But also freedom. Truth.
Also Isabella, who rebuilt herself from the ashes my family created. Who faces each day with fierce courage and boundless creativity. Who taught me that real strength isn't measured by what you control, but by what you dare to risk for love.
For the first time in my life, I know exactly which direction my compass points.
True North.
Isabella.
Home.
25
Ares
Three days have passed since my father's threats hung in that penthouse air like poison gas. Three days of holding Isabella closer at night, memorizing every curve while waiting for the other shoe to drop.
The shrill ring of my phone slices through darkness, yanking me from dreamless sleep. Isabella shifts against my chest, her warm breath tickling my skin as she mutters, "Make it stop or I'll make you stop."
I fumble for my phone, squinting against the harsh blue light. Unknown number. My pulse kicks up instantly, after three days of calculated silence from my father, every anonymous call feels like the first shot of an inevitable war.
"Hello?" Sleep roughens my voice, but tension coils through every muscle.
"The package you've been waiting for has arrived." The robotic voice sounds alien in the quiet sanctuary of the bedroom. "You can pick it up at the front desk."
"What?" But the line goes dead, leaving me staring at the screen where 2:43 AM glows back accusingly.
I drop my head back onto the pillow, heart still hammering against my ribs, when my phone erupts again. This time with Ethan's distinctive ringtone.
"I swear to God," Isabella growls, burrowing deeper into my side, her hand splaying possessively across my chest, right over my compass tattoo. "If you don't make that stop, you're sleeping on the couch for a week."
"Ethan," I answer, voice low with warning. "This better be—"
"Did you get it?" His words tumble out in a breathless rush. "Tell me you got it."
"Got what?"
"Where are you?"
I run a hand over my face, trying to shake off the clinging cobwebs of sleep. "It's fucking 2:44 AM. I'm in bed."
"Get the fuck up and check your phone!" Ethan's excitement crackles through the line like live wire. "You must have gotten a message. I just got confirmation they sent you a package."
My mind snaps into laser focus, remembering the robotic call. The weight of what we've set in motion settles heavy in my chest, a stone of both hope and dread. I press a kiss to Isabella's temple before gently sliding her arm from my waist. She makes a soft sound of protest but doesn't wake. In sleep, her face is peaceful, unmarked by the storm I might be bringing down on us both.
I pad out of the bedroom in just my boxers, closing the door with a silent click. The night air raises goosebumps on my skin, or maybe it's the gravity of what we're about to do. "I got a call saying there's something at the front desk."
"Then what the fuck are you waiting for?" Ethan's practically vibrating through the phone. "Heath got into your father's computer, into those encrypted documents, you magnificent bastard. He sent you a drive with the files."
My heart slams against my ribs so hard I have to brace myself against the wall. After three days of watching shadows, of analyzing every sound... "I'm on my way down."
I throw on pants and a shirt, my fingers trembling slightly as I work the buttons. The elevator ride to the lobby feels endless, each floor bringing me closer to whatever truth my father's been guarding with threats and manipulation. The night clerk hands me a small package without question—one of the perks of owning the building. By the time I make it back upstairs, Ethan's waiting at my door, laptop under his arm, his usual playful demeanor replaced by grim determination.
We settle at the dining room table, keeping our voices to urgent whispers as we tear into the package. The flash drive is small, innocuous—nothing about it hints at the weight it carries, at the secrets that might destroy everything my father's built. My hands aren't quite steady as I plug it into my laptop.
"Here goes nothing," Ethan mutters, but there's an edge to his voice I've rarely heard before.
The screen fills with lines of code—an impenetrable wall of numbers and symbols that might as well be written in ancient Sumerian. The compass inked over my heart burns like a warning beacon. Whatever my father's been hiding, it goes deeper than I imagined—decades of secrets buried in Saint Industries' ledgers.
