Chapter 9
The trap was set for Friday.
Marco had arranged the meeting at a private office downtown. My father arrived in his best suit, probably the last expensive thing he owned. I watched on the security feed from Damien's car, parked across the street.
"He looks relieved," I murmured, watching my father shake Marco's hand.
"He thinks he's being saved," Damien replied from beside me.
We watched in silence as my father sat, as Marco slid papers across the desk, as my father pulled out his pen with visible eagerness. Signing without reading. Just like always — impulsive, greedy, desperate.
Paper after paper. Each one a nail in his coffin.
When it was done, Marco stood and shook his hand again. My father smiled — genuinely smiled — for the first time in what must have been months.
"It's done," Damien confirmed, checking his phone. "The documents will be distributed within forty-eight hours."
I should have felt satisfaction. Instead, I felt hollow.
"He'll know it was me," I said.
"Does that matter?"
I thought about it. About my mother in that hospital bed. About the woman who loved lavender and Tuesday afternoon reading sessions with a broken little boy.
"No," I said. "It doesn't."
Damien's hand found the back of my neck, squeezing gently. An anchor.
We drove home in silence. It should have felt like victory. It felt like a funeral — one I was attending for the last shred of the life I used to know.
When we arrived at the tower, something was wrong.
The lobby guards were gone.
Damien noticed instantly. His hand shot to the gun beneath his jacket as he pushed me behind him.
"Stay close," he ordered, his voice dropping into that lethal register.
We moved through the lobby in silence. The elevator was already open — waiting.
"Someone's inside the building," Damien said, reading a message on his phone. "Security feeds are down."
My pulse skyrocketed.
"Ethan?" I whispered.
"Possibly." He looked at me. "Can you handle a gun?"
"I've never—"
He pressed a small pistol into my hand from an ankle holster I hadn't known existed. The metal was cold and heavy.
"Point and pull. Don't hesitate."
We took the stairs. Twenty floors. By the tenth, I heard it — footsteps above us, descending.
Damien pressed me against the wall, shielding me with his body. His gun was raised, aimed at the stairwell above.
A shadow appeared.
Then a voice.
"You should have killed me when you had the chance, Blackwell."
Ethan.
He stepped into view three floors up, leaning over the railing. He'd changed — gaunt, unshaven, a madness in his eyes that hadn't been there before. And in his hand, a gun.
Pointed directly at me.
"Here's what's going to happen," Ethan said, his voice eerily calm. "You're going to let her come to me. Or I'll kill you both."
Damien didn't move. Didn't lower his weapon.
"And here's what's actually going to happen," Damien replied. "You're going to die in this stairwell. Alone. As you deserve."
Ethan laughed — a fractured sound. "You think she loves you? She's using you. Just like her father used everyone. It's in her blood—"
A gunshot cracked through the concrete space.
But neither Damien nor Ethan had fired.
The bullet came from behind Ethan. He stumbled forward, eyes wide, a red bloom spreading across his shoulder. He whirled.
Standing above him, gun raised, was a woman I'd never seen before.
"That's for my sister," she said coldly, then fired again.
Ethan collapsed against the railing, sliding down. His gun clattered away.
The woman looked down at us. Mid-thirties, sharp-featured, deadly.
"Adriana," Damien said. Not surprised.
"You called for backup," she replied with a shrug. "I delivered."
I stared at Ethan crumpled on the stairs, bleeding, gasping. This man who had kissed me goodnight. Who had planned my murder over dinner.
"Is he dead?" I asked.
"Not yet," Adriana answered.
I looked at Damien. He was already looking at me, waiting for my decision.
Everything I had been — the naïve girl, the trusting fiancée, the obedient daughter — died in that stairwell.
"Let him bleed," I said.
And I didn't look back.
Marco had arranged the meeting at a private office downtown. My father arrived in his best suit, probably the last expensive thing he owned. I watched on the security feed from Damien's car, parked across the street.
"He looks relieved," I murmured, watching my father shake Marco's hand.
"He thinks he's being saved," Damien replied from beside me.
We watched in silence as my father sat, as Marco slid papers across the desk, as my father pulled out his pen with visible eagerness. Signing without reading. Just like always — impulsive, greedy, desperate.
Paper after paper. Each one a nail in his coffin.
When it was done, Marco stood and shook his hand again. My father smiled — genuinely smiled — for the first time in what must have been months.
"It's done," Damien confirmed, checking his phone. "The documents will be distributed within forty-eight hours."
I should have felt satisfaction. Instead, I felt hollow.
"He'll know it was me," I said.
"Does that matter?"
I thought about it. About my mother in that hospital bed. About the woman who loved lavender and Tuesday afternoon reading sessions with a broken little boy.
"No," I said. "It doesn't."
Damien's hand found the back of my neck, squeezing gently. An anchor.
We drove home in silence. It should have felt like victory. It felt like a funeral — one I was attending for the last shred of the life I used to know.
When we arrived at the tower, something was wrong.
The lobby guards were gone.
Damien noticed instantly. His hand shot to the gun beneath his jacket as he pushed me behind him.
"Stay close," he ordered, his voice dropping into that lethal register.
We moved through the lobby in silence. The elevator was already open — waiting.
"Someone's inside the building," Damien said, reading a message on his phone. "Security feeds are down."
My pulse skyrocketed.
"Ethan?" I whispered.
"Possibly." He looked at me. "Can you handle a gun?"
"I've never—"
He pressed a small pistol into my hand from an ankle holster I hadn't known existed. The metal was cold and heavy.
"Point and pull. Don't hesitate."
We took the stairs. Twenty floors. By the tenth, I heard it — footsteps above us, descending.
Damien pressed me against the wall, shielding me with his body. His gun was raised, aimed at the stairwell above.
A shadow appeared.
Then a voice.
"You should have killed me when you had the chance, Blackwell."
Ethan.
He stepped into view three floors up, leaning over the railing. He'd changed — gaunt, unshaven, a madness in his eyes that hadn't been there before. And in his hand, a gun.
Pointed directly at me.
"Here's what's going to happen," Ethan said, his voice eerily calm. "You're going to let her come to me. Or I'll kill you both."
Damien didn't move. Didn't lower his weapon.
"And here's what's actually going to happen," Damien replied. "You're going to die in this stairwell. Alone. As you deserve."
Ethan laughed — a fractured sound. "You think she loves you? She's using you. Just like her father used everyone. It's in her blood—"
A gunshot cracked through the concrete space.
But neither Damien nor Ethan had fired.
The bullet came from behind Ethan. He stumbled forward, eyes wide, a red bloom spreading across his shoulder. He whirled.
Standing above him, gun raised, was a woman I'd never seen before.
"That's for my sister," she said coldly, then fired again.
Ethan collapsed against the railing, sliding down. His gun clattered away.
The woman looked down at us. Mid-thirties, sharp-featured, deadly.
"Adriana," Damien said. Not surprised.
"You called for backup," she replied with a shrug. "I delivered."
I stared at Ethan crumpled on the stairs, bleeding, gasping. This man who had kissed me goodnight. Who had planned my murder over dinner.
"Is he dead?" I asked.
"Not yet," Adriana answered.
I looked at Damien. He was already looking at me, waiting for my decision.
Everything I had been — the naïve girl, the trusting fiancée, the obedient daughter — died in that stairwell.
"Let him bleed," I said.
And I didn't look back.