Chapter 3 - THE GOLD LIGHTER
“What do you mean, she didn’t?” Del’s voice trembled.
She stared at the defaced photograph of herself. The red ink looked like blood under the dim restaurant lights.
Sloan knelt slowly, his expensive suit pooling on the floor, and picked up the locket by the chain. He didn’t touch the metal. “Cora has been looking for whoever sent this to our house eight months ago.” He looked up at her, his expression a mix of fury and desperate relief. “The day before you disappeared.”
Del’s mind spun.
Reversal.
She had spent eight months believing Sloan ordered her death. She had found a dossier on his desk with her name, a massive payout, and the words ‘Loose End’ written in his handwriting.
“You put a hit on me,” she whispered, her hands instinctively wrapping around her pregnant belly to protect their unborn child. “I saw the papers, Sloan. I saw the money transfer.”
Sloan’s eyes darkened. “I transferred that money to a secure account for you. To protect you. Someone breached my inner circle. I was trying to get you out of the city.”
Del staggered back, her back hitting the heavy walnut door. If Sloan didn’t order the hit… who drove her off the bridge that night?
Before she could process the truth, a sharp, tearing pain ripped across her lower abdomen.
Del gasped, doubling over.
“Delphine!” Sloan was there in a second, his large hands catching her elbows, steadying her. His heat, his scent of cedar and expensive cologne—it was intoxicating and terrifying. “What’s wrong? Is it the baby?”
“Braxton Hicks,” she panted, squeezing her eyes shut. “Or stress. I just… I need to sit.”
“You need a hospital.”
“No!” she panicked, grabbing his lapels. “No hospitals. If I go into the system, they’ll find me. The people who ran me off the road.”
Sloan’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked beneath his skin. “No one is going to touch you ever again. Bishop!”
The massive bodyguard stepped in front of the locked exit, blocking the only way out.
Del looked up at Bishop.
And her heart stopped.
Bishop was idly flipping a heavy gold lighter in his left hand.
Click. Clack.
The sound hit Del like a physical blow.
Eight months ago. The rain pouring down. Her car pinned against the guardrail. A man walking toward her broken window, flipping a heavy gold lighter in his left hand. Click. Clack.
Bishop was the man who tried to kill her.
Del’s breath caught in her throat. She looked at Sloan, who was completely unaware, trusting this man with his life. With her life.
“Bring the armored SUV to the alley,” Sloan ordered Bishop. “We’re taking her to the safehouse.”
“Understood, boss,” Bishop said, sliding the lighter into his pocket. He looked directly at Del, his eyes dead, a slight smirk playing on his lips.
May you like
Del realized with horrifying clarity: if she told Sloan now, Bishop would draw his weapon. In this small room, she and the baby would be caught in the crossfire.
“Ready, Mrs. Marchetti?” Bishop asked.
