Page 11 of Secret Hope (Hope Landing: New Recruits #5)
Cassidy picked at her grilled mahimahi, the fresh-caught fish beautifully presented but barely tasted.
The restaurant's understated elegance—floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the moonlit ocean, white linen tablecloths, and handcrafted local pottery—usually would have delighted her.
Tonight, after nearly an hour of pushing food around her plate, it was an elaborate stage set.
"Haven House could triple its operating capacity with the right connections from this tournament," Sophia said, scrolling through her tablet with undisguised excitement.
"I've identified seven potential major donors—billionaires with foundations looking for signature projects.
" She paused, noticing Cassidy's distraction. "Oi, are you even listening?"
"Sorry," Cassidy mustered a smile, taking a deliberate sip of water. "Thinking about the start tomorrow."
The lie came easily, surprising her. She couldn't burden Sophia with her growing unease about Vega. Her assistant's research had revealed nothing concrete—whispers about his shipping operations in regions known for human trafficking and arms dealing. Nothing provable. Nothing actionable.
"The Macintoshes are particularly promising," Sophia continued. "Oil money, but their daughter works in human rights. Perfect alignment with our mission. Absolutely brilliant, if you ask me."
Cassidy nodded, grateful for Sophia's enthusiasm. This was why they'd come, after all—to secure Haven House's future, to rescue more children. The foundation operated twelve safe houses across Southeast Asia and Eastern Europe, each one chronically underfunded. Every connection mattered.
"And don't forget Vega himself," Sophia added, highlighting his profile on her screen. "His invitation to meet privately could be ace?—"
"Ms. Reynolds."
A deep voice interrupted them. Cassidy turned to find one of Vega's security personnel standing beside their table, his stance formal but intrusive. Unlike the resort staff who practically disappeared into the background, this man commanded attention—and fear.
"Mr. Vega requests your presence in his penthouse. Immediately."
The word hung in the air between them, its implication clear. Not an invitation but a summons.
Cassidy met Sophia's worried gaze. "I'll be back soon," she said, placing her napkin beside her barely-touched plate.
"Good news, yeah?" Sophia whispered, though her voice betrayed uncertainty. "Might be the donation we've been hoping for?"
Cassidy squeezed her friend's shoulder, unable to voice the dread knotting her stomach. "Order dessert without me. The chocolate soufflé comes highly recommended."
Following the security officer through the restaurant, she could sense eyes tracking her progress. The resort guests were too polished to stare openly, but she knew they were watching. The Angel of the Felt, summoned by the king of the island. Even here, everything was performance.
The private elevator to the penthouse required a keycard.
As they ascended past twenty floors, Cassidy steadied her breathing, the techniques she'd perfected during high-stakes tournaments keeping her expression neutral despite her racing pulse.
Her cross necklace weighed heavily against her skin, a reminder of who she was and what she stood for.
The penthouse occupied the entire top floor, its panoramic windows offering a 360-degree view of the island.
Minimalist furnishings in cream and gold created an atmosphere of calculated opulence—wealth so secure it needn't announce itself.
Cassidy immediately noted the absence of personal touches—no photographs, no mementos.
This wasn't a home but a command center.
Vega stood by the window, silhouetted against the night sky, a tumbler of amber liquid in his hand. He turned as she entered, his security team melting away to positions by doors and hallways.
"Ms. Reynolds." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Thank you for joining me. Drink?"
"No, thank you." She remained standing until he gestured toward a white leather chair.
"Please, sit."
Cassidy perched on the edge of the seat, her posture deliberately relaxed despite the tension coiling through her. "Your invitation was... unexpected."
"Let's dispense with pleasantries." Vega settled into a chair opposite her, his movements fluid and controlled. "I have a business proposition."
Something in his tone raised immediate warning flags. Cassidy maintained her neutral expression, years of poker discipline serving her well. "I'm listening."
"There are three players I need eliminated from the tournament. You will ensure they're out before the final round."
The bluntness of his statement momentarily stunned her. Not a request. A directive.
"I'm afraid I don't understand," she said carefully, ears buzzing.
Vega sipped his drink, watching her over the rim of his glass. "You're a professional. The dealers have been instructed to assist discreetly. You'll receive signals when necessary. I’ll tell you who to eliminate, and when."
Heat rushed to Cassidy's face as comprehension dawned. "You're asking me to cheat."
"I'm informing you how the tournament will proceed." His casual confidence chilled her more than any threat. “Accept my proposition, and you’ll win it all, by the way.”
"No way." She started to rise.
