CHAPTER 13

ANNA POV

“Put the camera pen in the left side of your purse,” Peter says, his voice flat and clinical as he leans over my shoulder.

We’re sitting in the back of his black utility van, parked two blocks down from the high-end hotel bar where Jack drinks every Thursday night. The plan is mine. I’m meeting Jack under the guise of an emotional breakdown. I’m going to pretend I’m considering taking him back, play the heartbroken ex, and push him until he admits on tape that Richard paid him to target me from the very beginning.

Peter reaches out, his cold fingers brushing against my collarbone as he adjusts the micro-microphone clipped to my dress lining. His touch sends a sharp shiver straight down my spine, but his grey eyes remain totally detached, like he’s fitting a wire on a total stranger.

“If he touches you, give the signal,” Peter says, his thumb lingering for a fraction of a second against my skin before he pulls back. “I’ll come in.”

“You’ll blow our cover,” I say, taking a slow breath to steady my pulse. “I know how to handle Jack, Peter. I spent two years learning every lie he tells.”

“I don't care about the cover,” Peter growls, his jaw locking tight. “If he crosses a line, the operation is over.”

“I’m doing this,” I say firmly, grabbing my clutch and checking my reflection in the small mirror. “Watch the feed and keep quiet.”

I step out of the van and walk into the dimly lit hotel lounge.

Jack is sitting at the corner booth, swirling a glass of scotch in his hand. He looks disheveled, his suit jacket unbuttoned, his eyes tired and bloodshot. Good. Panic makes people sloppy.

I take a deep breath, letting my shoulders drop into a posture of complete vulnerability as I approach the table.

“Anna,” Jack gasps, dropping his glass as he scrambles to his feet. “You actually came.”

“I didn’t know where else to go, Jack,” I lie softly, letting my voice tremble just enough to sound fragile.

I sink into the leather booth across from him, keeping my eyes wide and shiny with deliberate, manufactured sorrow. I place my wine glass on the table, letting my fingers shake over the glass stem.

“I miss you,” I whisper, forcing the fake words past my lips. “I can’t sleep in that house anymore, Jack. Everything feels like a lie.”

Jack’s eyes light up with instant desperation. He reaches across the small table, sliding his hand over mine, his fingers clamping tight around my palm.

“I miss you too, Anna,” Jack stammers, leaning closer over his drink. “I only slept with Mary because I was drowning! You have to understand—your father was going to ruin my firm. He threatened to crush my license if I didn't play along!”

“He forced you?” I ask, letting a single tear fall down my cheek—a real tear, fueled by the sheer disgust and anger curling in my stomach.

“Richard paid me at first,” Jack admits, his voice dropping to a low, panicked murmur. “He gave me fifty thousand just to approach you at the gallery two years ago! But then... I fell for you, Anna. I swear to god I fell for you! I tried to get out, but Mary found the wire transfers and threatened to tell you everything unless I fed her information on Richard!”

“Show me the contracts, Jack,” I press, leaning in closer, using his guilt like a weapon. “If you want me back... if you want us to have a real chance... help me understand what they made you do.”

Jack stares at me, his eyes softening into pure relief as he reaches out and gentle brushes his thumb against my wet cheek. “I have copies of the original retainer agreements in my car, Anna. I’ll give them to you. Just kiss me... please, just tell me you forgive me.”

He leans over the table and presses his mouth to mine.

It’s a soft, apologetic kiss, heavy with desperation. My stomach turns over in complete revulsion, but I force myself to stay completely still for three crucial seconds, letting the microphone pick up every sound while I wait for him to reach into his coat for the keys.

Before Jack can pull back, a dark, heavy shadow explodes into the booth.

PETER POV

“He’s touching her,” I say out loud to the empty van, my teeth grinding together until my head aches.

I sit in the dark, staring at the HD tablet screen broadcasting the live feed from Anna’s purse. The audio crackles in my earpiece, her soft, manufactured lies filling my ears like poison.

