POV: Phoebe Thorne
Some nights bleed like wounds.
Others, they burn.
This one? This one was a wildfire — slow, suffocating, and devastatingly quiet.
I hadn't moved from the window for hours.
Below, the forest trembled under moonlight. Shadows stretched like claws across the drive, and the weight of everything I thought I knew pressed against the glass like a ghost trying to get in. Or out.
Grim was downstairs.
The file Jackson left still sat on the kitchen table like a live grenade. Its words clawed at the inside of my skull: disavowed, unstable, suspected in murder.
I hadn't slept.
But when I finally turned around, Jackson was standing in my bedroom doorway.
Uninvited.
Unapologetic.
He looked like sin wrapped in Armani — perfectly pressed, perfectly rehearsed, and utterly unreadable. Rain slicked his shoes, and the smug smile tugging at the corner of his lips was exactly the kind that made headlines.
"I told you to leave," I said.
"I did," he replied calmly. "You didn't say I couldn't come back."
"You're trespassing."
He stepped inside anyway. "I'm saving you."
From who? Grim? Myself? The truth?
I didn't say it.
He already knew.
"Don't you want to hear what I have?" he asked, like he was offering me a rose instead of another landmine.
"No."
"You do."
I hated how right he was.
I hated how the ache in my chest still recognized the sound of his voice — even if it no longer obeyed it.
Jackson reached into his coat and pulled out a flash drive. Sleek. Silver. Marked only with a symbol I hadn't seen in over a year: a black ouroboros — the intelligence sigil from my father's private archives.
He held it between two fingers, twirling it like a coin at stake in a devil's bargain.
"There's a second tape," he said.
My throat closed.
"What tape?" I asked, though my bones already knew the answer.
His eyes flicked toward the hall. "The first one — the one your father buried. The one that nearly started a war last year. It wasn't the only one recorded in that hotel room, Phoebe. And this new one… it's worse."
I took a step closer, despite myself. "How do you have it?"
Jackson's voice dropped. "Let's just say not everyone in your father's circle is loyal. Some are scared. Some are greedy. And some—" his eyes darkened, "—just want to watch the empire fall."
He offered me the flash drive.
I didn't take it.
Instead, I asked, "What's on it?"
Jackson's smile faltered. "Footage. Audio. A meeting between Grim and a man named Nikolai Volkov."
The name hit me like ice water.
Volkov — Russian arms dealer, smuggler, suspected orchestrator of two assassinations in Aurelia.
And Grim had been in a room with him?
"He was undercover," I said automatically. "It had to be that."
Jackson's silence said otherwise.
"He knew he was being recorded," I continued, forcing logic into my lungs like breath. "Grim doesn't slip like that."
"This wasn't a slip," Jackson murmured. "This was intentional. He called the meeting. And he walked away with a briefcase full of unmarked cash."
I stared at him.
And for the first time in weeks, I genuinely didn't know what to believe.
"Why are you showing me this?" I asked.
"Because your name comes up."
My knees nearly gave out.
"What?"
Jackson's expression softened. "Volkov mentions you. Threatens you. Grim doesn't flinch. Doesn't argue. Doesn't protect you. He bargains with your name."
My stomach churned.
"He uses me as leverage?" I asked, voice hollow.
"That's what it looks like."
I shook my head. "No. No, he wouldn't—he wouldn't—"
Jackson stepped closer, and I backed up instinctively.
"Phoebe," he said gently, "you're in danger. Not just from your father. Not just from the media. But from him. This man you think is your protector — he's playing his own game."
"And you're not?" I shot back. "You don't manipulate information? Secrets? Me?"
He flinched. Just enough.
"I came here to protect you."
"No, you came here to own me again," I snapped. "But I'm not yours to control, Jackson. Not anymore."
For a beat, he said nothing.
Then, very softly, he placed the flash drive on the dresser beside my bed.
"When you're ready," he murmured, "watch it. Alone."
He turned to leave, but paused at the door.
"And Phoebe?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "If you don't come back to D.C. by next week, your father will issue an official statement. Disowning you. And releasing sealed files."
"What files?"
"On you. On Grim. On the fake marriage. Everything."
The air was sucked from the room.
I didn't move. I didn't breathe. Not until I heard the front door open and close again — Jackson gone, like a ghost slipping back into the storm.
I stared at the flash drive for hours.
It stared back.
When I finally picked it up, my fingers were shaking so violently, I nearly dropped it. Grim hadn't come upstairs. He was either giving me space, or he was already gone — running damage control, chasing ghosts, or maybe…
Lying.
I slipped the drive into my encrypted laptop.
The screen went black.
Then a single file appeared: VX-2.UNEDITED.
My pulse thundered.
I clicked it.
The video was grainy. The audio warped. But I recognized the setting — a suite in the Mirador Hotel. The same place the first scandal happened.
Grim stood by the window, dressed in black, his face unreadable. Across from him, Nikolai Volkov sat in an armchair, legs crossed, drink in hand.
"Do you have the names?" Volkov asked, his accent sharp.
Grim didn't respond.
Volkov laughed. "Your silence is a currency I can't afford, Knox."
And then, casually — too casually — he said:
"What about the girl? The President's daughter?"
I froze.
Grim's face didn't change.
"She's noise," he said flatly. "Collateral if necessary."
My entire body went cold.
"Then we have a deal?" Volkov asked.
Grim reached for the briefcase.
Cut to black.
End.
The scream inside me never left my throat.
I slammed the laptop shut. My breath came in shattered fragments, tears hot and wild. Rage surged. But it wasn't just rage.
It was heartbreak.
It was betrayal so deep, I couldn't even find the edges of it.
I stormed downstairs.
He was sitting at the kitchen island, cleaning his gun like it was just another Wednesday.
"Where were you two nights ago?" I demanded.
He looked up, calm.
"With you."
"Before that."
He frowned. "What's going on?"
I shoved the laptop toward him. "Watch it."
He opened it. Saw the file. Played it.
And for the first time since I met him… Grim flinched.
"Say something," I choked out. "Tell me that's not real. Tell me that wasn't you."
He didn't look at me.
"It's real," he said.
The world collapsed.
"But it's not what you think."
"Then what is it, Grim?" I cried. "You call me collateral—"
"To protect you."
I blinked.
He stood slowly. "Volkov had people tailing you. He wanted leverage. If I showed my hand, if I acted like you mattered, you would've been dead within a week."
"So you lied."
"I acted. I played the part. I made sure he thought you were disposable."
I swallowed hard. "And are you still playing?"
He didn't answer.
That silence hurt more than the lie.
"You could've told me."
"You would've run."
I laughed bitterly. "And maybe I should've."
We stood there, fire between us — a blaze of secrets, scars, and something far more dangerous than hate.
Love.
"I don't know what's real anymore," I whispered.
He stepped closer. "This is."
Then he kissed me.
Not softly.
Not apologetically.
But like a man trying to erase every betrayal between us. Like the truth tasted better with blood. Like I was the only war he wanted to lose.
And for one brief second, I let him.
Because sometimes, destruction is the only way to feel alive.
When I pulled away, breathless, shattered, I said only one thing:
"There better not be a third tape."
TO BE CONTINUED.