When the soft thud of her retreating footsteps faded, Rhys closed his eyes.
Once again, he’d believed what he wanted to see. Once again, he’d trusted the surface instead of the truth beneath it. And once again, he was the one who paid the price.
Chapter 3
Gaby fell into a relentless grind—if drowning in data could be called a grind. She spent her days poring over property records, distribution routes, and the handful of clandestine locations their intel suggested auction buyers preferred. Her evenings were spent tracing patterns with Rhys, working backward from real estate portfolios and shell companies instead of names.
It felt less like searching for a needle in a haystack and more like trying to determine which billionaire owned whichgilded haystack, and whether one hid Natalie.
Rhys made the work bearable and impossible at the same time. He was incisive and methodical, but nothing like the man he’d been with her before.
He was professional without the warmth he once gave so effortlessly. No flash of white teeth. No hint of that rare dimple. None of the subtle, teasing charm that once seemed directed only at her.
He didn’t mention the club and didn’t hint that he’d seen her that night. Maybe he hadn’t. Or he was simply that good at erecting walls.
They worked long hours, tightening the circle around a handful of potential buyers. After seven days of surveillance reports and digital forensics, Dev called them into the conference room. They finally had a lead.
When Callan put it up on the smart screen, Malcolm Pierce stared back at her—designer suit, polished smile, the kind of man who probably smelled of expensive cologne and superiority. His dossier listed him as a philanthropist and a political donor. Frequently interviewed by the evening news about humanitarian crises.
Pierce was the last person whose email should appear in a trafficking ledger.
Callan tapped a few keys, bringing up a surveillance highlight reel.
Pierce’s mansion loomed behind wrought-iron gates. Cars and two delivery trucks arrived and left. All were stopped and inspected. Staff moved briskly about their duties—security guards, a dog walker, and his personal chef.
No unfamiliar girls. No sketchy routines. No hidden rooms on thermal scans.
It all seemed normal. Performatively normal, to Gaby.
“The surveillance covered a seven-day window,” Callan confirmed. “Thermal, drone, and interior blueprint comparisons all came up with nothing.”
“We missed something,” she insisted, even though she knew Callan wasn’t the type to make mistakes.
“He’s been over it more than once,” Dev assured her. “As have I. Pierce is clean.”
“Or careful,” she murmured.
“Possibly,” Dev said, rubbing his jaw. “Or tipped off.”
The bottom dropped out of her stomach. If Pierce had gotten wind of Enzo’s death or the auction collapse, he would have erased every trail he had to Natalie.
“So… we’re too late?”
Rhys finally spoke—his voice low and even. “Pierce isn’t holding her. If he ever had her, she’s long since moved through his hands.”
The clinical certainty shouldn’t have hurt. But it did. Not because of him—because of what it meant for Natalie.
“If she was sold,” she managed around the lump in her throat, “there must be a money trail.”
Callan pulled up the financials. “Three offshore accounts tied to his buyer ID. No outgoing transfers out in the last few months.”
Dev exhaled slowly and confirmed, “It’s a dead end.”
Gaby’s lungs squeezed tight as hope vanished.
“Pierce isn’t our guy, but we’ve got another lead.” Rhys held out a file at the same moment she reached for it.
Their fingers brushed, fleeting and unintentional. She felt the warmth of his skin and caught the faint scent of bodywash.
