Page 49

CAROLINE

The yacht pitches beneath my feet as I face my captor, squinting into the sun.

“Why are you doing this? Who’s paying you?”

Luke stares back through mirrored sunglasses, unmoved. The same silence he’s maintained since forcing me onto the helicopter at gunpoint.

He’s assumed the role of mercenary. How did he fool Arrow into hiring him?

Hours ago, I was at Arrow Tactical. Now, I’m in the middle of the ocean with a colleague I trusted, who turns out to be a mercenary. I check the bruises on my wrists where he bound me for the helicopter ride—evidence this isn’t some elaborate misunderstanding.

I feel sick thinking about our coffee dates, our conversations at Arrow.

Every interaction now reframes as calculation—him studying me, gathering intelligence, seeking opportunities.

And everyone at Arrow encouraged it, thinking he was good for me.

My instincts were right, but for all the wrong reasons.

“Whose yacht is this?”

After a heavy object came down hard on my head, I came to, strapped into a helicopter seat.

If I put up a fight, he’ll likely knock me out again.

But what the hell am I supposed to do? Sit here and wait?

Salt spray occasionally mists over the railing as we cut through deep blue water. No land in sight—just endless horizon in every direction.

Jumping into the ocean is not a viable option. We’re not alone on this yacht, though. A ship this size has a crew somewhere. Are they all mercenaries?

“Who else is on the boat?” I ask, fully aware that chances are great Luke will remain silent or tell me to be quiet.

Can I win him over? Create a sense of regret for agreeing to be a part of this plan? I doubt it. He’s cold. Determined. Self-righteous. His orders are likely to remain silent, but also to keep an eye on me.

A door slides open, and the silhouette of a man appears against the glare. As he steps forward, my stomach drops.

“Ms. Moore, thank you for joining me.” Geoffrey Cromwell exits into the sun. It’s the first time I’ve heard his voice. The accent is American but void of any regional notations.

“You’re behind this?” My voice rises despite my determination to stay calm.

He adjusts his cufflinks, unperturbed. “Forgive me, but you’ll need to be more specific.”

“Abduction. How’s that for specificity?”

“That’s an ugly word, Caroline. I prefer strongly encouraged you to attend a meeting .”

“A meeting?”

“Yes, right this way.”

He gestures for me to enter the cabin, and I do as requested.

“It’s better to view the video outside of the sun’s harsh glare.”

I squint into the interior. Black and yellow spots mingle as my eyes adjust from the transition of bright to dim lighting.

A black screen flicks to life.

“Have a seat,” Geoffrey encourages as the yacht rolls over a wave. My knees are locked, and I can withstand the roll of the boat easily, but I comply, taking the seat as instructed.

Luke remains at my back, although he holsters his gun.

Dorian appears on the screen, standing before a podium. His Adam’s apple appears abnormally large at this angle, or maybe it’s how the collar hits his throat. There’s something off about the image, but I can’t trust my perception when I might be suffering from a concussion.

“Oh, the sound’s not working,” Geoffrey says, and he clicks a button on a remote.

Dorian’s deep voice fills the cabin.

“It is a great honor to accept the position of chief of staff.”

My fingers dig into the leather armrests as Dorian’s face fills the screen.

He looks different—polished, distant, wearing a bespoke custom suit.

The man on screen bears little resemblance to the one I just saw at Ryan’s office.

His hair is shorter, as if he had a trim, and a make-up artist worked to give him color under the harsh spotlight.

As he speaks about accepting the chief of staff position, my chest tightens. This can’t be right. The timeline doesn’t make sense.

“In light of recent domestic attacks, I will move to assume the role as quickly as possible. The first action I will take is to step away from any business investments that may represent a conflict of interest. Effective immediately, I will set my investments into a trust and step down from my board seats in Bedrock and Zenith. Times of uncertainty require strong leadership, and this is what I intend to provide for our country. May we all stand united in the face of our enemies. God bless the United States of America.”

The video ends.

“Would you care to read his social posts?”

“Social posts?”

“His statements on X, Truth Social, and BlueSky.”

“Dorian doesn’t tweet.” Although, he does employ a PR firm. I suppose they could have a slew of posts and press releases on the ready for an event such as this.

But I just saw him. None of this makes sense. He was in Ryan’s office as recently as a few hours ago. How is any of this possible?

“Caroline, when faced with a choice, we all knew what Dorian would choose. You aren’t surprised, are you, dear?”

I stare at Geoffrey, mind racing. The Dorian I just saw in Colorado was struggling with migraines, fighting to keep his company afloat amid mysterious attacks. The man in this video looks healthier, confident, almost like a different person altogether.

Either this video is old, or it’s not really Dorian. Or worse—everything he shared with me was a lie.