The tracker was smaller than my thumb.
It sat inside an evidence bag on Declan’s desk at one in the morning while six men searched the mansion grounds.
I stood by the window, still wearing my emerald dress.
Declan had removed his jacket and rolled his sleeves to his elbows.
It was ridiculous that I noticed.
Eighteen months of marriage and I could probably count the number of times I had seen his forearms.
Apparently emotional neglect did strange things to a woman.
“Who planted it?” I asked.
“We don’t know yet.”
“That means you have suspects.”
“I always have suspects.”
I turned.
“Does Colin?”
Declan looked at me.
There it was.
That flash of jealousy again.
“Mercer has people who could do it.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“No.”
“No what?”
“I don’t believe he planted it.”
That surprised me.
“Then why did you look at him like you wanted to throw him through the gallery wall?”
His expression remained perfectly neutral.
“I dislike him.”
“You dislike half of Chicago.”
“More than half.”
Despite myself, a laugh escaped me.
Declan stared.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You laughed.”
“Apparently I still remember how.”
Pain flickered across his face.
I hated that I saw it now.
Hated that one evening had turned my silent husband into a puzzle.
“You asked me outside why I behaved as if I didn’t want you,” he said.
My smile disappeared.
“Yes.”
“There are things about our marriage you were never told.”
I folded my arms.
“By whom?”
“Your father.”
Of course.
Declan walked to a cabinet behind his desk and unlocked it.
Inside were contracts.
Folders.
A black metal box.
He removed a document thick enough to qualify as a small novel.
“Our marriage agreement.”
“I signed six pages.”
“You signed the public agreement.”
My stomach tightened.
“What is that?”
“The agreement between your father and me.”
I stared at him.
“You made a separate contract about me?”
“He did.”
“And you signed it.”
“Yes.”
The answer hurt.
Declan opened the document and slid it across the desk.
I did not understand most of the legal language.
Then I found my name.
Eleanora Vale.
Clause Eleven.
My blood went cold.
If the marriage was dissolved before twenty-four months, controlling interest in three South Dock properties transferred permanently to Declan.
If I died before twenty-four months, the same properties transferred.
If Declan died—
I looked up.
“What the hell is this?”
“Keep reading.”
The next clause was worse.
My father had pledged property held in my late mother’s trust.
Property I had never known existed.
“This belongs to me.”
“Yes.”
“My father used it as collateral?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know?”
“Not when negotiations began.”
“But you knew when you married me.”
“Yes.”
I shoved the contract away.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I know.”
“You could have told me!”
“Yes.”
“Stop agreeing with me!”
For the first time, Declan raised his voice.
“I was trying to keep you alive.”
Silence.
I stared at him.
“What?”
His anger disappeared almost instantly.
“The month before our wedding, someone tried to sabotage a car carrying your father.”
“I know.”
“You were supposed to be in it.”
I stopped breathing.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I was sick that morning.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Because I was already watching you.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“You were what?”
“Protecting you.”
“Without telling me.”
“Yes.”
I walked away from the desk.
Everything sounded wrong.
“You married me to protect me?”
“No.”
At least he answered honestly.
“I married you because the alliance was strategically necessary. Protecting you became necessary because someone inside your father’s organization believed your death would collapse the agreement.”
The words landed like stones.
“And the eighteen months?”
Declan looked toward the contract.
“I thought distance made you safer.”
I stared at him.
“That makes absolutely no sense.”
“It does in my world.”
“I live in your world!”
“You shouldn’t.”
That came too fast.
Too sharp.
Something in his voice silenced me.
Declan walked toward the window.
“My father married my mother because he wanted her family’s connections. When she became useful leverage against him, everyone knew it.”
He stopped.
“They kidnapped her when I was fourteen.”
My anger softened despite myself.
“She survived?”
“For three days.”
Oh.
I understood without asking.
Declan continued quietly.
“My father spent the rest of his life blaming himself because everyone could see what she meant to him.”
He looked at me.
“When I married you, I decided no one would ever be able to look at me and know what you meant.”
My heartbeat stumbled.
“Declan…”
“So I gave you security. Distance. Separate rooms. No public affection. No habits someone could study.”
His mouth tightened.
“I became very good at it.”
“You became cruel.”
“Yes.”
This time the agreement did not anger me.
