“Then you’d better lead, Jules. You’ll sell it best.” I’m too amped up to figure out the right role to play in this scenario.
We all square our shoulders and start toward the men waiting at the table.
“We’ll tell you what you need to know,” Jules says as we approach. “And nothing else.”
Hudson leans back in his chair. He wears a façade of easy charm, but his eyes are razor sharp. “That’s a good start, because I’ve got a shit ton of questions.”
“Don’t we all,” Luna shoots back.
Jules continues, “Those names on the wall aren’t what you think.”
Enzo tilts his head. “Oh? So, it’s not a hit list? One thatincludes a mark that looks a hell of a lot like President Magnus Troy.”
“Then maybe you should stop assuming and listen,” Luna cuts in. She’s calm, but I know her pulse is pounding. She hates confrontation.
He meets her stare, seemingly both wary and impressed. “I’m listening.”
“We’re not about to explain our entire operation,” Jules begins. “You stumbled into something that wasn’t meant for you. And now we have to make sure everyone walks away intact.”
Enzo leans forward. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,” she says evenly, “we’ll give you enough context to understand why you can’t interfere. Nothing more.”
Luna adds, “We don’t owe you anything—least of all trust—but we’re offering clarity. Take it or leave it.”
Hudson glances between us, his grin absent now. “Guess we’ll take it.”
No one moves for a long beat. Finally, Jules gestures for us to sit. We take our places across from the men, the whiteboards of names and red thread looming behind us like a confession on their own.
For the first time in a decade, we’re not the only ones who know what lives inside these walls. As the words start to come, slow and deliberate, I can feel the ground shifting beneath us.
Something tells me that once the cracks form, we won’t be able to close them.
EIGHT
embedded
Hudson
Monday Evening, Day 5
The women take their seats at the long oak table where we were told to wait. Enzo and I sit on one side, Luna and Pippa across from us. The one I don’t know anchors herself at the head of the table, with Niko rounding out the table at the other end. No one has offered formal introductions yet.
Kind of rude, if you ask me.
I scanned the room while we waited and found myself both impressed and a little giddy. It’s a luxe version of an FBI war room—even fancier than anything my billionaire best friend has built at his estate. State-of-the-art tech owns a back corner with workstations, monitors, whiteboards, and meticulous files that line the wall. We are in the corner across from that area in a lounge. The long table is offset by leather sofas and chairs that scream luxury.
Luna’s fingerprint is woven throughout both spaces—herpops of bright color and ‘90s nostalgia cutting through the otherwise lethal aesthetic. Just like her desk at work.
A third corner is an arsenal big enough to arm a small country. Concerning to say the fucking least. The corner they hurried to for their huddle sits behind room dividers through which I can see stainless countertops and pristine lab stations peeking through. I guess that chemistry minor of Pippa’s wasn’t just for fun.
The one who is clearly in charge starts. “The three of us work together.”
Obviously. I don’t like how calm they are for people whose operation just got exposed.
“Professionally,” she adds. “That’s all you need to know for now.”
Enzo asks, “Who do you work for?”
