Chapter 4
Security footage from that night leaked within the hour.
Not the exposé—that was still our ace card. But Camille's meltdown? Her screaming, clawing at the screens, mascara running in black rivers down her face?
It went viral.
#AshfordMeltdown trended at number one before midnight.
Gossip blogs couldn't resist: "Dominic Hale's new girlfriend loses it at elite event—drugs? Breakdown? Or guilty conscience?"
But that was just the appetizer.
Camille called Dominic seventeen times that night. I listened to every voicemail through Roman's surveillance system.
"They KNOW, Dominic! Someone has the texts—the photos—EVERYTHING! You said this was handled! You SAID she was dead!"
Dominic's response? Cold. Measured.
"Calm down. No one has anything. You had a panic attack—that's the story. Take a Xanax and stay off social media."
But I heard the fear beneath his composure.
Because the numbers don't lie.
His sin score—**97**—pulsed like a warning beacon in my memory.
Ninety-seven. Nearly the highest I'd ever seen.
What kind of man accumulates that level of darkness?
I was about to find out.
"Phase two," I told Roman the next morning. "I need to get close to Dominic. Face to face."
Roman set down his coffee cup with deliberate precision.
"No."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me." His voice was granite. "You're not getting within a hundred feet of that man."
I leaned forward. "I need to read him. The flashes only work in person—you know that. Whatever he's hiding goes deeper than insurance fraud."
"I have a hundred investigators who can—"
"They can't see what I see."
Silence stretched between us.
Roman's jaw worked. His fingers tapped once—twice—against the table.
Then he stood, walked around the table, and leaned down until his face was inches from mine.
"If you go near him," he murmured, "I go with you. Non-negotiable."
His breath was warm. His eyes—black, bottomless—held something I couldn't name.
I swallowed. "Fine."
The opportunity came sooner than expected.
Dominic was hosting a charity gala—"In Memory of Vivian Hale"—at the Grande Atrium downtown.
The audacity nearly made me laugh.
A memorial gala. For the wife he murdered. To raise money for... himself.
Roman acquired two invitations. I wore a red gown—backless, floor-length, with a masquerade mask that covered the top half of my face.
Petty? Maybe.
But Dominic always said I looked best in red.
The Grande Atrium glittered with crystal chandeliers and champagne towers. Three hundred guests, all dripping in wealth and false sympathy.
I scanned the room. Numbers floated everywhere.
**34**. **51**. **28**. **19**. **63**.
This city was rotten to its core.
Then I saw him.
Dominic stood center stage, microphone in hand, delivering a eulogy that would make angels weep.
"Vivian was my light," he said, voice cracking perfectly. "My reason to wake up every morning. Losing her... I don't know how to go on."
**97**.
The number burned crimson above his head.
I focused.
The flash came—violent, overwhelming.
—Dominic, twenty-two, paying someone to tamper with my mother's car.
My blood ran cold.
Not just me.
He'd killed my mother too.
I staggered. Roman's hand caught my waist instantly.
"What did you see?" he whispered.
I couldn't speak. My throat had sealed shut.
Thirteen years ago, my mother died in a car accident. I was thirteen. The police called it brake failure—mechanical fault, case closed.
But I'd just seen it.
Dominic, barely out of college, handing an envelope of cash to a mechanic. The same mechanic who'd serviced my mother's car the day before she died.
He'd planned this for over a decade.
Marry the daughter. Kill the daughter. Inherit the empire.
My mother was just... an obstacle he'd removed early.
I turned to Roman, eyes burning.
"I want him destroyed. Not just ruined. Destroyed."
Roman's thumb traced a slow circle against my hip.
"Done."
And across the room—Dominic's eyes found me.
He froze mid-sentence.
His face went white.
Because even behind the mask, even in a room of three hundred people—
He recognized the woman in red.
---
Not the exposé—that was still our ace card. But Camille's meltdown? Her screaming, clawing at the screens, mascara running in black rivers down her face?
It went viral.
#AshfordMeltdown trended at number one before midnight.
Gossip blogs couldn't resist: "Dominic Hale's new girlfriend loses it at elite event—drugs? Breakdown? Or guilty conscience?"
But that was just the appetizer.
Camille called Dominic seventeen times that night. I listened to every voicemail through Roman's surveillance system.
"They KNOW, Dominic! Someone has the texts—the photos—EVERYTHING! You said this was handled! You SAID she was dead!"
Dominic's response? Cold. Measured.
"Calm down. No one has anything. You had a panic attack—that's the story. Take a Xanax and stay off social media."
But I heard the fear beneath his composure.
Because the numbers don't lie.
His sin score—**97**—pulsed like a warning beacon in my memory.
Ninety-seven. Nearly the highest I'd ever seen.
What kind of man accumulates that level of darkness?
I was about to find out.
"Phase two," I told Roman the next morning. "I need to get close to Dominic. Face to face."
Roman set down his coffee cup with deliberate precision.
"No."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me." His voice was granite. "You're not getting within a hundred feet of that man."
I leaned forward. "I need to read him. The flashes only work in person—you know that. Whatever he's hiding goes deeper than insurance fraud."
"I have a hundred investigators who can—"
"They can't see what I see."
Silence stretched between us.
Roman's jaw worked. His fingers tapped once—twice—against the table.
Then he stood, walked around the table, and leaned down until his face was inches from mine.
"If you go near him," he murmured, "I go with you. Non-negotiable."
His breath was warm. His eyes—black, bottomless—held something I couldn't name.
I swallowed. "Fine."
The opportunity came sooner than expected.
Dominic was hosting a charity gala—"In Memory of Vivian Hale"—at the Grande Atrium downtown.
The audacity nearly made me laugh.
A memorial gala. For the wife he murdered. To raise money for... himself.
Roman acquired two invitations. I wore a red gown—backless, floor-length, with a masquerade mask that covered the top half of my face.
Petty? Maybe.
But Dominic always said I looked best in red.
The Grande Atrium glittered with crystal chandeliers and champagne towers. Three hundred guests, all dripping in wealth and false sympathy.
I scanned the room. Numbers floated everywhere.
**34**. **51**. **28**. **19**. **63**.
This city was rotten to its core.
Then I saw him.
Dominic stood center stage, microphone in hand, delivering a eulogy that would make angels weep.
"Vivian was my light," he said, voice cracking perfectly. "My reason to wake up every morning. Losing her... I don't know how to go on."
**97**.
The number burned crimson above his head.
I focused.
The flash came—violent, overwhelming.
—Dominic, twenty-two, paying someone to tamper with my mother's car.
My blood ran cold.
Not just me.
He'd killed my mother too.
I staggered. Roman's hand caught my waist instantly.
"What did you see?" he whispered.
I couldn't speak. My throat had sealed shut.
Thirteen years ago, my mother died in a car accident. I was thirteen. The police called it brake failure—mechanical fault, case closed.
But I'd just seen it.
Dominic, barely out of college, handing an envelope of cash to a mechanic. The same mechanic who'd serviced my mother's car the day before she died.
He'd planned this for over a decade.
Marry the daughter. Kill the daughter. Inherit the empire.
My mother was just... an obstacle he'd removed early.
I turned to Roman, eyes burning.
"I want him destroyed. Not just ruined. Destroyed."
Roman's thumb traced a slow circle against my hip.
"Done."
And across the room—Dominic's eyes found me.
He froze mid-sentence.
His face went white.
Because even behind the mask, even in a room of three hundred people—
He recognized the woman in red.
---