POV: Phoebe Thorne – First Person
Silence, I'm learning, is rarely ever empty. Sometimes, it sounds like the clink of a spoon against a porcelain cup. Sometimes, it sounds like a heart breaking in half.
This silence was the latter.
I stared at Jackson across the café table. His fingers drummed slowly on the edge of the saucer, his eyes fixed on mine like he was the judge, the jury, and the executioner — and I was the foolish girl who'd thought she could escape her sentence.
"You asked to meet," I said finally, breaking the stillness. My voice was calm, but my knuckles were white around my cup. "So talk."
He leaned back in the chair like he owned the world. "Phoebe," he drawled, "you always did love dramatic tension. I was just giving you the stage."
I smiled — razor-thin. "You're bleeding charm."
He chuckled, but there was no warmth in it. Only ice and something worse: certainty.
He reached into his coat and placed a slim black phone on the table between us. The same model he'd shown me when he threatened me with the first tape. Only this time, he slid it closer with a gentler hand, as if it were a gift instead of a weapon.
"I want you to know," he said, "this didn't have to be ugly."
I arched a brow. "You're blackmailing me, Jackson. It's already ugly."
"Depends on your choices." His voice dropped an octave. "There's still a version of this where no one gets hurt."
I blinked. "Except me."
He didn't deny it.
Instead, he tapped the screen.
The video played with a flicker of static. Me and Grim. In the hospital hallway. My hands gripping his collar, his fingers brushing my cheek. Lips too close. Breath too loud. It wasn't quite a kiss, but it was damning enough.
"I see you've graduated to security footage now," I muttered.
"I see you've graduated to risking everything for a man who doesn't deserve you."
My throat tightened.
He let the video loop once before locking the phone and sliding it back toward himself.
"Imagine what your father would do if this leaked."
"He already hates me."
"Not like this." Jackson leaned forward. "You think he let you go before? You think exile was his worst move? He was holding back. But if this gets out — you, wrapped up with an ex-black ops assassin, the man he warned you about? The man who might be selling secrets to foreign enemies?"
My jaw clenched. "Grim's not the traitor."
"No?" Jackson's tone sharpened. "Then why did he meet with Volkov twice? Why does he have files on every member of your father's cabinet? Why does he sleep with a gun under his pillow and encryption software your father's own CIA team can't crack?"
I said nothing.
Because I didn't have answers.
Only questions that cut deeper every day.
Jackson exhaled, softer now. "Phoebe… I loved you. I still do. That's why I'm giving you a way out."
My chest turned to ice. "Say it."
"Break off the engagement."
I froze.
"Publicly," he continued. "Dramatically. Make it a scandal. Say Grim manipulated you. Say you never loved him. Say he's violent, unstable, dangerous."
"No."
Jackson's eyes flickered. "Say it, and I destroy the second tape."
"No," I repeated, standing.
He grabbed my wrist across the table.
I didn't pull away.
"Say it," he whispered, "and I make sure your mother never sees that footage. Say it, and your father never gets the ammunition he's craving. Say it, Phoebe, and I'll protect you."
"Like you did before?"
His grip loosened.
I stared down at him, heat surging behind my eyes. "You don't get to play the hero when you're holding a loaded gun."
"I'm trying to save you from yourself."
I smiled coldly. "You're not that selfless."
His gaze hardened.
I leaned down, lips brushing the shell of his ear, and lied with every inch of my soul.
"Fine," I whispered. "I'll do it. I'll end it."
Then I pulled away, left the café, and walked straight into the fire.
Grim was waiting in the car.
He'd been watching from across the street, of course. That was our deal now — pretend we weren't together, but never be more than a breath apart. The city believed we were over. Jackson believed I was breaking. And Grim…
Grim was quiet as I slipped into the passenger seat.
"Well?" he asked, starting the engine.
"He gave me the terms."
"And?"
"I agreed."
His fingers tightened around the wheel, but his voice remained even. "You're lying."
I glanced out the window. "So are you."
He didn't respond.
Neither did I.
The drive back to the villa was silent — except for the sound of secrets breathing between us.
That night, I made the call.
