The Lies we Keep

Chapter 4

-Damien’s POV-

6:47 a.m. My phone scrapes across the desk, the screen lit with 'Unknown Caller'. I’m deciding whether to ignore it when an image appears and my grip tightens, because I recognize what I’m looking at before the file fully sharpens. Miguel Navarro on Columbia’s campus, backpack slung over one shoulder. He’s caught in a quiet, ordinary moment he doesn’t know is being collected. The angle is wrong in a very specific way, like whoever took it was standing exactly where they wanted to be, and the focus is brutal, clean enough to show the texture of his jacket and the grit on the pavement. This isn’t a random creep with a phone. This is money, patience, and intent, and the message is simple: they can get to him, and they want me to see it.

I don't waste time wondering who or why. I forward the image to James with one word typed underneath, then I'm calling my security director before the message even sends.

"Miguel Navarro. Columbia University, Carman Hall. I need two men there within thirty minutes."

"Understood, Mr. Cross."

I kill the call and snatch my coat off the hook, feet already carrying me to the door because hell if I'm holing up here while that creep shadows Elena's brother. Claire's parked at her desk when I blow past at 8:30, sharp as ever and worth every penny of that Chelsea apartment paycheck, and she pops up halfway before my head shake sends her right back down.

"Clear my morning."

"Mr. Cross, you have the—"

"I said clear it."

She grabs her phone without another word, and that's why she's stuck around five years while most assistants flame out in six months flat. I hit my office and sink into the chair, but before I can even c***k open email, Claire's voice crackles over the intercom with that edge under her cool pro tone, like she's steeling herself for a storm. "Mr. Cross, Ms. Navarro just cleared security without an appointment and she's dead set on seeing—"

The door slams open before Claire finishes.

Elena storms the gap between the door and my desk like it's her enemy, her hair dripping wet and streaking water over marble floors worth more per foot than her whole rent. She's still in yesterday's rumpled shirt and pants from when she walked out two days back, face pale and ashen like someone who's spent the night wide-eyed at the ceiling.

She slams her phone down on my desk where it slides right up to my keyboard. "Tell me you didn't do this."

I glance at her screen. Same photo that arrived at my house two hours ago. "No."

Her voice jumps an octave and frays straight through the center, and she clamps her arms around her middle like she's literally holding herself together. "Then who?" Her mouth trembles as she jerks her chin at the screen. "Who's on Miguel with a camera, taking these, and what do they want from us?"

"Sit down. We'll talk it through."

"Someone's stalking my brother and—"

"Sit." The word drops flat but heavy, and her knees give out. She collapses into the chair like cut strings.

She breathed quick, the air snagging in her throat as the edge of the screen clouded. Her fingers jerked slightly, beginning to rise, but stopped short. Her knuckles barely touched the glass.

"It hit my phone at 6:47 this morning.. Gives me two solid hours head start on this disaster while you were still shaking off the shock."

"How long have they been on him?"

"My team's at Columbia now, digging that up."

Her head snaps up, fear flashing hot into raw fury. "What team?"

"Two men, ex-Secret Service, pulled up to your brother's dorm forty minutes back."

Her face drains white fast, blood rushing south like a busted dam, and she latches onto the desk edge, knuckles bleaching bone-dry. "You sent people to Miguel without asking me first?"

"I sent them the instant that photo hit my phone. Waiting on your okay while somebody's lining up a shot on your brother felt like burning time we don't have."

"You can't call shots on his life without looping me in!"

I lean back slowly in the chair, leather sighing softly under my shift. "Your brother's safety's baked into the contract you inked." I hold her stare a second longer. "Page four, section three. He's under my watch now." My finger drums once on the armrest; her eyes flick to it sharp. "I don't clear my moves to do the work, Ms. Navarro."

Her phone rattles across my desk just as mine hums hot in my pocket. The noise slices the air cold, her hand freezing halfway out while my jaw locks solid. Three heartbeats pass. Neither of us blinks.

New message. Unknown number.

She picks up her phone with shaking hands. I watch her face while she reads. Her pupils dilate. Her breath catches. Her lips part, but no sound comes out.

"Show me."

She turns the cracked screen my way.

Does Miguel know his sister is marrying for money?

I place her phone on the desk, careful like setting down something dangerous.

"The wedding was two weeks away. We're moving it to tomorrow."

"What?"

"2 PM. City hall. Just a small thing."

"You're insane!" She pushes back from the desk and comes toward me. "You're flipping my life and Miguel's without even asking what I want!"

"What you want doesn’t matter." I stand, the words sharp. "What matters is keeping you both alive long enough to make it through this contract."

"I hate you!" She screams it raw from the gut, voice gone hoarse and cracked. Fists bunch hard at her sides while her shoulders jerk and shake. She lunges over the desk, snatches her phone in a wild grab that nearly sends it flying, wheels sharp, and bolts. It crashes shut behind her and the windows shiver in their frames.

I sit back down, and the photo of Miguel glows on my screen.

My office phone rings. The landline nobody has.

I pick up on the third ring.

"Who is this."

The voice isn't human. Mechanical. Distorted.

"Hello, Daniel."

And I'm fifteen again.

My mother's bedroom. Her body on the floor. Blood. An empty pill bottle.

My father’s voice comes from behind me.

"What did you do, Daniel?"

"I didn’t mean—"

"She couldn’t take it anymore. Just look at what you’ve done."

The phone feels like ice against my ear. My office comes back into focus. Nineteen years gone in a breath.

"Wrong number."

"Portland, Maine. Sarah Cross." The mechanical voice drops lower. "Forty-eight hours, Daniel. Cancel the wedding."

The line goes quiet.

My hand is locked around the receiver, knuckles sore. There's still blood under my nails. I tried scrubbing it off back then. Nineteen years later, it’s still there like it never left.

Someone knows.