CHAPTER 17

PETER POV

“You sent for me,” I say, stepping into the cold air of the boathouse.

Anna sits behind the wooden table near the water’s edge. The yellow light overhead cuts across the dark room, illuminating the spread of paper files Victor Kane gave us. But right in the center of the table sits another file. A black leather binder. My eyes fixate instantly on the white tab sticking out from the side, bearing my own sharp, architectural handwriting.

I stop walking. My pulse stays flat, but my jaw locks tight.

“Tell me about the asset assessment, Peter,” Anna says quietly, her voice entirely devoid of emotion.

She doesn't raise her voice. She doesn't slam her hands on the table. She simply slides my three-year-old memo across the polished wood until it rests against my belt buckle.

“Tell me about the lesson,” she adds, looking straight up into my eyes.

I don't reach down to touch the paper. I don't flinch. I stand perfectly straight, keeping my posture rigid and my face completely unreadable.

“I knew Richard was looking for leverage against you,” I say, my voice steady and cold. “I knew Morrison was compromised before he ever approached you at that gallery.”

“You knew I was dating a plant,” Anna says.

“I suspected,” I answer.

“And you watched,” she says, her dark eyes locking onto mine.

“Yes,” I say smoothly. “I watched.”

Anna’s breath catches sharply in her throat, her chest rising fast under her sweater before she pulls herself back together.

“You were twenty-two,” I say, stepping closer to the table, letting my glacial tone fill the space between us. “You were reckless with your trust fund, reckless with your mother’s legacy, and reckless with your life. You were sleeping with a man you knew absolutely nothing about. You needed to learn that everyone in this world has a price, Anna. Especially the people who pretend to care about you.”

Anna lets out a laugh—a bitter, sharp sound that echoes off the wooden walls of the boathouse.

“A lesson?” she asks, her voice pitching up with a sudden, razor-thin edge. “You let me fall in love with a paid prostitute because you thought I was spoiled?”

“You weren’t in love,” I state coldly, looking down at her trembling hands. “You were performing love. There is a massive difference. I knew that if you got hurt, if you got burned by someone you thought was safe, you would harden. You would stop being a victim and become useful.”

Anna stands up so fast her wooden chair scrapes violently against the floorboards.

She steps around the table, stopping inches from my chest. The scent of her perfume hits my face, mixed with the damp chill of the lake water outside.

“Useful?” Anna whispers, her voice cracking right down the middle. “Useful like Elena? Useful like Lydia? I trusted you, Peter. In the closet at the gala. In the rain outside the office. I trusted you because I thought you were the only person in this entire cursed family who knew what it felt like to be played.”

She presses her palm against my dark suit jacket, her fingers clutching the fabric right over my heart.

“And all along, you were the dealer,” she chokes out, a single, hot tear finally slipping down her pale cheek.

“If I had warned you three years ago, you would have panicked,” I say, keeping my chest completely still under her hand, refusing to let her feel the rapid thudding of my pulse. “You would have run straight to Richard, demanding answers. You would have told him I was investigating his private accounts, and you would have blown my entire cover before I could secure the Singapore offshore ledgers. It was tactical.”

“It was cruel,” Anna says, her voice dropping into a dangerous, dark pitch.

“Yes,” I say, staring directly into her tear-streaked eyes without a single trace of hesitation. “It was cruel.”

I offer no apology. I make no excuses. I stand inside my own cold cruelty like a fortress of heavy steel, protecting the long-term plan above everything else.

ANNA POV

“We’re done with the pact,” I say, reaching down and pulling my leather bag over my shoulder.

I turn my back on him, stepping toward the heavy boathouse door.

Before my hand can reach the iron handle, Peter moves. His tall frame cuts through the shadows, his large, calloused fingers wrapping tightly around my upper arm to drag me back into the room.

“We need each other,” Peter growls, his voice losing its calm, clinical edge for a fraction of a second. “You can’t take down Richard without my access to the board, and I can’t clear my mother’s name without your mother’s original firm records. We finish this.”

I stop moving. I don't fight his grip.

Instead, I slowly tilt my head down, staring at his bloodied knuckles gripping the soft sleeve of my jacket.

“Let go,” I say, my voice steady, flat, and lethal. “Or I will scream at the top of my lungs right now. The security guards will be here in thirty seconds, and Richard will come running straight down from the main house. Let's see whose cover blows then, stepbrother.”

Peter freezes.

His grey eyes darken, a storm of pure, restrained fury swirling behind his pupils. His fingers twitch against my arm, holding on for one brief, suffocating second longer before he abruptly releases me, stepping back a full pace.

“Get out,” he says softly.

I don't say another word. I turn the handle, push the heavy wooden door open, and walk out into the freezing night air.

I walk up the stone path toward the main estate without looking back once, my heels clicking loudly against the gravel. My chest feels completely hollow, the burning pain of his betrayal turning into a dense, unbreakable layer of ice around my heart. The naive girl who wanted a savior is completely dead.

PETER POV

The boathouse door slams shut, leaving me completely alone in the quiet darkness.

The hum of the lake water slapping against the wooden pilings beneath the floor fills the empty room.

I stand in the exact spot where she left me, staring down at the concrete floor. My chest heaves once, a sharp, jagged breath ripping through my lungs as I try to regain the total, unshakeable control I’ve maintained for five long years.

I walk back over to the table.

My eyes lock onto the three-year-old memo sheet resting beside the open leather binder. My own architectural script stares back at me: Subject is financially compromised. Vulnerable to recruitment.

I reach down and grab the paper.

I crush it inside my fist, squeezing the paper until my knuckles turn white and raw under the bandages Anna wrapped around my hand just hours ago. The urge to destroy it—to burn it, to tear it into a thousand tiny pieces and pretend I was never the monster who let her suffer—burns violently through my veins.

I bring my hand to the edge of the trash bin beside the desk.

My fingers loosen, but I can't let go.

I bring my fist back, slowly uncurling my fingers. I carefully smooth out the crushed, wrinkled paper against the flat wooden surface of the desk, pressing my palm down until every crease is flattened back out.

I can't destroy it.

I fold the wrinkled paper carefully along its original lines and slide it into the inside pocket of my suit jacket, resting it directly against my ribs.

I can't destroy anything that touched her.