is in the armchair opposite Forbes, his posture casual but his eyes sharp. Tristan leans against the fireplace, and Diego hovers near Zoe, who sits on the edge of the couch, her back straight and her hands clasped in her lap.
“What about former employees?” Rett asks. “Rejected artists? Competitors?”
Forbes shakes his head. “We checked. Most of the gallery’s operations are remarkably drama-free.” He looks directly at Zoe. “Which brings us to our current theory.”
She tenses, almost imperceptibly. “Which is?”
“That this wasn’t about the gallery at all,” Forbes says, setting down his mug. “It was about you.”
The room goes quiet. I feel my brothers shift, a subtle realignment like planets adjusting their orbits. Protecting her. Surrounding her without moving an inch.
“Me?” Zoe repeats, her voice small. “But I don’t have enemies. I’m an assistant curator. The most controversial thing I’ve ever done is suggest we hang a modernist piece in the classical wing.”