Not to Grim.
Not to Jackson.
To the press.
I used the burner phone. I disguised my voice. I fed them the story Jackson wanted: Phoebe Thorne regrets her engagement to her mysterious bodyguard, citing manipulation, trauma, and fear for her safety.
I added tears for flair.
And a quote that would burn.
"He made me think he loved me. But it was never real. Not for him."
Then I hung up and went to bed.
The backlash hit by morning.
Tabloids screamed "PHOEBE THORNE CLAIMS SHE WAS GASLIT BY EX-BODYGUARD" and "GRIM GUILTY?"
I scrolled through the headlines with shaking hands.
Grim sat across from me at the breakfast table, staring like I'd ripped his heart out and offered it back on ice.
"You're really doing this," he said.
I nodded.
"And the worst part?" he added, voice a thread of pain. "You're a better liar than me."
I looked up. "I had a good teacher."
He flinched.
I stood, pushed my untouched plate away, and said quietly, "Don't follow me."
Then I walked upstairs — not to cry, but to plan.
Because I wasn't done yet.
And if Jackson thought I was playing his game…
He hadn't seen me win one yet.
By nightfall, the trap was ready.
I sent a single text:
MEET ME — 11PM. VILLA. COME ALONE.
He would come. Of course he would.
Jackson never could resist the promise of victory.
What he didn't know was that I had set up cameras in the study. Hidden microphones. Backup cloud uploads on a 3-second delay. The villa was now a confession box — and I was ready to hear his sins.
He arrived late.
Always a flair for the dramatic.
Dressed in all black, smug and shining and sure he had won. I met him in the doorway, barefoot, wearing Grim's old shirt and a glass of scotch I didn't drink.
"You did well," he said, eyeing me. "They believed it."
I sipped. "You trained me to lie, Jackson. You don't get to be surprised when I become good at it."
He smiled, pleased. "You'll thank me one day."
I laughed. "Let's pretend that's true."
We walked into the study.
He dropped into the leather chair like a king returning to his throne.
"So what now?" I asked. "You ride off into the sunset with your files and your victory, and I disappear into exile?"
"Of course not." He tilted his head. "We fix this. Together. The world sees a new couple. You reclaim your image. I get the presidency. You get to survive."
"And Grim?"
"Collateral."
I went still.
He didn't even blink.
"I always knew he'd end badly," he said. "Men like that? They don't get happy endings. They get bullets."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a fact."
Silence fell between us.
This time, it was loaded.
I set down my glass. My heart pounded so loudly, I swore he could hear it.
And then, softly, dangerously, I said:
"I hope you smiled for the cameras."
Jackson's brow furrowed. "What?"
Red light blinked from the bookshelf.
Audio feed clicked from the vent.
His face paled.
"What did you do?"
I stepped closer.
"Everything you just said?" I whispered. "It's already uploading."
His expression twisted. "Phoebe—"
"You threatened me. Framed Grim. Manipulated a narrative to secure political power. You think I don't know your endgame? You think I didn't learn anything from being your favorite puppet?"
"Shut it off," he growled, standing. "Now."
"No."
He lunged.
I grabbed the pepper spray from my pocket and nailed him in the face.
He screamed, stumbling back, clawing at his eyes.
I ran.
Grim met me in the hallway, gun drawn, jaw clenched.
"Did it work?" he asked.
I nodded.
The files were uploading to a trusted journalist I knew from boarding school — someone with integrity. Someone who hated my father. Someone who would publish everything Jackson just said without redaction.
The truth would be free.
And Jackson would burn.
Grim pulled me into a room, locked the door, and braced me against the wall.
"You played him," he said softly.
I nodded.
He looked at me like he didn't know whether to kiss me or scold me.
"Phoebe, that was dangerous."
"So's loving you."
His breath caught.
And then, without hesitation, he kissed me like I was the air he'd been dying for.
But just as fast — his phone buzzed.
He froze.
Checked it.
His face drained.
"What is it?" I asked.
He looked up.
"The file was intercepted mid-upload."
My stomach dropped. "By who?"
Grim's voice was steel.
"Your father."
TO BE CONTINUED.