Chapter 2 - The Security Paradox
David Vance spat a drop of blood onto the Persian runner, his chest heaving against Vincent's grip.
“You’re slipping, boss,” David wheezed, a bitter smile cutting across his bruised jaw. “Took you three weeks to realize the rot was coming from inside.”
Vincent didn't loosen his hold. His knuckles remained white against David's collar, but a muscle ticked in his jaw—the only sign that the betrayal hit harder than a stranger's attack.
“Why?” Vincent asked. The word was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of an execution order.
“Because you’re building an empire out of ghosts, Vincent,” David laughed softly, coughing as the grip on his throat tightened. “You think you’re clean now? You think buying legitimate shipping lines washes the blood off your hands? Silas offered a partnership. A real one. Not this house arrest you've got us all living under.”
I stood frozen against the bedroom doorframe, my nightgown damp with cold sweat.
Silas.
The name hung in the air between them like poison.
“Silas doesn't partner with anyone,” Vincent said evenly. “He uses them until they break, and then he leaves them for the cops. You were on his payroll before I hired you, weren't you?”
David's eyes flicked past Vincent's shoulder, landing directly on me.
For a terrifying instant, my breath caught. Did David know about the poison? Did he know I had the bottle hidden in the lining of my suitcase?
“Ask the girl,” David sneered, blood staining his teeth. “Ask sweet little Bridget why she’s been wandering the halls like a ghost at three in the morning for the last three weeks. She’s not here because she likes cleaning silver, boss.”
Vincent went completely still.
The temperature in the hallway seemed to drop ten degrees. Slowly, deliberately, Vincent turned his head and looked back at me.
His gray eyes weren't angry anymore. They were calculating, searching, and entirely unreadable.
“Bridget,” Vincent said quietly. “What is he talking about?”
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. My mind raced through a dozen desperate lies, but under Vincent's gaze, every single one of them felt paper-thin.
“I couldn't sleep,” I managed to choke out, my voice shaking. “The house is... it's too quiet.”
“That’s a very poor lie,” Vincent said softly. He released David—letting the traitor crumple to the floor—and took two measured steps toward me.
David didn't try to run. He just sat against the wall, bleeding and watching us with a sick, knowing grin.
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“He didn't break into my room to kill me, Bridget,” Vincent said, stopping just a foot away from me. The clean scent of cedar and rain drifted off him, masking the metallic tang of blood in the air. “He broke in to plant something. Or to find something you left behind.”
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