Page 28 of Fractured Loyalties

“Exactly.”

Silence again. Not awkward. Not tense. Just a held breath between two people orbiting something neither of us has named.

Then she says, “Tell me something true about you. Something no one else knows.”

I blink once. That’s the first time she’s asked anything real of me.

I lean back slightly, thinking. Weighing.

Then: “I built this house ten years ago. Before I met anyone who knew my name here. Before I had anything to hide. It was the last time I created something just because I wanted to. Not for control. Not for strategy. Just...because.”

She watches me with a strange softness.

“And now?” she asks.

“Now, everything I do is to keep the things I care about from being destroyed.”

A long pause. Her gaze doesn’t waver.

“Am I one of those things now?”

I don’t flinch.

“Yes.”

The silence between us stretches but doesn’t strain. She looks away first, back to the fire, its flames casting a warm ripple across her face. The flicker makes her expression unreadable—part hesitation, part hunger.

I let her sit in it. Let her decide what to do with the knowledge I gave her. For someone like Mara, whose entire life has been about control stolen and control reclaimed, that choice matters more than anything else.

Finally, she whispers, “Why me?” and looks at me now, maybe trying to catch the look on my face when I answer.

It’s not a question of vanity. She means it like a warning.

“Because the first time I laid my eyes on you, I saw someone trying not to vanish.”

She swallows. Her fingers tighten around the hem of her sleeve.

“I’m not used to being seen.”

“I’m not used to seeing anyone I want to look at twice.”

She flinches—just slightly. But she doesn’t look away.

I move from the sofa, stand, and walk to the side table near the fireplace. I open a drawer, pull out a narrow leather folder, and return to her. I don’t hand it to her yet. I sit. Let the weight of it rest between us.

“There’s something you need to know before we go any further,” I say.

Mara straightens. Her posture stiffens like a thread pulled too tight. “What is that?”

“I know more about Caleb than I told you.”

Her eyes narrow. “How much more?”

I open the folder.

Inside: photographs. Surveillance notes. Public record files I’ve annotated by hand. A partial timeline of Caleb’s movements over the last two months.

She stares at the contents but doesn’t reach for them.