Chapter 11: The Fixer

The building was nondescript gray glass, rusting nameplate, no receptionist. Ava almost walked past it. But the badge Marcus had given her worked on the side entrance, and as the lock clicked open, she felt the weight of another decision she couldn’t undo.

Elena Grant.

The name echoed in her mind like a half-remembered warning. The former fixer of Wolfe International. The woman who once cleaned up Grayson’s messes… and now might be the only one willing to expose them.

The hallway was quiet. Clinical. Fluorescent lights flickered like dying stars. She followed the office number etched on the corner of the envelope.

Room 214.

Ava knocked.

No answer.

She tried again, softer this time. And then the door creaked open.

The woman behind the desk was younger than she’d expected. Early forties, but tired. Not tired in the way Ava was but hollow, like something had been taken from her and never returned.

“Elena Grant?” Ava asked.

The woman froze. Her fingers tightened on a half-drunk cup of coffee. “Who’s asking?”

“I’m not here to hurt you. I just need the truth.”

Elena stood slowly. Her gaze swept over Ava’s face with sharp calculation.

“Truth?” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “There’s no such thing with Wolfe.”

Ava stepped inside. “You used to work for him. You know how Clause 17 works.”

Elena flinched.

“I’ve read it,” Ava continued. “I’ve lived it. But I need to understand it. I need to fight it.”

For a long moment, Elena said nothing. Then her shoulders sagged, the bravado slipping away.

“He’s not just erasing people,” she said. “He’s replacing them. You’re not the first to ask questions. You won’t be the last. But you need to leave, now.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re watching you,” Elena said. “And because I have a daughter. And I made the mistake of talking once before. I won’t do it again.”

She turned back to her desk, reaching for her phone. “You should go.”

Ava hesitated. Then she slid a folded paper across the table Marcus’s contact, her own risk.

“If you change your mind, that’s where to reach me.”

Elena didn’t pick it up. She just stared at the photo Ava had left face-up on the table: Grayson Wolfe, sitting beside a bloodied car, calmly dialing a number while security blocked cameras.

Ava turned and left, her heart pounding.

Across the city, Grayson swirled the amber liquid in his glass, eyes narrowed on the flickering screen in front of him.

Alaric stood beside him tall, silent, and lethal in a tailored coat. He had the kind of face that didn’t age, and eyes that had seen too much.

“Marcus Hale,” Grayson said, pressing pause on the video.

Alaric nodded once. “Still alive, then.”

“Briefly,” Grayson murmured. “And she met him. Which means she’s looking.”

“Do you want me to bring him in?”

Grayson smiled faintly. “Not yet. Let her feel like she’s ahead. Then take it from her.”

“And the girl?” Alaric asked.

Grayson’s smile faded. “Test her. Lie to her. Scare her if you want. But don’t touch her.”

A pause.

Then: “Not yet.”

By the time Ava returned to the mansion, dusk had spilled over the skyline like ink. The air was heavy, still. The kind of silence that felt… watched.

She opened the door to the study and stopped.

Grayson was there. Sitting in her chair. One leg crossed over the other. Glass of scotch in hand. Waiting.

She didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

Not at first.

“You wore black today,” he said finally, eyes still on the fire crackling low beside them. “Are you mourning something?”

“Maybe my patience,” she replied evenly, walking in.

He chuckled. “Bold.”

“It’s been a bold day.”

He looked up at her then, slowly. “Do you ever think about how trust works, Ava?”

“Every day.”

“And yet you lie so beautifully.”

Her breath hitched.

She kept her face calm. “Are we playing a game?”

He stood, crossing the space between them in two slow steps. “If we are, I’d like to know the rules.”

His presence was magnetic dark, dangerous, and intoxicating. But Ava had learned something new.

Fear could be muted.

Even attraction could be weaponized.

“I only follow rules that protect me,” she whispered.

Grayson reached out his fingers brushing a lock of her hair behind her ear. But his eyes? Ice cold.

“Then don’t break them.”

Later that night, Ava sat on her bed, knees tucked to her chest. The lights were off. Her burner phone was in her hand, Marcus’s number on the screen… but she didn’t dial.

A knock sounded.

She opened the door.

No one was there.

Just a cream envelope lying on the floor.

She bent and picked it up.

Inside: a photo. Grainy, black-and-white. Ava, sitting at the rooftop café across from Marcus Hale.

And one single line, handwritten on the back:

He’s not who you think