Page 124 of Double Down

“Maverick,” Atticus says, “ask me if I’m going to lose my mind now or later.”

“Now?” Mav offers.

“Now,” Atticus snaps. “How does she have footage I don’t? I burned every piggyback I found. Which means I’m being outmaneuvered at every turn.”

“Breathe,” I tell him.

He glowers, then settles, breathing.

“Con,” Maverick says, tapping a still. “That’s a house-issue clip on the lanyard. Every badge is logged. If that clip exists, we have a line. We can track it”

“Storm,” I say, “go shake the tree. Spa desk. Laundry. Overnight maintenance. Ask nicely first. Make them honest if they lie. But if they respond to nice, give them a hefty bonus for loyalty.”

Storm smiles in a way that makes me want to take half a step back. “With pleasure.”

“Legal?” Maverick asks, careful.

“I’ll call him when we have a name. Until then, he keeps the Board boyfriend charmed and the senator busy.”

Storm walks to the door, plucks his knife from the frame, and wipes the blade on his shirt like he’s smoothing a wrinkle. “What about Mrs. Langford?”

“Handled. She can have anything on the menu and the city’s best physician on standby. If she tries to make noise before lunch, we drown her in concern. Give her everything until we’re at the bottom of this.”

“One more time,” Atticus says, and we watch until the angles rewire my optic nerve. The man moves like someone trained not to be seen. Contractors can own a room by pretending not to exist. I’ve done business with ghosts. I hate that one is nesting in my house.

I catch Phoenix watching me instead of the screen—an apology, and something new in her expression—resolve. Good. She told us. Now we fix what bleeds.

We scatter on instinct. Storm checks the edge of his knife on his way out the door. Maverick texts the day manager to hold the spa doors as he leaves. Atticus mutters about process names while returning to his lair.

I send a text to the thread without Phoenix.

Con

One hour. Get everything set. Then we teach Phoenix a lesson she won’t forget.

Storm

Punish her for not trusting us?

Con

No. Push her to her limits and see how far she’ll go to atone.

I stare at the thread a second longer than necessary, the phone suddenly heavy in my hand. “Teach her a lesson” is the old reflex—order, consequence, the clean math my father worshiped. But as the blue bubbles fade, something uglier and truer drags its nails down my soul.

This isn’t about punishment. Not really. It’s a pressure test. How far can I push her before she snaps? Before she decides I’m everything she fears, everything she hates…and walks away again?

She didn’t tell us because she doesn’t trust us enough. Because she doesn’t trust me. Either way, I need to find out if it’s me, or if it’s the fact that she doesn’t have a permanent place with us.

Neither of those two options have a reasonable solution.

The knife mark Storm left in the doorframe sticks out in the corner of my eye, counting out all the ways I mistake control for care. If she’s going to leave, I want to know now, not after I’ve rebuilt an empire around her shadow.

Do I want her to stay?

I thumb the edge of the phone, feel the ghost of my father in the lacquered grain of his desk, and name the thing I’ve been pretending isn’t there: I’m not trying to break Phoenix. I’m trying to prove myself right. That she’ll run. That I’m safer planning for her absence than betting on her staying.

And yet—under the calculation—another current moves.I want to see her hold.I want to see her look me in the eye when it hurts and choose not to go. Not because she’s obedient, not because she’s submissive, but because she’s ours.