It broke something.
“You could have trusted me.”
“I didn’t know how.”
“You could have talked to me.”
“I didn’t know how.”
“You could have asked what I wanted.”
His silence answered that one.
I shook my head.
“You were so busy making sure no one could use me against you that you never noticed you were hurting me yourself.”
His eyes lowered.
“I noticed.”
That was worse.
“You noticed?”
“Every day.”
I stared at him in disbelief.
“Then why didn’t you stop?”
“Because keeping you angry at me seemed better than burying you.”
I wanted to hate him.
Part of me still did.
But now I could see the architecture of his mistake.
Fear disguised as control.
Love—if it was love—disguised as indifference.
None of that excused eighteen months of loneliness.
But it explained it.
A knock came at the office door.
Donovan entered.
“We traced the tracker.”
Declan’s expression changed instantly.
“Who?”
Donovan glanced at me.
Declan noticed.
“She stays.”
That was new.
Donovan nodded.
“The signal uses equipment tied to Blackwell Security.”
I knew the name.
“My father uses Blackwell.”
Declan’s eyes hardened.
“So does half the South Docks.”
Donovan placed photographs on the desk.
One showed a man entering our estate three days earlier.
I recognized him.
“Michael.”
Declan looked at me.
“Who is he?”
“My father’s operations manager.”
Donovan nodded.
“He visited while Mr. Hayes was downtown.”
My stomach twisted.
“He came to bring papers from my father.”
“What papers?”
“I don’t know. He left them with the house staff.”
Declan looked at Donovan.
“Find them.”
Donovan left.
I suddenly remembered something.
“Declan.”
He looked at me.
“Michael asked whether I still used the Bentley.”
The room went silent.
“When?”
“Three days ago.”
“Exact words.”
I thought back.
“He said, ‘Still driving that green Bentley everywhere?’ I said sometimes. He laughed and said it was too recognizable.”
Declan’s jaw hardened.
“That tracker wasn’t planted tonight.”
“You think Michael did it.”
“I think Michael knows who did.”
Another knock.
This time one of the security men entered carrying a cream envelope.
“Found in Mrs. Hayes’s correspondence.”
Declan opened it.
Inside was a single photograph.
Me.
Leaving a bookstore two weeks earlier.
Taken from across the street.
On the back, written in black ink:
Twenty-four months is too long.
I felt the blood leave my face.
Declan read it twice.
Then very carefully set it down.
“Donovan.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Double the perimeter.”
“Already done.”
“Call Mercer.”
I stared at him.
“Colin?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Declan looked at the photograph again.
“Because whoever is doing this wants me to believe Mercer is responsible.”
“And you don’t?”
“No.”
“How can you be sure?”
His eyes met mine.
“Because Colin Mercer wants my territory.”
A pause.
“He doesn’t want you dead.”
I folded my arms.
“And how exactly do you know that?”
Declan’s expression darkened.
“Because unfortunately, he seems to like you.”
Despite everything, I nearly smiled.
“You really are jealous.”
“I am not.”
“You crossed Chicago because his hand was on my arm.”
“I crossed Chicago because your tracker moved toward Mercer territory.”
“And then?”
His gaze dropped briefly to the place Colin had touched.
“And then I discovered I was capable of being angry about two things at once.”
A reluctant laugh escaped me.
Declan looked at me.
Something changed.
For eighteen months, our marriage had been built from silence.
For the first time, silence felt different.
Charged.
Uncertain.
Almost dangerous.
His hand moved as though he intended to touch mine.
Then stopped.
That tiny hesitation hurt more than if he had done nothing.
I looked at his hand.
“You can touch me, Declan.”
His eyes lifted.
“Not because I belong to you.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
Slowly, almost carefully, he reached across the desk.
His fingers touched mine.
The contact was simple.
Barely anything.
Yet after eighteen months, it felt enormous.
Then Declan’s phone rang.
He answered.
His face changed within seconds.
“When?”
He listened.
“Keep him there.”
He hung up.
“Michael tried to leave Chicago.”
My stomach tightened.
“Where is he?”
“At Midway.”
“Then we have him.”
Declan shook his head.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because he wasn’t leaving alone.”
He turned his phone toward me.
A security photograph showed Michael near the departure terminal.
Beside him stood my father.
---