Page 14

CHAPTER 14

CLARICE

I pace the office, my heels clicking sharply against the polished floor, my mind racing faster than my steps. Someone tried to kill Shomun. Simon. Sho. Whatever his name is, whatever he is—the thought of him hurt, bleeding, vulnerable, makes my chest tighten so hard I feel like I can’t breathe. I stop by the window, staring out at the city below, but I don’t see the skyline. I see him, standing in his true form, those deep indigo scales catching the light, his red eyes sharp and intense. And I see him collapsing under the weight of a truck, scales dulled, eyes closed.

“Damn it,” I mutter, slamming my palm against the glass. The sting grounds me for a moment, but my thoughts keep spiraling. I’ve been lying to him from the start. Silas hired me to spy on him, and I’ve been doing it—sort of. But somewhere along the way, the mission stopped mattering. Sho stopped being a target and became… everything. He’s not just my boss, my lover, my alien protector of the timeline. He’s mine . And I’m his. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. Not Silas, not anyone. Sho makes me feel powerful, desired, seen. He doesn’t just tolerate my flaws—he turns them into strengths. My shyness becomes allure, my insecurity becomes focus, my need for control becomes trust. How could I not love him?

But there’s still the truth. The truth I’ve been hiding. I can’t keep lying to him. I can’t. But I also can’t just blurt it out—not yet. I need to know if he’s the one who broke into Silas’s server room. And with Sho busy dealing with the aftermath of… everything… now’s my chance.

I stride over to his desk, my heart pounding in my ears. His computer is locked, of course, but I’ve seen him type in his password enough times to guess it. I hit the keys—his meeting time, 4:30—and the screen unlocks. I exhale sharply, my hands trembling as I navigate to the files marked “Veritas.”

I scan through the folders on Simon’s computer, my fingers hovering over the keyboard like they’re afraid to touch down. My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat. When I spot the file labeled Greer B and E , I freeze. Breaking and entering? That’s got to be it. I click it open, my breath hitching as I start to read.

The report is written in Simon’s sharp, precise tone. Relief floods through me as I realize he didn’t do it. He’s been investigating the break-in at Silas’s server room, not orchestrating it. One of his main suspects? Ryan Pax. The man I just saw at the fundraiser, with his slick smile and veiled threats. Simon’s notes mention possible grolgath connections, and I shiver. This is way bigger than corporate espionage.

I copy the file, my hands steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me. I redact anything about aliens, about Veritas, about Simon’s true identity. This needs to look like a straightforward investigation report, nothing more. I save it to my cloud and text Silas.

I have something for you. Where can we meet?

The reply comes fast. Old pumping station, Ninth Ward. You remember the one.

I do. It’s been abandoned since Katrina, a crumbling relic of the storm’s devastation. I grab my keys and head out, my mind racing.

The pumping station looms in the distance, its skeletal frame silhouetted against the dying light. I park and step out, the air thick with the scent of rust and decay. Silas is waiting inside, his blonde hair catching the faint glow of his phone screen.

“Claire,” he says, his voice smooth but strained. “You’re late.”

“Traffic,” I lie, stepping closer. “I’ve got your proof.”

I pull up the report on my phone and hand it to him. His eyes narrow as he scans it, his jaw tightening with each line. When he finishes, he looks up at me, his expression a mix of disbelief and anger.

“Ryan Pax? You’re telling me Ryan Pax broke into my server room?”

“Looks like it,” I say, crossing my arms. “Simon’s been investigating him for a while. If Pax has your data, it taints the merger negotiations. You need to tread carefully.”

Silas runs a hand through his hair, his usual composed demeanor cracking. “This is a disaster. If he’s got leverage, he could gut the whole deal.”

“You’re welcome,” I say dryly. “Consider your payment earned.”

He looks at me, his blue eyes softening for a moment. “Claire, you’re good at this. Really good. Come work for me full-time. I’ll double whatever Simon’s paying you.”

I shake my head before he even finishes. “No. I’ve already got a job.”

