Page 3 of Fractured Loyalties (Tainted Souls #2)

The email reads like every crisis does—bloated with passive threats and veiled ultimatums. I skim it once, then again, while the morning sun slices through the slats of my office windows, painting symmetrical stripes across the floor. The intercom crackles softly.

My assistant's voice, always careful, says, "Ms. Carr is here to see you."

"Send her in."

On the screen: a global shipping partner demanding last-minute renegotiations. It should irritate me. It doesn’t. I reply with three sentences that settle the matter. No hedging. No diplomacy. Just results.

A soft knock.

“Come.”

Lydia Carr steps inside. Lydia isn’t here to take notes or fetch coffee—she’s the engine behind most of what runs when I’m not in the room.

My chief of operations, and the only person I trust to walk into a room without knocking twice.

Tailored discipline in heels, always two steps behind me and three steps ahead of everyone else. She slides a folder onto my desk.

“The files you asked for. Including the personal timeline.”

I don’t need to ask whose.

“Mara Thomas,” she says, confirming it anyway. “No digital trail beyond what’s in this. No family ties outside a half-sister who hasn’t seen her in five years. No police records, no online posts, no debt. She’s practically invisible.”

“Not invisible.”

Lydia pauses. “No. Just...methodical.”

I tap the edge of the folder. The paper’s too warm, like it’s been held too long. Lydia hesitates, and that means she wants to say something but is calculating how much I’ll tolerate.

“You’ve been watching her for a long time,” she says eventually.

I glance at her. “You’re implying something.”

“I’m implying you’re not impartial.”

I let the silence stretch until she adjusts the cuff of her jacket.

“Keep running background on her ex,” I say. “The one from Michigan. Caleb Rusk.”

“Already flagged. Domestic complaints, two restraining orders—both expired. One sealed file that took some digging. Not the kind of man who lets go easily.”

“No,” I murmur, “he isn’t.”

Lydia waits for me to say more. I don’t. She leaves.

I sit back. Close the file without needing to read it.

I already know everything in it.

Because I’ve been watching her.

I first saw Mara seven months ago. Chance.

Or close enough. She was sitting alone on a bench near the entrance of a community outreach event I was funding—half-present, like she hadn’t decided whether she belonged inside or outside.

Nothing remarkable about the bench, or the moment, except the way she held herself.

Too still. Too composed. The kind of stillness that only comes from surviving something loud.

Most people reveal who they are by speaking. Mara tells you everything by not speaking. That day, I watched her study a crack in the pavement for seven minutes without blinking. That’s not boredom. That’s someone trying not to fall apart.

Since then, I’ve mapped her habits with the same discipline I bring to boardrooms and courtrooms. Same time, same path, same clinic. Her routines are exacting. They give her the illusion of control. I understand that need. I was raised in its teeth.

I’ve consciously stepped closer when it served me.

Not every day—sporadic enough that she could call it a coincidence if she wanted.

Once at the post office, long enough for her to hear someone greet me, my name clipped short in the noise.

Another of those days was yesterday; I made sure to place myself across from her office around lunch, when I knew she took a short break, and I saw her as she stepped out.

All she had to do was look straight ahead, and she’d spot me there, nothing direct, never direct.

Just enough for her to register me without knowing why.

Just enough to plant the seed that I was already part of her landscape.

I notice that lately, her mask is slipping.

This week, she started pausing outside her door before unlocking it. Pausing again in the stairwell. She checks her rearview mirror more often. She walks faster but pretends not to. Her world is starting to crack, and I want to know what’s pressing against it from the other side.

After Lydia leaves, I finish the remaining emails with mechanical precision.

I forward a few directives, lock my screen, and slide my phone into my coat pocket.

I text the destination without ceremony.

The driver replies with a simple 'On it' and pulls up five minutes later.

He knows better than to ask questions as I step into the back of the car.

By the time we reach the edge of Miramont, it’s just after nine. I don’t go to her apartment—she’s already left for work. I know because she always goes to the clinic early. That’s part of what steadies her: rhythm, ritual, routine.

Instead, I direct the driver to the outer edge of town near the business district. He parks without question, two blocks east of the clinic. I walk from there, moving through back alleys and narrow lots with practiced silence.

