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Chapter Eighty-Six
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2025-05-23 20:09:51
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Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The Phoenix Chapter Eighty-Six
𝐍𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐞𝐥Aren looks shocked to see me, and I keep my eyes on him as he stands, releasing Aretha. I don’t dare glance at her, afraid that if I do, the plan I’ve set into motion will unravel, and I’ll be forced to shoot this bastard in the fucking face for the disgusting words I overheard him say to her just before I made my presence known.“Nathaniel, what brings you here?” he asks, wiping his hands on his shirt. I register the red staining the white. “Not that I mind, but I’m trying to wrap something up here, and I don’t think you want to watch.”“As I said, Aren, I hate people who lie to me.” I sidestep him, eyeing the men brandishing weapons. They’re no threat to me. “You told me you needed help to find the person who killed your mother.”He shrugs and bites his thumb. “I didn’t know I needed to get into the specifics of why I needed a favor. If anyone hears you talking like this, you might lose a lot of high-end clients.”“None of the people I work for would do what you’r
Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The Phoenix Chapter Eighty-Five
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚The first thing I register when I come to is that my head is throbbing so damn much, it feels like they're hammering it.A sickening fog clings to my mind, thick and slow, as if I’ve been pulled under water and can’t quite breach the surface. And it takes a moment for me to open my eyes, my eyelids fluttering open, heavy as bricks. The air is cold, sharp, and laced with the acrid stench of copper and something fouler—urine, I think. It makes my stomach churn in protest.I try to lift a hand to rub my aching temple, but I find that I'm unable to move it. Panic and confusion jolt through me like electricity and I glance down, my heart pounding. My wrists are bound in front of me with a thick zip tie, tight enough to bite into my skin. I’m seated on a metallic chair, my back stiff from the unforgiving surface.I finally glance around my surroundings. The room I'm in is bleak—bare concrete walls streaked with dark stains that suspiciously look like smudges of dried blood, but
Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The Phoenix Chapter Eighty-Four
𝐍𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐞𝐥Secrets are secrets until they come up for air, exposing themselves for what they truly are—nothing but mere lies.The air in the car chills significantly after my admission, and the two men I consider brothers look at me—one with his head cocked to the side, the other with a raised brow, his eyes fixed on the road.“Are you going to fill us in on what the fuck is going on? Because it seems like you and Cameron know a great deal more than I do,” Marcos says, glaring at me, his fists clenched by his sides and if I were him, I would have swung.“I’ll tell you everything when Cam gets us to where we’re going.” I rub my head, willing my body to relax so I can function properly. The thought of Aretha being anywhere close to the darkness I’ve sealed away is enough to rattle me.That bastard has crossed a line, and no one is going to clean up the mess he’s left behind except me. I bite back an ugly sound, cracking my knuckles as I think of all the ways to make Aren pay for
Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The Phoenix Chapter Eighty-Three
𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧The words hang in the air like smoke—thick, disorienting, and hard to breathe around.“Aretha’s gone missing,” I say again, but even to my own ears, it sounds surreal. Unreal.Marcos scoffs, tipping the gin bottle in disbelief. “No, no—what the hell are you talking about, mate? I literally saw her today at Yemaya’s. That's the reason for this drunk fest, remember? She was fine. Despite our argument and everything that happened afterwards, she was fine.” He leans forward, brow furrowed, alcohol-glazed eyes struggling to make sense of the dread washing over my face.Nathaniel’s narrowed gaze flits between us. “Explain, Cam. Properly.”I nod once, curtly. “I just got a message from the bodyguards I hired to watch over her. She left the apartment at 10:35 to grab something from the store down the road. The street CCTV captured her walking back out a few minutes later but then there's a glitch and a couple of minutes on the tape are missing before it continues on at past 11p
Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The Phoenix Chapter Eighty-Two
𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧The call comes just after ten-thirty, a clipped “Get down here, mate. I bet an ‘I told you so’ is in order,” followed by the thud of the receiver. It'd been Marcos’s voice—slurred but audibly desperate.So I aim the Jag toward Monarch’s Hideaway, the members-only labyrinth we haunt when we want to forget how much money we make. The place rises like a dark embassy on the riverfront: black glass, back-lit onyx columns, a discreet gold crown over the door, and no nameplate needed.Inside, the club swallows you whole. Crystal chandeliers drip from a ceiling painted midnight; mirrored walls refract violet strobes over tufted leather banquettes. The VIP lounge sits on a mezzanine above the dance floor, fenced by curved brass rails. It’s the sort of room that’s too opulent to have memories while every night wipes the slate clean with more champagne.Marcos is slumped over the onyx bar, hugging a bottle of Navy-strength Plymouth Gin like it’s an oxygen tank. Nathaniel perches b
Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The Phoenix Chapter Eighty-One
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚The flat feels too quiet, as though every cushion and lampshade is holding its breath, listening for the front door that never opens. Marcos’s cologne still lingers on my jumper—warm cedar threaded with pepper—and it claws at my lungs each time I inhale. I trace slow, useless laps around the coffee-table, phone clutched like a flotation device. Guilt sits in my chest like wet sand: heavy, cold, immovable.When Yemaya finally rings me at 10:17 p.m., according to the taunting blue digits, I jab accept on my phone screen before the second buzz.“Baaabe, please don’t kill me,” she pants. Behind her a DJ hammers out club-house bass and someone shrieks with champagne-fizzed delight. “Lord Agilolfings' twenty-fifth anniversary gala has gone full Shakespearean tragedy. The soprano’s lost her voice and is currently sobbing on a pile of caviar canapés, the ice sculpture melted into something that looks suspiciously X-rated, and I’m now playing the part of harp-wrangler. All in all,
Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The Phoenix Chapter Eighty
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚My lungs forget how to work.I’m still astride his thigh, skin flushed a tomato red and my pulse thundering beneath my skin, when the words fall from his lips:I’m in love with you, Aretha.The living-room air turns solid. I feel it settle on my shoulders like armor I never asked to wear. I push shaky palms against his chest, climb off his lap, and take three unsteady steps backward. My knees nearly buckle, the rug rippling beneath my indoor slippers.“Aretha?” Marcos calls, his voice akin to raw silk while it drips with hope lacing his fear.I can’t look at him. Not with the confession echoing in my skull, not with the slick reminder of what I’ve just done still damp between my thighs. My gaze fixes on the coffee mug on the table, on the lace curtain stirring in the draft—anywhere but the man who just handed me his heart.“Say something.” The plea in Marcos’s tone makes my own chest ache.“I—” My throat locks up tight and when I try to force a swallow, it hurts as though
Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The Phoenix Chapter Seventy-Nine
𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐬I don’t even get a full knock in before the door yanks open, revealing the woman who has plagued my mind and every waking thought since I first laid eyes on her.Aretha stands there, eyes sharp and blazing, mouth drawn tight like she’s been sharpening her words for days. The sight of her—barefaced, in a loose hoodie that swallows her frame—should comfort me. Instead, it cuts deeper. Cold fury dances in her gaze.“You’ve got some nerve showing up here,” she snaps. “Coming here like nothing happened.”Her voice slices through the hallway, venom laced in every syllable. I open my mouth, but she beats me to it.“I saw enough. Harriet’s hands all over you like you were hers to touch. You didn’t even try to stop her.”“That’s not what happened,” I say, breath tight. “You walked in at the worst moment—”“No,” she bites out, stepping back just enough to let me enter, “I walked in at the exact moment I needed to see what kind of man you are.”I limp in, my ankle still aching with
Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The Phoenix Chapter Seventy-Eight
𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐬I hear the knock before I even glance at my front door, slow and deliberate—two quick raps, followed by silence. My first thought is that it's Aretha again, coming to visit. My heart lifts a little, foolishly hopeful, though I know deep down that it’s too soon for her to be here. Not after how she'd responded to my words the last time.I limp over, slowly, the ache in my ankle a persistent reminder of how fragile everything feels right now.When I open the door, however, my heart sinks to my stomach because it's not Aretha who's standing on the other side. Instead, it's my colleague...Harriet.She’s standing there with a too-bright smile and a bag dangling from one hand. Her perfume hits me before her words do—something sharp and floral, thick enough to choke on.“Surprise,” she says, stepping forward just enough to make declining her visit awkward. “I brought soup.”I blink, caught between disbelief and irritation. “Harriet, you didn’t have to—”“I wanted to,” she inter
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