The moment the words leave my mouth, I know I've gone too far. Sophie looks devastated, and even Mateo, usually quick with a comeback, seems at a loss. The silence stretches uncomfortably.
"I think," Declan finally says, his deep voice breaking the tension, "that we should continue this discussion after Ms. Sinclair has provided the information about the note." He turns to my mother. "If you'll come with me, please."
To my surprise, she doesn't protest, and follows Declan.
I say nothing, can't say anything past the lump in my throat.
"I'll leave my new number with your security team," she adds. "In case you..." She doesn't finish the thought, just nods at Declan to indicate she's ready to go.
As Declan leads her away, with Ethan following to presumably get the details about the package, I'm left standing in my living room with Mateo and a still-distraught Sophie.
"Miss Sinclair, I'm so, so sorry," Sophie begins, her voice trembling. "I had no idea..."
"Just go," I say wearily, the anger draining out of me, leaving only exhaustion in its wake. "We'll discuss this later."
She nods quickly and retreats, leaving me alone with Mateo, who shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
"You too," I tell him. "I need to be alone."
He hesitates, looking like he wants to say something, but ultimately nods and follows Sophie out.
The moment they're gone, I head straight for my bedroom, the one place in this house that still feels like a sanctuary. I lock the door behind me, slide down to the floor, and finally let the trembling take over.
Seeing my mother unleashed a tidal wave of memories I've spent years trying to suppress. Her constant criticism of my changing body during puberty. Her enforced diet regimens that left me dizzy and weak. "Beauty requiressacrifice, darling."
And worse, so much worse, her dismissal when I finally found the courage to tell her what Charles was doing to me. I was fourteen when the abuse started. Sixteen when I finally had the courage to tell her. Terrified and desperate for someone, anyone, to protect me.
It was Gloria who finally did. Gloria who helped me document the abuse, who connected me with lawyers, who stood by me when I filed for emancipation at sixteen. Gloria who stepped up to manage my career, free from Charles's controlling influence.
By seventeen, I was living on my own, setting boundaries with my mother that included a monthly allowance in exchange for her staying away from me and my career.
Until today.
And now this… Another threat involving that name: Little Doll. The same name from the note that arrived at the agency. The same name Charles used to whisper as he...
I press my hands to my eyes, willing the memories away. Charles is dead. He died three months after my emancipation, from an overdose. I saw the obituary. Felt the relief wash over me, knowing he would never hurt me again.
But someone knows. Someone is using his words, his methods, to terrorize me again. And now they've involved my mother.
I pull myself up from the floor and move to the window, looking out at the canyon beyond. The setting sun casts long shadows across the landscape, darkening the spaces between trees where someone could hide, watching.
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warm evening air. The sense of violation is overwhelming, not just from the threat itself, but from having my carefully constructed sanctuary invaded twice today. First by Declan, whose body against mine awoke something I have difficulty describing. And then by my mother, whose presence ripped open old wounds I thought had long since scarred over.
A soft knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts.
"Jade?" Ethan's voice, calm and measured. "May I speak with you? It's about the note your mother received."
I hesitate, not wanting to face anyone right now, but knowing I can't hide forever. The threat is real, and ignoring it won't make it go away.
"Just a minute," I call back, moving to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face, erasing the evidence of tears I didn't realize I'd shed.
I take a deep breath, straightening my shoulders and composing my features into the mask I've perfected over years in front of cameras. The Ice Queen, returning to her throne.
But as I reach for the door handle, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Eyes still vulnerable,posture still defensive. For a moment, I see not the composed professional, not the cold, untouchable model, but the frightened girl I once was.
Little Doll.
I close my eyes, banishing the image, and open the door to face whatever comes next.