I pause near the post office, where the corner of the clinic comes into view. The building is modest—clean stucco, sharp lines, a row of windows that reflect nothing but pale sky. From this angle, I can watch her without risk.

I shift behind the hedge and let time pass. The staff trickles in, the first patient stumbles through the door, and Mara begins her day like nothing is wrong.

But I know better. I’ve been watching the cracks spread.

At exactly 10:14 p.m., she steps outside with a paper cup in hand—tea, I'm sure, not coffee. She never drinks coffee. But it's not just the tea that tells me she's rattled.

She's carrying her bag.

She never takes it out for short breaks. Not unless she plans to go somewhere. But today, it’s slung high and tight across her chest like she’s ready to run. That alone sets off an alert in my brain.

She walks to the corner of the building and plants herself near the wall, one foot subtly angled toward the street like she’s mapping an escape route. Her eyes sweep the sidewalk, the lot, the cars. Not fast. Methodical.

She takes one sip, then another. She doesn't speak to anyone. Just listens to the breeze. Watches.

A car turns the corner too slowly. Not slow enough to be suspicious, but enough to pull her focus. Her shoulders lock. The paper cup stills in her hand. She shifts the strap of her bag tighter across her chest, fingers clenching once, then loosening—as if reminding herself to look calm.

I see the spike of adrenaline ripple through her. I feel it, almost.

She stares at the car until it’s gone, then checks over her shoulder once before disappearing inside again.

I don’t smile. But there’s a heat behind my ribs that wasn’t there this morning.

Fear is clarity.

She’s starting to see the world as it is. Unforgiving. Crowded with danger.

That’s how you know who you can trust.

After Mara slips back inside, I stay hidden a while longer. But not on foot. Not out in the open. That would be careless.

I double back toward the edge of the lot and return to the waiting car. My driver is still in the front seat, engine off, hands neatly folded. He’s used to waiting without asking questions. I knock once on the window, and he unlocks the door.

"You’re dismissed for the day," I tell him as I slide into the back. "Take a cab back. I’ll handle it from here."

He gives a short nod and exits, disappearing down the street without a word.

Once he’s gone, I slide forward into the driver’s seat. The interior is still warm from his body. I adjust the mirrors—not because I need them, but because I don’t like the idea of them being off by even a fraction.

The car is parked two blocks east of the clinic, angled discreetly along a side road that offers a partial view of the front entrance through the side mirrors. From here, I can monitor comings and goings without risk of being seen. I remain seated, engine off, phone in hand.

I scroll through the surveillance logs I tagged two weeks ago, not illegal—nothing traceable. Just footage from a public-facing building, and a license plate log from a friendly contact in Michigan. Caleb Rusk’s last known vehicle was sold six months ago. Cash. No paper trail since.

I already know that isn’t a coincidence.

If Mara feels hunted, it’s because she is.

But she’s not hunted by me.

I flip through images. One of her standing in front of the clinic. One outside her apartment building. Her face in all of them is still. Too still. Like something inside her is retreating.

I’ve seen that look in a mirror.

My hand tightens around the phone.

This isn’t curiosity anymore. It hasn’t been for a long time. She doesn’t know it yet, but her protection is already mine to provide. Her fear is mine to redirect. If she won’t act, I will.

I pocket the phone and remain in the driver’s seat.

No need to go anywhere, not yet. The route is clean.

No one has seen me. Still, I sit for a while longer, watching.

Calculating. When I finally turn the key in the ignition, it’s not to circle or approach—it’s to leave. My work here, for now, is complete.

The drive back to the penthouse is uneventful.

Controlled. Exactly the way I prefer it.

Every intersection taken with intention, every lane change deliberate.

I arrive just before the traffic thickens, and by the time the car is parked in the underground garage, the sky above is already draining of light, but inside my home, the light never shifts.

Everything is exactly where it belongs—precise. Ordered. Unchanging.

I strip off the jacket, hang it on the single hook by the door. My shoes align perfectly beside each other. I cross the polished floors and pour a finger of scotch into a crystal. One drink. No more. Enough to think clearly without dulling the edge.

