Page 26

Three (More) Months Later

S o m e h o w, a l i t t l e over six months had passed since my life got flipped upside down. And despite my smart-ass mouth and his ruthless, controlling, demanding ways, we’d found a strange rhythm. A dangerous chemistry.

I still talked my shit, still pushed his buttons, but he had a way of shutting me up when he wanted to. And I hated how much I was starting to enjoy that. I’d been spending more time with my girls, and I finally started working on something that was just for me. Something I’d put off for too long. My brand—Parkmore Clothing Co.—was officially in the works. I’d started small, sketching original designs, focusing on high-quality streetwear, with my first drop being a line of graphic tees. Shooter had backed me immediately.

“You really wanna do this shit? Bet. Make it happen,”

he’d said. “I’ll invest whatever you need, get you connected with manufacturers, help you push that shit, whatever. I gotchu.”

I’d rolled my eyes at him, even though my heart did something stupid at how quickly he backed me. “You know I don’t need your money, Shooter,” I’d said.

“I know that.”

He smirked. “But I like spoilin’ and supportin’ my wife.”

And he did. Shooter spoiled me like he was trying to ruin me for any other man in this world. Not that there would be another man. And not that I was thinking about shit like that. Because I wasn’t… right?

But despite Shooter’s support, my father wasn’t happy about it. When I brought up my brand over dinner one night, his response was short, clipped. “You don’t need to work, . Your job is to be a wife.”

The words sat heavy on my chest long after we parted ways. My job. Like I was an employee of this damn marriage and not a grown woman with dreams, with goals. I’d let it go—on the surface, at least. But deep down, it made me even more determined to make Parkmore successful. To make something that was mine.

It wasn’t just my clothing line that had changed in these three months. I’d changed too. I was at Shooter’s side more now. When the situation called for it, I happily rolled with him to business meetings, brunches, and dinners. I learned how to move in his world, and I learned quickly.

I learned to sit beside him and keep my chin high while he handled business. I learned not to ask questions I didn’t really want the answers to. I learned that sometimes his deals were sealed with words, other times with bullets, and it wasn’t my place to question which way it went.

And surprisingly… things had been good. When we weren’t clashing, we were vibing. Shooter took me out, spoiled me, and made sure I had everything I wanted. We fucked like we hated each other, then laid in bed afterward smoking and watching movies like we didn’t. We were building something, whether I wanted to admit it or not. But the one thing that never sat right with me?

Seth Mosley.

Every time Shooter’s father came around, something about him put me on edge. He had this way of looking at me that made my skin crawl—like I was a piece on a chessboard he was still trying to move into place. And I could tell Shooter noticed. The last time Seth had dropped by the penthouse, he’d barely acknowledged me, instead pulling Shooter aside for a hushed conversation in the study. When Shooter came out, his jaw was tight, his whole body stiff with whatever was said.

I didn’t ask. Because if there was one thing I was learning, it was that when it came to the Mosley men, there were some things I didn’t want to know. And something about Seth Mosley told me that whatever secrets he was keeping? They were deadly.

T h e g y m o n the lower level of the building was quiet, just how I liked it. I had my AirPods in, music blasting, blocking out everything except the burn in my legs as I pushed through the last few reps of squats. Sweat trickled down my back, my muscles were screaming, but I needed this. The gym was one of the few places I could clear my head lately… until I wasn’t alone anymore.

I caught the movement in the mirror first. A shadow in the reflection, lingering by the entrance. I ignored it at first. People came and went. No big deal. But something about the way the man stood there, watching me, sent a chill through me. Slowly, I straightened, pulling out an AirPod as I turned to face him.

He was old—maybe seventies—but it wasn’t just age that made him unsettling. His skin was weathered, his eyes sunken, darting around like he was either paranoid or high as hell. His clothes were tattered, like he had nowhere to be, yet somehow, he’d gotten into this building.

And the way he was staring at me… it was like he knew me and had been waiting for me.

