Luka is already gone. I run my palm across the empty side of the bed, the sheets cool beneath my touch and try to remember what time he left. I pull my knees up and wrap my arms around them,letting myself sink into the quiet. Outside, I hear the faint call of a bird settling somewhere in the pines. For a moment, I pretend I can stay here, wrapped in this soft cocoon, waiting for Luka to return with that intense look that warms my insides more than I want to admit. But reality pushes in hard, refusing to let me hide in this temporary comfort.
Hope is still missing. Ray's last message echoes through my skull, dark and cold.
Don't disappoint me.
My stomach knots, twisting like someone grabbed it and pulled, and I press a palm to it, as if I can slow the wave of dread rolling through me. The pressure doesn’t help, but I keep my hand there anyway because doing something feels better than doing nothing. I glance at the pillow where I hid the phone last night, tucked beneath the soft down like it could somehow disappear if I buried it deep enough. The thought of checking it again tightens my throat, making swallowing difficult. I don't need another message from him to know the truth. The clock is already counting down to something I can't stop.
Vega lifts his head finally, his intelligent eyes tracking me as I move toward the window. His ears twitch with quiet alertness, like he knows my thoughts are dangerous and shouldn't be left unattended. I wonder sometimes if he can sense fear the way dogs are supposed to, or if my anxiety smells different than my calm.
“I'm fine,” I murmur, brushing my fingertips over his head as I pass. His fur is soft and thick, warm from sleep. “Or I will be.”
He watches me stand at the glass, his gaze never leaving my back. Pines stretch along the slope outside, their tips dustedwith frost and sunlight. The snow from last night clings to the branches in thin white lines, delicate as lace. Mist curls between the trunks, rising like smoke from the earth, and the whole scene looks like something from a postcard. Somewhere out there, Hope breathes through tape on her mouth, terrified and alone. The thought steals whatever air I managed to fill my lungs with, and I have to brace my hands on the windowsill to keep upright.
I press my forehead lightly to the cold glass. The chill sinks into my skin and holds me still for a moment, enough to make the decision solidify inside my chest. My breath fogs the window in small circles that fade and reappear with each exhale.
I'm done waiting. I'm done hoping Luka's hunt will be faster than Ray's cruelty. If Ray needs proof, I’ll follow his instructions, and he'll get it. But he won't get the real thing. I'm not giving him anything that can destroy Luka. I'll give him a distraction, something flashy enough to buy Hope more time without harming the man who keeps pulling me back from the edge. The plan isn't perfect, but it's all I have, and imperfect plans are better than no plans at all.
My pulse kicks up, hammering against my ribs hard enough that I feel it in my throat. The decision feels terrifying and absolutely necessary, two opposing forces colliding in my chest until I can barely breathe around them.
I turn away from the window and move toward the door. My steps are slow at first, my legs stiff from sleep, until my muscles warm enough to support me. The hardwood floor is cool under my bare feet, enough to make me shiver. Vega rises and pads after me, his nails clicking softly across the wood in a rhythm that's become familiar over these past days.
“Stay,” I whisper once I reach the stairs. My hand rests on the banister while I glance down at him, meeting those dark eyes. “Please.”
He tilts his head, ears rotating forward in confusion, but he stops moving. His tail flicks once against the rug, a reluctant agreement. It's the best I can hope for. I know he'll follow eventually if I'm gone too long, his protective instincts overriding my quiet command, but right now I need a few minutes without his watchful presence.
I ease my way down the stairs, each tread creaking faintly in the morning quiet, the sound magnified in the stillness. The main level smells faintly of Luka's coffee, dark and rich, lingering from whatever time he left. I can almost taste its bitterness on my tongue, remembering how he takes it black, without sugar or cream.
The kitchen counter holds a mug next to a folded piece of paper with my name scrawled across the front in his firm handwriting. The letters slant slightly to the right, confident and precise. I reach for the note, my hand pausing halfway, fingers hovering in the air. If I open it, I might fall into whatever quiet promise he left inside, and I don't have time for that. I can't afford to let his words pull me away from what I need to do. Not now.
I move past the kitchen and into the hallway where Luka's office waits behind a closed door. The brass handle gleams in the morning light. Every instinct in me screams not to touch it. My hand trembles as I reach forward, hovering just above the metal. It feels like crossing a line I can't uncross and stepping over a boundary that once breached will change everything between us. But Hope is worth every line.