Then I walk to the room I never show anyone. No one knows it exists. Inside: four screens. All muted. One of them still shows a paused frame of Mara from last night.

She checked the locks three times. Pulled the blinds twice.

Then hesitated at the window—reached toward the latch, paused, and backed away.

The footage isn’t from inside her apartment, not directly.

I secured access to a neighboring building’s outdoor security cam—the angle's wide, crude, but it gives me just enough.

Her silhouette framed in low amber light.

Her gestures outlined against the blinds.

The hesitation at the window was subtle, but I saw it.

Maybe it’s just inference. I’ve studied her patterns long enough to know when something breaks. Her routine is unraveling.

I watch the video again.

And again.

Then I shut the feed off and close my eyes.

Caleb Rusk is a threat.

And threats don’t deserve warnings.

I stay in the room, lost in calculating and watching the surveillance videos till it's dark, the room is now lit only by the faint perimeter glow around the muted monitors. I don’t need the light. I know where everything is.

I slide open the drawer beneath the center desk and remove the folder I shouldn’t have. The one marked with a red tab that was never entered into any system. Lydia doesn't know I made a copy.

Inside: the sealed file on Caleb Rusk. Photos. Court notes. Medical summaries from the woman before Mara. Different name, same patterns. Aggressive control, surveillance, threats. Charges dropped, records sealed. Always the same dance: dominate, isolate, vanish. He leaves bruises that don't show.

I flip a photo over. It’s a blurry image from a grainy security feed, a timestamp from two weeks ago. Not local. Too warm in the background to be here. He’s watching someone. Not Mara. Not yet.

But I can feel the shift coming.

I tuck the folder back into its drawer. Push it in slowly. Deliberately.

Out in the main room, I pour a second drink. Break my rule. Let it burn down my throat. The walls here don’t echo—too insulated—but the silence is still thick. I let it sit.

I press a button on the panel beneath the bookshelf. A compartment opens. Inside: a phone that’s never been used for calls. I unlock it, scroll past encrypted texts and dead contact numbers until I find the one I need.

I type:

Need a location. Caleb Rusk. Last 48 hours. Send proof.

Then I set the phone face down. No reply yet, but I know it will come.

I walk to the wall of windows that overlooks the city. My reflection hovers in the glass—sharp, clean, unreadable.

She doesn’t need to know what I’m doing.

She just needs to be safe.

Even if that means never giving her a choice.

The reply comes just before midnight.

Encrypted. No sender ID. Just coordinates. A time-stamped image follows. Grainy. Shot from across a gas station lot. Caleb Rusk, leaning against a rusted pickup, talking to a man I don’t recognize.

In the picture, the other man’s mouth is caught mid-sentence—blurred by motion.

Caleb isn’t looking at him. His eyes are glassy, his face drawn.

He hasn’t shaved in days. There’s a slackness to his posture that says he’s spiraling, not sleeping.

But I know better than to mistake stillness for weakness.

I enlarge the photo. There’s a flyer stapled to a board behind him. Miramont. A local event. Two days ago.

So he’s here.

Closer than she thinks. Closer than she can afford to know.

My hand rests on the edge of the screen, steady. It doesn’t shake. Not like before. Not like years ago.

I move to the storage unit built into the far wall, unlock it with my palm. Inside, behind medical-grade packaging and biometric locks, rests the tool I told myself I’d never use again. Black, matte, precise. Cold.

I hold it for a while, not thinking. Just remembering.

Then I put it back.

Not yet.

I don’t need brute force. Not for this.

I need precision. Planning.

Control.

I sit down and begin drafting an operations sweep—timelines, patterns, routes, leverage points.

I pull up traffic feeds, logistics on utility work around the blocks near her apartment.

I want to know everything: who parks where, what lights are faulty, which corners flood when it rains. I map it all.

She sleeps unaware. I don’t need to see her to know it. Her routine is fraying, but she still follows it. She will lock the door. Check it three times. Pull the blinds. Pause at the window. Then curl up on the right side of the bed, feet tucked tight, as if the world can’t reach her there.

But it can.

And it will, if I don’t intervene.

Tonight, I let her have her illusion.

Tomorrow, I start stripping Caleb’s away.