“It was Stanley,” he said quietly. “The last person to see Peter alive.”
Dawson’s mind snapped to the image from the building’s internal security feed—Squire standing just feet from Peter, expression drawn, every line measured and carefully composed. He hadn’t met the man before this case, but the footage told itsown story—body language, timing, intent. Something about him raised every alarm Dawson had honed over years in the field.
He remembered stepping into that boardroom with Evangeline for the meeting of Shaw Petrochemical’s executive team.
It was in one of the more recently renovated conference rooms, all sharp edges and sleek minimalism—nothing out of place, every line designed to signal control without saying a word. The room’s glass walls offered a view of the city skyline, modest by any standard, but the atmosphere inside was cold, performative. The kind of space that asked questions with traps built into the answers. The light had been too sterile, the angles too sharp. It was the kind of room designed to intimidate, not invite honesty.
Squire’s smile was calculated—measured to charm, but cool enough to chill. His handshake had the same careful calibration, crafted to win favor without giving anything away. He moved through the room like a strategist in a suit, every glance a calculation, every word a play.
At the time, it passed as charm—refined, professional, maybe even charismatic. But through the lens of Peter’s death, it was something else entirely. Every topic shift too smooth, every redirect too convenient. What once seemed like polish now reeked of orchestration. A mask, not a mannerism. What he'd written off as harmless static now flared like a signal fire—undeniable, calculated, and far too precise to ignore.
There’d been a flicker in his eyes when Dawson asked about internal security protocols—something cold, watchful. The same flicker now visible in the grainy footage, just before Peter turned his back.
She didn’t cry. Didn’t shout. Her silence said more.
“Stanley taught me how to ride,” she whispered. “Was there when Dad couldn’t be. That’s who you’re telling me planned this?”
“He’s not who you thought.”
She stood slowly, walking to the window. “Then I want to see everything. All of it.”
Dawson didn’t answer right away. He watched her closely, reading the tension in her shoulders, the set of her jaw.
“Are you sure?” he asked, voice low. “Once you see it all, there’s no going back. No forgetting.”
Her gaze stayed steady, locked on his—sharp, electric, unmistakably alive, cutting through the quiet with the force of something unflinching and real.
“What’s worse—knowing or being lied to?”
He stepped in closer, the air between them tightening. “It’s not about lies. It’s about protecting you from things that can’t be unseen. I’ve carried images in my head for years that still bleed into my sleep.”
“I already have that photo in my head,” she said. “Peter’s gone. But it wasn’t losing him that shattered me—it was realizing what he really was. What he did to me. That betrayal rewrote everything. I need to know who’s beside me—and who’s just waiting to drive the next blade.”
Dawson exhaled, sharp and controlled. “Then we dig. Together. But the moment this starts eating at you, you tell me. We don’t let it rot us from the inside.”
She nodded once, jaw clenched. “You’re not the only one who can handle darkness, Dawson.”
His fingers brushed her arm, a grounding touch. “No, but I’m the one who’s going to make damn sure it doesn’t touch you more than it has to.”
He continued, his voice a low growl of resolve. “Then we scorch the earth beneath him—together.”
“Promise me.”
“I swear.”
He stepped into her space with measured intent, every line of his body a silent vow. Not kneeling, not yielding—just there, grounded and steady. His hand found hers, not to plead but to anchor, to say with touch what words couldn't: no one would get through him to her.
No flourish. No speech. Just a promise made in stillness.
Her breath hitched—subtle, but enough. One trembling hand rose to his jaw and lingered. Her eyes, wet but clear, locked with his. No words, only touch—anchoring them both.
He pressed his lips to her palm, then her wrist—each kiss a vow. Her skin carried a familiar softness, a tremble beneath the surface, and the faint scent of her perfume stirred something deep. When his mouth brushed her inner wrist, her fingers curled to his cheek, tethering them both. The moment burned slow, sacred and rising, no need to rush.
He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, the silence thick with everything they hadn’t yet said.
He’d started as her protector. But between surveillance logs and bloodstained truths, everything changed. Betrayal cut deep. Hard truths stripped away any illusion. What remained was forged in fire—raw, real, unbreakable.
They weren’t held together by duty or time—but by survival, and the unrelenting need to uncover the truth.
