Within These Walls

Chapter Eight: The Girl in the Ruffles (Part 2)

Nova Starling Quinn

I watched the light from the streetlamp filter through the blinds, casting stripes across Dante’s scarred knuckles. His story was a mirror of my own nightmare, just reflected in a different shade of blood. I took a slow sip of my beer, the bitterness grounding me.

"You remember the 'fancy girl' in the ruffles?" I asked, a dry, humorless laugh escaping my throat. "That dress was a cage, Dante. My parents... they weren't like yours. They were quiet. Private. They were 'old money' Jamaicans who thought that if we just stayed in our lane and kept the gates locked, the world couldn't touch us."

I stood up and walked to my desk, pulling up a digital file of an old photograph. It was me at eight years old, standing in front of a sprawling white estate. I looked miserable.

"The day of the fire, my parents were arguing with Thorne in the study. I was supposed to be at a piano lesson, but I’d skipped it to hide in the library. I heard my father tell Thorne that he’d found out where the investment money was actually going. He’d tracked the ‘Bird’ symbol to a human trafficking ring operating out of the port. He was going to the feds the next morning."

I turned back to Dante, my blue eyes icy. "Thorne didn't even raise his voice. He just said, 'That would be a very expensive mistake, Arthur.' Ten minutes later, I smelled the accelerant. My father found me in the library, shoved the silver key into my hand, and pushed me through the servant’s passage. He told me to run and never look back. I stood in the hibiscus bushes across the street and watched the roof cave in. I saw Thorne standing by his car, checking his watch like he was waiting for a train. He wasn't even hurried."

I sat back down, my shoulders tense. "After the funeral, Thorne became my 'guardian.' He told me the feds were the ones who set the fire to silence my father. He fed me a diet of lies for years. He put me in elite boarding schools, kept me isolated, and told me that if I ever touched the remaining trust fund, the 'men who killed my parents' would find me."

I leaned forward, my face inches from Dante’s. "I spent my teenage years being a 'rebellious' brat just to see how much I could get away with. I learned to hack because I wanted to see his bank statements. I learned to fight because I realized the only person who was ever going to protect me was me. Thorne thought he was 'managing' a broken heiress. He had no idea I was spending every night in his servers, mapping out his soul."

I looked at the folder on the table. "When I turned eighteen, he told me the money was gone. All of it. He expected me to beg. Instead, I disappeared. I changed my name, used the last of my hidden cash to build this loft, and started Quinn Digital Solutions. I’ve been his 'consultant' for three years, Dante. I fix his 'digital leaks' while I’m actually planting backdoors into every file he owns."

I reached out, my fingers brushing the birth certificate. "He’s been playing us like we’re on a stage, Dante. He kept you in the light as his 'pet cop' and kept me in the dark as his 'ghost.' He probably thought it was poetic. The two survivors, orbiting each other but never touching."

"He's a sick f**k," Dante growled, his hand covering mine on the table. His palm was huge, warm, and rough.

"He is," I agreed, not pulling my hand away. The bickering felt a million miles away now. We weren't rivals anymore. We were a storm. "But he made a mistake. He let us meet. And he let us survive long enough to get angry."

I looked him dead in the eye. "No more 'fiancée' bullshit, Dante. No more pretending. I want him to know it was us before he dies. I want him to see the kids from the neighborhood standing over him."

Dante’s grip on my hand tightened, his dark eyes flashing with a predatory light. "Tonight?"

"Tonight," I whispered.