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I told her things I’ve never said out loud. About why I walked away ten years ago, why I vanished instead of risking her getting caught in the blast radius. I talked while she was blindfolded, while she was bound, while her body trembled with need and denial, held at the edge until she sobbed with it. I told her about control—how it’s the only thing that’s ever made the world make sense and how losing it with her is the one thing that’s never felt like failure.
She heard every word. And when I let her come—finally, completely—it wasn’t about power. It was about the truth. About letting her know, without question, that she’s not a means to an end. She’s the goddamn reason I’m still breathing.
I step away from the bed, drag on a pair of black pants, and head toward the far corner of the suite where the op terminal waits in low light. The secure line blinks. I already know who it is before I answer.
“Talk,” I say.
Logan’s voice comes in clipped. “We’ve got a problem.”
“Define problem.”
“Juliette Morin. Dead. One of Vallois’ security team found her in his private villa outside Cap d’Ail. She didn’t just die—she was made an example of.”
My pulse drops into a slow, lethal rhythm. “How?”
“Her neck snapped; her throat punctured with a diplomatic pin. Instant. Precise. Clean, except for the message.”
“Shit.”
“She was still wearing her dress from last night. No signs of a struggle, no defensive wounds. She let them in.”
“Anyone else on-site?”
“Only staff. All clean so far, but someone got to her. Someone close. She was silenced.”
I grind my jaw. “Which means Vallois is either cleaning house—or someone higher just took her off the board.”
“Exactly.”
“Pull all the footage. I want eyes on every approach vector around the villa. Private cameras. Traffic cams. Satellites. I want it burned to ash.”
“Already on it.”
I kill the line and stare at the screen for a long second. Juliette was many things—opportunistic, manipulative, cold—but she wasn’t reckless. If she got herself killed, it means someone just torched a loose end before it started unraveling. She was supposed to be the one pulling strings. Covering tracks. Managing logistics.
So why do I feel like she was just a pawn?
Cherise stirs behind me. I hear the rustle of sheets, the soft intake of breath. When I turn, she’s sitting up, the blanket falling low on her back, baring the scratches I left last night in a moment of possession I didn’t bother to temper.
She looks at me like she already knows something’s gone sideways. “What happened?”
I step closer, crouch beside the bed, and brush the hair from her face. “Juliette’s dead.”
Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t flinch. “Vallois?”
“Maybe. Or someone he works for. Logan said she was found outside his villa. No signs of a fight. Executed and with a diplomatic seal pin stabbed into her neck.”
She exhales slowly, tension bleeding into resolve. “They’re cleaning house.”
“Yeah.”
She pulls the surrounding sheet, but it’s not about modesty—it’s armor. “She was high level. If they’re willing to take her out, we’re closer than we thought.”
“Maybe too close.”
I sit on the edge of the bed, let my hand slide across her back, fingers trailing over the bruises I put there. “We thought Vallois and Hector were running the show. But this... this feels bigger. More organized. Like they’re just fronts.”
“You think someone else is pulling the strings?”