Vega gestured for her to remain seated, his expression unchanged. "You’ll want to see this…added incentive before you decide."
Something in his tone kept her in place. Vega reached for a tablet on the side table, tapping the screen before turning it toward her.
The video began playing immediately—Cassidy, unmistakably Cassidy, in what appeared to be a private office, accepting a thick envelope from a man in military fatigues.
The footage showed her counting stacks of hundred-dollar bills, shaking hands with someone the news crawler identified as "General Moldovan, Advisor to President Moreno. "
A former general who’d killed his way into a dictatorship.
Her face was clearly visible, her distinctive blonde hair and the cross necklace she always wore catching the light as she tucked the money into her purse.
Horror crashed through her, followed by a wave of nausea so powerful she had to grip the chair's arms to remain upright. "This is—this is fake," she managed, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Deepfake technology has advanced remarkably," Vega agreed, casually pausing the video on a frame showing her apparently signing documents.
"But who would believe that excuse from someone caught taking bribes?
Especially when those bribes supposedly diverted Haven House funds meant for trafficking victims? "
The world tilted dangerously. Cassidy closed her eyes briefly, fighting for control. "What exactly do you want?"
"I told you. Three players eliminated. Marcus Holloway, Viktor Petrov, and DJ Reagan." He set the tablet aside with practiced indifference. "Simple enough for someone of your skills."
"And if I do this?" she asked, hating the tremor in her voice. "What's to stop you from demanding more?"
“Absolutely nothing.” Vega's smile widened slightly, revealing perfect teeth. "You're intelligent. I respect that. Compliance ensures Haven House continues its admirable work. Refusal ensures its destruction—corruption scandals destroy charities faster than any other allegation."
The simplicity of his threat made it all the more terrifying. He was right—even unfounded accusations of financial impropriety could obliterate donor trust overnight.
Something crystallized inside Cassidy—a clarity born of absolute moral certainty. The fear remained, but alongside it grew a steely resolve.
"No." She stood. "I won't betray everything I stand for. Release whatever videos you want. I'll face the consequences."
Vega's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes—surprise, perhaps. Or amusement. "A principled stand. Admirable, if misguided."
"We're done here." Cassidy turned toward the door, legs trembling but steps determined.
"Ms. Reynolds." His voice followed her, smooth as silk. "You're a mathematician at heart. Calculate the cost of your decision. Not to yourself, but to the children who depend on Haven House. Who will save them when your foundation collapses under scandal?"
A direct hit. She froze, hand on the doorknob.
"You have twelve hours. My offer stands until the first cards are dealt," he added calmly. "Logic will prevail, I'm sure."
The security team parted silently to let her pass, their faces expressionless. The elevator descended with excruciating slowness. Cassidy's heart hammered against her ribs, her breath coming in short gasps as the adrenaline surge hit her system.
Get Sophia. Get out. Now.
She hurried through the deserted hallway, her heels clicking against marble in a frantic rhythm.
The restaurant would be closing soon—she needed to find Sophia, explain what had happened, organize immediate departure from the island.
Her mind raced through logistics—flights, excuses, damage control.
Bursting onto the main floor, she scanned frantically for her assistant. The restaurant had emptied, the staff clearing tables with practiced efficiency. No sign of Sophia.
"She left about ten minutes ago, ma'am," the ma?tre d' informed her, responding to her breathless inquiry. "Said she was heading back to her room to prepare for tomorrow's events."
Cassidy nodded her thanks, already calculating the fastest route to Sophia's room. As she crossed the lobby, her phone chimed. A text from an unknown number:
Such a lovely evening. Enjoy the beach—the midnight air is particularly refreshing.
Her blood turned to ice. Vega was watching her, tracking her movements.
Fighting panic, she changed direction, heading instinctively toward the beach. She needed space, air, time to think clearly. The darkness would provide temporary cover while she planned her next move.
The resort's manicured grounds gave way to soft sand. She slipped off her heels, the cool grains between her toes grounding her temporarily as she moved toward the water's edge. The vastness of the ocean stretched before her, indifferent to human troubles.
"Lord, help me," she whispered, fingers finding her cross necklace. "Show me the way forward."
And then she knew. She and Sophia needed to run.
The Lord would protect them...and Haven House.
They'd slip out of the hotel before dawn and find transportation off the island—a charter fishing boat. Anything.
She'd call her board of directors from the mainland, warn them about potential scandal, prepare them for whatever Vega might release.
The children who depended on Haven House deserved nothing less than her complete commitment to the truth, no matter the personal cost.
Nearly midnight now, with less than twelve hours until Vega expected her compliance. Time to survive until morning.