I press my palm to the cool metal and turn it slowly, the mechanism clicking softly as the latch releases. The door opens without a sound, swinging inward on well-oiled hinges.
The office smells like wood polish, paper, and the faint scent of Luka's cologne, permanently absorbed into everything he owns. The combination is unmistakably him, masculine and expensive. The heavy desk sits beneath the large window, its surface neat except for the closed laptop positioned dead center. Everything else is organized with almost obsessive neatness, pens lined up in a leather holder, papers stacked in exact alignment, a leather-bound notebook placed parallel to the desk's edge.
My pulse jumps at the sight of the laptop, a sudden spike that makes my fingers tingle. The password Ray included in yesterday's package burns in the back of my mind, the numbers and letters seared into my memory no matter how hard I try to forget them. I pulled the slip of paper from the box after Jenny left yesterday, reading it once before tucking it deep in my pocket where no one would find it. I never wanted to memorize it, but my brain refused to let it go, clinging to those characters like they were the only thing keeping Hope alive.
I cross the room on soft steps and sit in the leather chair. The cushion is firm, expensive, and too large for me. My feet barely touch the ground when I settle back. The chair smells like Luka, and guilt twists through me as I adjust my position. My fingers rest on the laptop lid for a moment, feeling the smooth aluminum casing. It’s cool under my palm, the temperature seeping into my skin.
My hands tremble as I open it, the motion feeling both too fast and agonizingly slow. The screen wakes instantly, bright and alert, the password field glowing against a dark background. Thecursor blinks at me, waiting, demanding input. I stare at it for several heartbeats, my fingers frozen above the keyboard. This is my last chance to stop, close the laptop, and walk away, finding another solution that doesn't involve betraying Luka's trust. But there is no other solution. Not one that gets Hope back alive.
I type the code from the slip of paper, each keystroke feeling like a small detonation inside my chest. The screen unlocks, and my breath stutters, relief mixing with horror. I shouldn't be relieved. I shouldn't feel anything except guilt. But this small victory feels like a thread I can pull to keep Hope alive, even if it means compromising everything else.
The desktop loads with neat rows of folders and files, each one labeled with dates and encrypted titles that mean nothing to me at first glance. Ray’s instructions replay in my mind as I scroll. He told me which folder names to look for.
Several folders line up on the screen. I hover the cursor over one labeled ARCHIVE MASTER and click it open, my hand unsteady on the trackpad. I handled all of Bean & Bloom’s accounts, supplier files, and inventory logs for years. Spreadsheets don’t scare me. Men like Ray do.
Migrated shipment logs fill the screen, followed by older transaction summaries and inventory sheets from years ago. Nothing new or harmful. Everything buried deep enough that no one looks at it unless they’re trying to solve ancient accounting mysteries. The files are outdated, irrelevant to current operations, leftovers from years past that serve no purpose except historical record-keeping.
They’re perfect. I open one of the older files and double-click it until it fills the screen. Columns of numbers fill my vision, endless rows of data that blur together. My throat tightens, themuscles constricting until breathing becomes an active effort. I can't give Ray anything real. If Luka pays the price because of me, I'll never be able to live with myself. But an outdated log won't hurt him. It'll look legitimate enough to satisfy Ray while protecting Luka from real damage.
I copy several folders onto the USB drive I tucked into my pocket last night. The small click of the port connecting sounds louder than it should, echoing in the quiet office. I wince and glance toward the door, half expecting to see someone standing there, but the hallway remains empty.
The progress bar crawls across the screen, a thin blue line that moves agonizingly slowly. I watch the percentage climb, one digit at a time, my foot tapping against the floor in small, nervous movements I can't control. My leg bounces with excess energy that has nowhere else to go. Ten percent. Twenty percent. Each increment feels like an eternity.
When the last folder transfers, I open one of the copied files and begin altering it. My fingers fly across the keyboard, muscle memory from years of managing Bean & Bloom's records taking over. I change dates and push timestamps forward by years. I move delivery schedules into the last few days, creating a false sense of immediacy. I swap out the names of old locations for ones Luka's mentioned recently in passing, like the warehouse district and the rail yard. It looks real enough to pass a quick glance, yet harmless enough to protect him. The data is meaningless, useless for anyone trying to damage his actual operations.
My chest tightens as I work, unease creeping through me like cold water rising. The cursor blinks on the screen like a heartbeat. Each edit feels like a betrayal, even though I'm doingeverything I can to prevent one. The irony isn't lost on me, lying to protect the person I'm lying to.
