Audrey looked at Cole’s hand on her stomach. A flag planted on conquered territory.
He was smiling that smile. The one that meant he had won.
A cold, clear calm washed over her. The panic was gone, burned away by a sudden, diamond-hard fury. He thought he had her in a cage. He didn’t realize she was the one holding the key.
She forced her lips into a fragile, grateful curve. A masterpiece of a lie.
“Okay, Cole,” she whispered, letting her voice tremble just so. “You’re right. I can’t do this alone.”
Victory flashed in his eyes, possessive and absolute. He squeezed her hand, then stroked her stomach again, a gesture of ownership. “I knew you’d see reason. We’re a team, Audrey. I’m going to fix this for us.”
For him. He was going to fix this for him.
She nodded, playing her part. “What do we do?”
The next two weeks were a slow, suffocating hell. Audrey lived a double life, each side of it tearing her apart.
By day, she was Cole’s puppet.
He would summon her to quiet cafes, sliding new “evidence” across the table like offerings to a dark god.
“This is a grainy photo of Marcus leaving the NHF building,” he’d say, pointing to a blurry figure that could have been anyone.
“My investigator found an IT tech who remembers Marcus asking about accessing the grant server.”
“This is his phone pinging near the museum the night the complaint was filed.”
Each piece was flimsy, circumstantial. But woven together, they created the illusion of a conspiracy. Cole’s perfect tapestry of lies.
He would put his arm around her, his touch a brand. “I won’t let him get away with this. I’m watching him. I’m watching you. You’re safe with me.”
It was meant as a comfort. It felt like a threat.
She would nod, play the part of the grateful, damaged woman, and die a little inside.
By night, she was Kian’s secret.
She would slip away from her own empty apartment, her heart pounding with a mixture of guilt and desperate need. The moment she was in his arms, the lies and the fear of the day would melt away. His small apartment was the only real place in the world.
But it was a fractured sanctuary. The photo Beatrice sent was burned onto the back of her eyelids.
Kian. His mother. And the sad-eyed woman with the small child.
She’d watch him as he moved around the kitchen, making them coffee, the muscles in his back flexing under his t-shirt. Was he thinking of them? Did that child have his eyes?
The questions were a poison she couldn’t voice. Asking would shatter this fragile peace. Accusing him would be playing Beatrice’s game.
So she said nothing.
Instead, she sought oblivion in his touch.
One night, the tension was unbearable. She had just left a meeting with Cole, his smug confidence leaving a foul taste in her mouth. She arrived at Kian’s door and couldn’t even wait for him to close it before she was on him, her mouth crashing against his.
“Audrey?” he murmured against her lips, surprised but responding instantly, his hands tangling in her hair.
She didn’t want to talk. She wanted to drown.
She pushed him back toward the bedroom, her hands tearing at the buttons of his shirt. He kicked the door shut, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He lifted her easily, her legs wrapping around his waist as he pinned her against the wall.
The kiss was no longer a greeting. It was a battle. A frantic, desperate claiming.
He carried her to the bed and she fell back against the cool sheets, pulling him down with her. This was the only truth she had left. The rough scrape of his stubble against her skin. The hard weight of his body on hers. The raw, undeniable connection that sang between them.
His eyes burned into hers in the dim light. “What’s wrong?” he demanded, his voice rough.
“Nothing,” she lied, her fingers digging into his shoulders. “Just be with me.”
He moved inside her, and the world outside the room, outside his arms, ceased to exist. There was no Cole, no Marcus, no photo, no Beatrice. There was only this. Only him. Only the frantic rhythm of their bodies moving together, a frantic prayer against the darkness.
It wasn’t just passion. It was an exorcism.
After, lying tangled in the sheets, his arm a heavy bar across her waist, she felt a sliver of peace. He was tracing patterns on her skin, his touch gentle now.
“I hate seeing you like this,” he whispered into the dark. “Torn apart by them. When I find out who’s really behind this, I swear I’ll…”
He trailed off, but she could feel the violence humming in him.
“You talk like you know their world,” she said softly, testing the water. “The foundations, the anonymous attacks.”
He went still. “I’ve seen how people with money operate. They’re predators.”
“And you’re not?”
He turned, propping himself up on an elbow to look down at her. His expression was intense, his eyes searching hers. “What I am is the man who is going to keep you safe. No matter what it costs. You have to trust me.”
She wanted to. God, she wanted to.
But all she could see was the photo.
The call came the next morning. It was Cole. His voice was electric with triumph.
“I have it,” he said. “The final piece. The smoking gun. Meet me. Now.”
She found him at their usual spot. He didn’t even wait for her to sit down. He slid a single piece of paper across the table. It was a printed still from a security camera, time-stamped from the night her grant application was deleted.
It showed Marcus Thorne at her computer terminal.
His face was perfectly clear. He was looking right at the camera. A faint, malicious smile played on his lips. It was a perfect, damning, impossible photograph. A digital ghost created by a skilled forger.
“His alibi was that he was at a bar across town,” Cole said, his voice a low, excited hum. “My guy proved the bar’s security footage from that night was ‘accidentally’ erased. He was sloppy. He’s ours.”
Audrey stared at the picture. At the beautiful, perfect lie that would destroy a man’s life and chain her to Cole forever.
“We’re done waiting,” Cole said, his voice hardening. The friendly collaborator was gone, replaced by the commander.
“We’re taking this to Davies. Tomorrow morning. I’ve already scheduled the meeting for you.”
Her blood went cold. “You did what?”
“I’m not letting you second-guess this. We’re ending it.” He reached across the table and took her hand, his grip like steel. “You and me. Together. We’ll walk in there, present the evidence, and they’ll fire him on the spot. Your name will be cleared. Everything goes back to the way it was.”
The way it was. Her prison.
The game was over. Her time was up.
He stood, pulling her to her feet. He leaned in, his lips close to her ear. “Tomorrow at nine. Don’t be late. I’ll be waiting for you in the lobby.”
He gave her hand one last, possessive squeeze and then walked away, leaving her standing there with the forged photograph in her trembling hand.
She had less than twenty-four hours to find a way out of his perfect trap.