“With him?” Silas scoffs. “He’s a control freak and a goddamn tyrant. You’re smarter than that.”

“I’m exactly where I want to be,” I say, my voice firm.

Silas studies me for a moment, then shrugs. “Your loss. But if you change your mind…”

“I won’t,” I cut him off.

He hands me back my phone and walks toward the exit, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. I watch him go, my heart still racing. I’ve done my part for Silas. Now it’s time to focus on what really matters—figuring out my next move with Simon.

I drive back to the office, hands gripping the wheel tighter than necessary. Simon’s earlier text— Return to the office and lock yourself inside —plays on repeat in my head. The image of him standing in the street, unscathed but for the tension in his jaw, lingers. He’s alive. He’s okay. That’s what matters. I park in the underground garage, my heels echoing as I step into the elevator. The ride up feels endless, my reflection in the polished metal doors betraying the exhaustion I’m trying to hide.

When the doors slide open, Miranda’s at her desk, her dark hair perfectly coiffed, her green eyes sharp. She glances up from her computer, her expression unreadable. “You have a visitor,” she says, her voice cool and clipped.

“A visitor?” I frown, my stomach tightening. “Who?”

Miranda doesn’t answer, just gestures toward Simon’s office. I hesitate, then push the heavy door open.

And there she is.

My mother.

Dolores Redding sits in one of Simon’s plush leather chairs, her blonde hair streaked with dark roots, her nails painted a chipped red. She looks up when I enter, her face lighting up with a smile that’s part relief, part guilt. “Claire,” she says, standing. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

“Mom?” The word slips out swiftly. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you.” She spreads her hands, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s been too long. Thought I’d surprise you. Take you to lunch.”

I blink, my mind racing. Lunch? With her? The last time we spoke, she was calling me from a halfway house, her voice slurred and her words full of promises she never kept. “I—” I glance at the door, half-expecting Simon to burst in, but the office is eerily quiet. “Okay. Lunch.”

Dodo’s smile widens, and she loops her arm through mine as we head out. We end up at a little Cajun place a few blocks away, the air thick with the scent of spices and fried food. I order a bowl of gumbo, mostly to have something to do with my hands. She gets a po’boy and a sweet tea, her eyes never leaving my face.

“So,” she says, after the waiter walks away. “How’ve you been? Really been?”

“Fine,” I say, my tone guarded. “Busy. Work’s… a lot.”

“I’ll bet.” She leans forward, her elbows on the table. “You’ve always been a workhorse, Claire. Takes after your dad, I think.”

I flinch at the mention of my father—or lack thereof. “Yeah, well. It pays the bills.”

She nods, her smile faltering for a moment. “I’m in a program,” she says, her voice softer now. “Rehab. Here in New Orleans. Six months, maybe longer. I’m… I’m trying to get my life together. For good this time.”

I stare at her, my chest tight. “That’s good. I’m glad.”

“I want to make things right with you,” she continues, her eyes pleading. “I know I’ve messed up. A lot. But I want to try. If you’ll let me.”

I swallow hard, my fingers tightening around the edge of the table. “Mom, I… I want to believe you. But it’s not that simple. You’ve hurt me. A lot.”

“I know,” she whispers. “I don’t expect you to forgive me overnight. I just… I want to be in your life. If you’ll have me.”

The waiter returns with our food, and I’m grateful for the interruption. We eat in silence for a while, the weight of everything unsaid hanging heavy between us.

When we finish, she hands me a slip of paper with her number on it. “Call me,” she says, her voice firm but kind. “When you’re ready. I’ll wait.”

I nod, my throat too tight to speak. I drop her off at the rehab center on my way back to the office, my mind spinning. By the time I park in the garage again, I’m shaking. I sit there, the engine off, my hands gripping the wheel as the tears come. I cover my face, the sobs tearing through me, raw and unfiltered. The emotions war inside me—relief, anger, fear, hope—twisting into something I can’t control. I don’t know how long I sit there, but when I finally lift my head, the garage is still, the shadows long and deep.