Chapter 9: Room Three
852 Words
Ares didn’t come back in an hour. Or two.
At 3:17 AM, the locks clicked. One. Two. Three.
I was on the couch. Scalpel in my hand. Dress still on. Didn’t sleep. Elena slept and died for it.
He walked in without the tux jacket. White shirt. Blood on the cuff. Not his. His eyes found me. Then the scalpel. Then the bandage on my foot.
“You’re still in the dress.”
“You’re still in blood.”
He looked down. Like he forgot. “It’s not mine.”
“Whose?”
“Does it matter?” He crossed to the bar. Didn’t pour a drink. Just braced his hands on the marble. Shoulders tight. “He talked.”
“The guy from the garage.”
Ares nodded. “Richard’s been paying him for six months. Following me. Following Elena before that. He planted the tracker on my car. On yours. He has photos. Of you. At Rosa’s hospital. At St. Michael’s. At the church.”
Ice hit my veins. “He’s been watching me.”
“Since before the wedding. Since I started paying your sister’s bills.” His knuckles were white. “He knew I’d pick you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re clean. No family. No ties. Desperate enough to sign anything for Rosa. And you hate me. That makes it believable.” He finally looked at me. “Except you don’t hate me anymore, do you?”
It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation.
“I don’t know what I feel,” I said. Honest. Tired. “I know I don’t want to die in blue like Elena.”
“You won’t.” He pushed off the bar. Came toward me. Stopped two feet away. “Room three is empty now. He won’t send anyone else tonight. But he will send more. Until the board votes, this is war.”
“What happens after the board votes?”
“Either I own the company outright, and I burn him. Or he wins, and we run.” His eyes dropped to the scalpel. “Put that down. You’re going to cut yourself.”
“I sleep better with it.”
“You haven’t slept.”
Neither had he. I could see it. The grey under his eyes. The way he held himself. Like one wrong move and he’d break.
“What’s in room three?” I asked.
“Questions.” He ran a hand through his hair. Left the blood streak. “And answers I didn’t want.”
“Like what?”
“Like Richard didn’t order Elena killed.” He said it flat. Dead. “She was working with him. The affidavit was real. She was going to testify that I killed a patient during surgery. Covered it up.”
I stood. The dress stuck to me. “Did you?”
“No.” He met my eyes. “But the patient died. And Richard made sure the paperwork looked bad. Elena believed him. She was going to send me to prison. His men killed her when she tried to back out.”
“So he plays both sides.”
“He always does.” Ares stepped closer. One step. “Which is why you’re dangerous to him now. You saw me in the garage. You know what I’m capable of. If you turn on me, with your cleaner credibility, your sister’s story—”
“I won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” I set the scalpel on the coffee table. Deliberate. Loud in the quiet. “Because Elena ran. I came down fifty-five floors to find you.”
He stared at the scalpel. Then at me. For a long time, nothing happened.
Then he moved. Fast. Hands on my face. Not kissing. Just holding. Like he needed to feel I was real.
“Don’t do that again,” he said. Voice rough. “Don’t follow me into the dark. I don’t come back from there clean.”
“Then don’t go alone.”
His thumb brushed my cheekbone. Right over the scar from last week. The one he gave me. “Mia.”
It was the first time he said my name like that. Not Mrs. Callahan. Not wife.
_Mia._
My phone buzzed on the table. We both looked.
_Unknown Number: Room three was warm tonight. Room one will be warmer. -R_
Ares went lethal. Dead calm. “Get dressed. Jeans. Shoes you can run in. We’re leaving.”
“Now?”
“Now.” He was already moving. Grabbing a duffel from the closet. Throwing clothes in. “He knows about room three. That means he has someone inside my security. We’re exposed.”
He tossed me jeans. A hoodie. “Two minutes. Then we go.”
I caught them. “Where?”
“Somewhere he doesn’t own.” He checked his gun. Slid it into a holster. “Somewhere you’re safe.”
He looked at me. Really looked. Red dress. Bare feet. Scalpel on the table.
“For now,” he added.
I ran to change.
- Writer
