“You were right,” Barret says to Eddie.
“Of course I was.”Eddie tips his chin toward a small room off to the side.“I know our girl.”
The door is half-open, light spilling out in a warm strip across the tiles.“That’s an ensuite,” he explains.“Suits, towels—everything you’d need to use this place.”His voice softens, but it doesn’t lose its force.“I know it doesn’t erase the cage he built around you.I know freedom doesn’t come in what seems like a safehouse.But, fuck, Cleo—we’re trying.This is us trying to build something that feels like the rest of your life instead of what he took from you.”
The truth of it breaks me open in the quietest way.This is about them standing here, handing me pieces of myself like they believe I still belong to a future.
And maybe I do.
Maybe survival isn’t just about not dying.Perhaps it’s about learning how to live when love is the one thing that still terrifies me.
ChapterNineteen
Eddie
The last thing I want today is a visit from Arthur Bradley and his son.When he messaged me that he’d be coming by, Cleo said she didn’t want any part of the meeting.She preferred to slip into the pool and pretend she’s a mermaid for the day.She’ll want answers when they’re necessary—no sooner.
Feeding information too early will only feed her anxiety, and God knows she carries enough of it already.
It’s enough that she lives with the constant dread of Dorian storming in, dragging her away, and killing us in the process.I hadn’t realized how deep that fear ran until she said it aloud.I promised her we were safe.I promised her I’d ask Arthur for a couple of bodyguards to keep watch, just in case.She shook her head.Not yet.She doesn’t want more eyes on her.Cleo spent too long under surveillance in that gilded cage with Dorian.Another pair of men patrolling the house would only feel like chains all over again.
I promised I’d do it as she requested, unless necessary.At least she’s talking now—that’s something.That’s progress.
“Gentlemen,” I say as I take my seat, forcing civility into my tone.“I won’t lie—this is a surprise.I hope you brought good news.”
Mason slides a folder across the table.The edges are frayed, the tabs chewed down like they’ve been worried at for weeks.“We have information,” he says.“And a plan.”
“A plan?”My eyebrow arches, suspicion sharp.
“Optics first,” Arthur says smoothly.“When a woman vanishes, the world looks at the man who claims to love her.Husband.Significant other.In this case, it’s the fiancé.The lens doesn’t move.That instinct works for us.”
“We didn’t need to paint him in a bad light to anyone,” Mason adds, voice flat.“We let the picture form itself.Right now, the investigators are already digging into his business.We’re simply showing them what he’s tried to hide.”
Arthur’s grin cuts across the table.“They’ve already got him by the throat.”
Mason taps the folder once, finally lifting his gaze.“Two tracks.A public story that cools the pursuit of her and shifts the guilt onto him.And a private case that destroys him.”
“Define ‘cools,’” I ask, throat dry.
“We’re ready for the next phase.We make them stop looking for a breathing woman,” Mason explains.“Let the world believe she’s gone.”
Across from me, Barret’s foot stills mid-bounce.“You’re talking about?—”
“A tragedy that leaves no one to rescue,” Arthur finishes smoothly.His eyes cut from me to Barret.“A body, semi-recognizable.No trail to reopen.A loss swallowed by the water, because water doesn’t give back what it takes.”
My stomach twists.“You’re asking us to kill her on paper.”
Arthur steeples his fingers.“I’m asking you to protect her in practice.To give him a story that convinces him the hunt is over.Monsters get careless when they think the gate is shut.”
Barret leans forward, forearms pressed into his thighs, his posture taut with disbelief.“Walk us through it—without teaching us how to commit a crime.”
A corner of Mason’s mouth tips up as if he appreciates the line drawn.“We don’t commit crimes.”He smirks.“We play chess.We walk the gray, but we don’t cross it.”
Arthur nods.“We create a last-seen that can’t be disproven—busy enough to muddy, ordinary enough to stick.Then we arrange an ‘accident’ with which no one can argue.People don’t go back to the cliff that takes them.They learn to leave flowers and move on.”
Barret’s throat works.“And her family?”
Arthur points at me.“You said you’d have that covered,” Arthur says.
