I always plan for when someone looks.
I pause on one file. The timestamp catches my attention.
The bathroom footage.
I click it open, leaning back in my chair as the video loads.
She looks real.
Not performing. Not posing. Not aware that anyone's watching. Just existing in a moment, she thought was hers alone. There's something almost painfully genuine about the way she moves, the way she studies herself in the mirror with that slight frown like she's searching for something she can't quite find.
I didn't expect her to look like that.
Not vulnerable in the way I anticipated — breakable and weak. But real in a way that makes this more complicated than it should be. Because real innocence disrupts revenge narratives. Real victims make it harder to justify what comes next.
I close the file and lean forward, my elbows resting on the desk.
Adela Kalkaska was never supposed to matter. She was collateral damage at best, leverage at worst. The mayor's precious daughter dating the judge's precious son. It was all so perfectly incestuous, the kind of political dynasty bullshit that makes me want to burn the whole system down.
But watching her discover what Cody really is, watching that foundation crack and splinter beneath her feet — there's something satisfying about that. Something that feels like justice, even if it's not the justice she deserves.
I pull up another window and start transferring files to an encrypted server.
My phone buzzes against the desk. I lift it, but it’s not who I want to hear from, so I ignore it.
I think about Beckett.
About the way he moved last night in her dorm room — or more specifically, the way he hesitated before moving. I've known Beckett long enough to read his every tell. And last night, there were shifts I didn't like.
He shielded her.
Not obviously. Not in a way she would notice. But when Silas went to grab her, Beckett angled his body between them for just a fraction of a second. When I kicked him in the ribs, he didn't look at me — didn't meet my eyes the way he always does when we're working together.
He took the hits without looking at me.
That's new.
Beckett and I have done worse than this before. We've scared people, hurt people, and made them disappear when necessary. It's never been personal — just business, just strategy, just doingwhat needed to be done. And Beckett never flinched, questioned, or hesitated.
Until now.
Until her.
I close the laptop and stand, walking to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city. Seattle spreads out below me like a circuit board, all lights and connections and pathways I've learned to navigate. My father's world. His political machine. His carefully constructed empire built on backroom deals and strategic alliances.
He thinks I don't pay attention. Thinks I'm just the disappointing son who plays hockey and fucks around instead of following in his footsteps. He has no idea I've been watching, learning, understanding exactly how power actually works in this city.
And right now, I'm about to use it.
I pick up my phone and dial a number I'm not supposed to have.
It rings twice before someone answers. "Yes?"
"The transfer needs to happen today," I say, my voice flat and businesslike. "Private transport. No public record."
"That's highly irregular—"
"I'm aware. But Judge Ravenshaw has requested discretion given the sensitivity of his son's condition." The lie rolls off my tongue smooth as silk. "The family wants him moved to a private facility. Better security. Better care. You understand."
