CHAPTER 8

ANNA POV

“Look at the transaction dates on page three,” I say, slamming the printouts down onto the wooden table in the boathouse.

Outside, rain hammers against the glass. Peter stands across from me in the dim light, his arms crossed over his chest. He never sits down. He stands there like he’s ready to bolt the second this room becomes unbearable.

“The dates are clear,” Peter says, his voice flat and steady. “The first wire transfer cleared twenty-four months ago.”

“That was two months before I even met Jack at the gallery opening,” I say, my voice dropping until it’s barely audible. “He didn’t bump into me by accident. He was paid to be in that room.”

“Richard authorized the initial retainer from the secondary corporate account,” Peter says, pointing a finger at the bank stamp. “My father hired Jack to pursue you from the beginning.”

“I was a job posting,” I whisper, staring at the white paper under my hands. “My entire relationship... my first real relationship... was just a corporate task assigned to him.”

“Richard wanted full access to your mother’s trust fund before your twenty-fifth birthday,” Peter says, his tone completely unbothered, like he’s breaking down quarterly financial earnings. “Jack was the access point. Once Mary realized what Richard was doing, she intercepted Jack, paid him a higher retainer, and turned him into her own leverage against my father.”

“Stop talking like that!” I scream, grabbing a glass off the edge of the workbench and hurling it against the far stone wall.

The glass shatters into a hundred tiny pieces, ringing through the dark room.

“Stop talking about my life like I’m a case study!” I yell, my chest heaving as tears spill hot over my cheeks. “I loved him, Peter! I spent two years thinking I was building a life with someone, and every single touch was billed to a private account!”

Peter moves across the floor in three long strides, his boots heavy against the wood.

He grabs my wrist in a crushing grip, jerking my arm up between us before I can take another breath.

“Then stop acting like a victim,” Peter growls down at me, his grey eyes turning dark and lethal. “You want to burn them to the ground? Stop crying about the damn match and light the fire.”

His fingers are tight around my skin, pinning my wrist in the air. He’s standing so close I can see the rapid pulse beating against the base of his throat. My heart slams against my ribs, hot and wild. I know I should pull away. I know I should yank my arm back and tell him to get his hands off me.

I don’t move. I stay locked in his grip, staring up at his sharp jaw.

“How do we ruin them?” I ask, forcing my voice to stop shaking.

“The IPO,” Peter says, his thumb tightening over my pulse point. “The entire public launch depends on the perception of total family stability. If we expose the breach of contract and the affairs right before the ringing of the opening bell, the stock tanks before it even trades.”

“Richard loses his voting shares,” I say, understanding the brutal math instantly. “And Mary gets nothing from the separation clause.”

“They lose everything,” Peter says, his voice dropping into a dangerous quiet. “They become bankrupt pariahs overnight.”

“Good,” I say, setting my teeth. “We do it.”

He releases my wrist suddenly, stepping back to gather the loose financial papers off the table into his leather briefcase.

I turn around and walk toward the heavy oak door, my hand reaching for the iron latch. Rain leaks under the doorframe, wetting the tips of my shoes. I stop, my fingers resting on the cold metal.

I turn my head to look back at him.

“When you held me in that closet tonight...” I say, my breath catching softly in my throat. “Did you feel sorry for me?”

Peter doesn’t look up from his briefcase. He snaps the brass locks closed with a sharp, mechanical click.

“I felt your heartbeat,” Peter says, his voice completely icy and emotionless. “It was distracting.”

I stare at him for two seconds, my mind reeling, utterly confused by the flat tone in his voice versus the memory of his hands holding me against his chest. I pull the boathouse door open and step out into the pouring rain without another word.

PETER POV

The boathouse door slams shut, cutting off the sound of the storm outside.

I stand frozen beside the wooden workbench. The silence in the room is deafening, broken only by the steady drip of rainwater from the roof eaves.

I turn my head slowly, looking at the empty stone wall where her glass shattered into pieces.

My right hand twitches at my side. The skin on my palm still feels hot, branded by the memory of her wrist, the soft curve of her jaw in the dark supply closet, and the rabbit-fast thud of her heart pressed straight against my ribs.

I stare blankly at the dark wood of the wall, my jaw clenching until my teeth ache.

My own pulse hammers wildly against my throat, heavy, fast, and far too loud in the quiet room.