I wiped sweat from my forehead, forcing my voice to stay steady. “Can I help you?”

The man tilted his head, a slow, jerky movement. Then he smiled. It was the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes. The kind that made my stomach tighten with unease.

“The weight of the dead rests heavy, don’t it?”

I frowned. “What?”

His eyes flicked to the dumbbells, then back to me. “You can lift all you want, but some things? Some things can’t be carried. Some things shouldn’t be carried.”

I took a step back. “Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you shouldn’t be in here.”

He chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. “Neither should the ghosts, but they always find their way back.”

Okay, this is some bullshit. I turned to grab my towel and water bottle, done with this creepy-ass interaction. But before I could leave, something small and black sailed through the air, landing on the bench beside me. A USB drive. I stared at it, then back at him.

“The truth lies within,”

he murmured.

And then he ran right out of the gym and right out of the building. I stood frozen, heart pounding, the USB sitting there like some kind of omen. I didn’t know what the hell just happened. But I did know one thing—I was pissed my workout got interrupted for this weird-ass nonsense.

By the time I stepped into the penthouse, the eerie feeling from earlier still clung to me like a second skin. I tossed my gym bag onto the floor near the hallway, rubbing a towel over my damp neck. I needed a reset. A long, hot shower. Comfortable clothes. Wine.

I stripped and stepped into the shower, letting the scalding water wash away the lingering unease. My mind kept circling back, though—back to that man, his words, the USB.

The truth lies within.

What the hell did that even mean? The more I tried to shove it to the back of my mind, the more it clawed its way forward.

By the time I was wrapped in one of Shooter’s oversized hoodies, fuzzy socks on my feet, and a glass of red wine in my hand, I still couldn’t shake the curiosity. The USB sat on the coffee table, taunting me. I sighed, setting down my wine and grabbing my laptop from the couch. I plugged the USB in, fingers drumming against my thigh as it loaded up.

There was only one folder, so I clicked it open to see a bunch of audio files without labels. No dates. Nothing. I hesitated for a moment before clicking the first one.

At first, there was nothing but static. Then, a deep voice came. I instantly recognized it as Seth’s.

“Things are in motion. The walls are closing in on him. The boy is a loose end.”

My stomach tightened as I clicked the next file.

“Let him think he’s in control. Let him think he’s untouchable. When the time comes, we cut the head off the snake.”

I clicked another.

“Shooter, listen to me. This is business. No room for sentiment. Your brother’s made his bed, and now he has to lie in it.”

My breath hitched. They were talking in code, but it was clear. Seth was plotting to kill Silas. And Shooter knew about it. I covered my mouth, my stomach twisting into knots. I played them over and over, my pulse hammering. This wasn’t just some vague conversation. This shit was premeditation. I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth as I slammed the laptop shut.

My mind was spiraling. Racing so fast I could barely catch a thought before another crashed into it. I squeezed my eyes shut, gripping the edges of the laptop like it was the only thing tethering me to reality. My heartbeat pounded against my ribs, loud and uneven.

Silas wasn’t perfect, but he was still Shooter’s brother. And Seth—his own father—was plotting his murder like it was just another business move?

Does Shooter know the full extent of it?

Was he in on it?

I shook my head, trying to reject the idea, but the files—the proof—were still sitting in front of me like an open wound. Shooter was ruthless. Controlling. Demanding. But was he capable of killing his own blood? Would he?

I thought back to the way he spoke about Silas sometimes—frustration lacing his tone, shaking his head like his brother was just another problem to handle. But murder? I wanted to believe he wouldn’t cross that line. That there were some things even a man like Shooter wouldn’t do. But then I remembered how coldly he handled business. How quick he was to pull the trigger without a second thought. And maybe that’s what scared me the most.

If Shooter really was a part of this, if he really had a hand in killing his own brother… then who the fuck was I really married to? And what the hell was I supposed to do now?