I watch her let Jack take her hand. I watch her lean across the table. I know it’s a calculated performance. I know she’s playing him like a instrument to get the paper trail.

Then Jack reaches out and touches her cheek.

Anna doesn't pull away. She leans into his palm, letting him slide his mouth over hers.

A blinding, white-hot blackout of pure rage rips through my brain, obliterating every drop of rational thought. The control I’ve maintained for five years snaps like brittle glass.

My right hand clamps down around the tablet, the heavy glass screen shattering under my grip with a loud crunch as spiderweb cracks burst across the display. The audio in my ear cuts out, replaced by the sound of my own violent, ragged breathing.

“Not him,” I snarl into the dark.

I tear the wire out of my ear and throw the broken tablet against the metal wall of the van. The plastic shatters into pieces against the floorboards.

I throw the side door open and hit the pavement running.

I don't walk into the hotel bar—I stalk through the glass doors like an absolute demon, pushing past waiters and patrons without taking my eyes off the corner booth.

I reach the table in four long strides, grabbing Anna firmly by the upper arm and yanking her out of the booth so fast her heels skid across the carpet.

“We’re leaving,” I say, my voice a flat, terrifying growl.

Jack scrambles to his feet, his face red with shock and booze. “Who the hell do you think you are—?”

I don't let him finish the sentence.

I step forward and throw a single, brutal right hook straight into Jack’s jaw. The impact echoes through the quiet bar with a sickening crack. Jack drops like a sack of stones, his head bouncing off the edge of the leather seat before he hits the carpet cold.

I turn on my heel, dragging Anna by her wrist out the service exit and throwing the heavy metal doors open into the cold back alley.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Anna screams, shoving her hands wildly against my chest the moment the metal door slams shut behind us. “I almost had the documents! He was going to give me the retainers from his car!”

“He kissed you,” I say, my chest heaving up and down as my breath comes in short, ragged gasps against the damp night air.

“It was part of the plan!” Anna yells back, her eyes wide with furious tears. “You were supposed to stay in the van!”

“Not that part,” I growl, closing the distance between us in a single step and slamming both of my hands flat against the red brick wall on either side of her head.

The brick vibrates under my palms. I trap her completely within the frame of my shoulders, leaning down until my face is an inch from hers, my heart hammering like a war drum against my ribs.

“Not that part,” I repeat, my voice dropping into a dangerous, dark whisper that shakes with uncharacteristic emotion.

Anna freezes, her breath catching sharply in her throat as she stares up at my mouth.

I stare down at her swollen lips, my entire body burning with a dark, terrifying urge to crush her against the wall and erase every trace of Jack’s touch from her skin. The proximity is suffocating. I can feel the heat radiating off her chest, smell the vanilla on her neck, taste the adrenaline hanging in the air between us.

The silver camera pen clipped to her purse shines under the alley streetlight, its tiny red light blinking continuously.

Still recording.

I snap my jaw shut, shutting down the fire in my blood with a brutal surge of force. I pull my hands off the brick, stepping back two full paces and shoving my hands into my pockets.

“Get in the car,” I command coldly.

“Peter—” Anna starts, her voice trembling.

“Now,” I cut her off without looking at her.

We walk to the van in total, suffocating silence.

I climb into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut while Anna slides into the passenger side. I wrap my hands around the leather steering wheel, staring straight out the windshield into the dark alley.

My right knuckles are split open and bleeding onto the black leather of the wheel.

Anna reaches into her bag without saying a word, pulling out a roll of medical tape and a strip of white gauze. She turns in her seat, gently taking my bleeding right hand in her soft palms.

She wraps the white cloth around my raw knuckles, her fingers touching my skin with careful, deliberate pressure.

I don't look at her face. I keep my jaw clenched so tight my teeth hurt, staring straight ahead at the brick wall while her soft breathing fills the quiet cabin.

Neither of us says a word for the entire drive back, the heavy, unspoken tension sitting between us like a third passenger in the dark.