A man can stand on a landmine for days. It’s the click that changes him.
Iris Hale.The name repeats in my head.
I shouldn’t go back in there.
Smart money says I walk to the garage, get in the secondary car, and drive until the road turns into another country. Let Varro handle the mess. Let William Hale wonder where the monster he unleashed and his daughter went.
But I can’t run.
I have an empire to defend. Men to lead. Debts that don’t dissolve because the creditor might be rotten.
I turn away from the mirror and exit the bathroom, swiping the license from my desk.
The walk to the Guest Suite feels different this time. Before, I was hunting. Now I’m walking into a room where every sentence has a body count attached to it.
I don’t soften my steps. I let my boots strike the floor, hard and deliberate. I want her to hear me. I want her braced.
At the entrance, I verify the lock status on the keypad. Still engaged.
I punch in the code.
The lock releases with a dull clunk.
I push the door open and step inside.
The room hasn’t changed, but the air is thick and charged with fear.
She’s not in the chair anymore.
She stands near the reinforced glass, staring out at the storm like the ocean might offer her an exit if she looks hard enough. When she turns, the desperation in her face hits first, sharper than fear.
She’s wearing my shirt. The hem skims mid-thigh. The sleeves are rolled up poorly, her hands freed because she refuses to look helpless.
A girl in borrowed clothes, if you ignore the bruise on her throat and the war in her eyes.
Her gaze flicks to the silk wrapped around my hand. To the dark stain seeping through the black fabric. She notices but doesn’t ask.
I walk to the center of the room and stop, taking the plastic card from my pocket.
One flick of my wrist and the license spins, landing on the coffee table face up.
Her face. Her name.
She stares at the card, then at me, like the floor has shifted under her.
“You went through my things,” she whispers.
I ignore her and take a step closer.
“Iris Hale.” I say the name like an accusation. “You forgot to mention that part.”
Her chin lifts. It’s a reflex. She’s terrified, but the training holds. She’s trying to look like a Hale.
“I told you my father is a judge,” she says. Her words are steady, but her voice isn’t. “I told you he’s important.”
“You told me he’s a judge.” I close the distance by another inch. “You didn’t tell me he’s William Hale.”
Her brows knit. Confusion first, then something close to alarm.
