The moment Emmy disappeared into the bedroom, fury took its place. I dragged fresh clothes from my closet and laid them out on the bed, something soft, something that would smell like me, because her things wouldn’t arrive for hours and I couldn’t stand the thought of her feeling unanchored in my space.
Then I called Jaxon.
Because I needed the envelope open.
And I needed a witness when it destroyed what little control I had left.
“This doesn’t make sense!” I roar, the words tearing out of my chest as I hurl my glass of whisky at the wall.
It explodes on impact. Glass shards scatter like shrapnel, amber liquid bleeding down the concrete in slow, mocking streaks. The crash echoes through the penthouse, violent and final.
My breathing comes too fast. My head throbs like it’s being split open from the inside.
The envelope lies gutted on the counter behind me.
Inside it, hell. Photos. Messages. Time stamps. Locations.
Everything about the day Liam died.
Every detail I’ve spent years trying to bury has been laid out with surgical precision. But that’s not what’s breaking me.
It’s the pages withmy nameon them.
My movements. My location. My assignments.
I was on a job that day, one my father sent me on. Clean. Official. Documented.
So why the hell was I being tracked?
“Khai,” Jaxon says carefully, his voice tight with concern. “You need to calm down, man.”
He doesn’t come any closer. He knows better.
I rake a hand through my hair, pacing like a caged animal. “None of this adds up. If this is about Liam, why am I in these files? Why was I being monitored?”
Because you weren’t just a son. You were leverage.
The thought hits like a blade.
My jaw clenches as the truth starts to surface, ugly, unavoidable. My father didn’t just orchestrate events. He controlled the narrative. He always has.
And now Emmy is part of it.
I glance toward the hallway, toward the bedroom door where she’s showering, unaware of how close she is to the blast radius.
Too close.
I straighten, something cold and lethal settling into my chest.
If my father is willing to dig this deep, if he’s willing to usemeas collateral, then she isn’t just vulnerable.
She’s a target.
And I don’t care what lines I have to cross anymore.
No one touches what’s mine.
Soft footsteps cut through the tension.
