Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Every night, when the den empties and Monty tells me to get some rest, I don’t.
I go to the guest house and pace until my feet hurt. I smoke until my throat feels raw. One after another, I light them and watch them burn, lost in my head.
Sometimes I play the sax.
The sound comes out wrong, too loud, or too thin. I don’t care. I play until my fingers cramp, until my chest tightens, until the ache in my ribs syncs up with the noise. The notes wander. They don’t resolve. They just exist and hurt.
Other times, I sit on the floor and draw.
Emo Disney stuff. Ruined princesses. Dark castles. Big-eyed characters with smeared makeup and crooked crowns. I don’t sketch happily-ever-afters. I sketch aftermaths.
A week passes.
Seven days since Declan’s murder.
Seven days since the decoy.
Seven days since Dove smiled like she was safe.
Rage comes in waves. So does despair. Sometimes they overlap, and I can’t tell which one is steering. I snap at people. Then I go quiet for hours. I replay my last conversation with Jag until it loses shape.
He said he was leaving.
He said he was leaving Dove with me.
He was convincing on both counts.
I ricochet between blaming Jag and defending him like it’s a full-time job.
Some days, I line him up in my head and pull the trigger without flinching. Other days, I tear the case apart trying to prove he couldn’t have done it. Today is one of those days. Today, Jag doesn’t feel like the villain.
Monty sits across from me in the den, quiet and patient, watching me spiral through the same arguments I had yesterday and the day before. He doesn’t interrupt. He just lets it happen, recognizing the pattern because he’s lived it.
“This is what it was like for you.” I lean back on the couch. “When Frankie disappeared.”
“Yeah.” He reclines beside me, raking a hand through his perfect hair, disheveling it. “I didn’t know if she left me or if someone took her. I ran both versions into the ground. Tore myself apart trying to make one of them stick.”
I look at him, at the man who, despite all his money and power, couldn’t brute-force certainty out of the worst moment of his life.
“I didn’t know which truth would hurt less.” He releases a breath. “So I lived in both for a while.”
“What stopped you?”
“My gut. Deep down, I knew Frankie wouldn’t hurt me like that, no matter how much I deserved it. If she left on her own, she would’ve given me proof of life. Once I accepted that, I knew what I was dealing with.”
Something in my chest shifts. Not relief. Not clarity. Just alignment.
I think about the pain in Jag’s eyes when he said he had to see Dove one last time.
“It’s easier to believe Jag took her.” I drum my fingers on my thigh. “In that scenario, they’re both alive and safe. Out of my reach, sure, but I know he would protect her with his life and never physically harm her.”
“But?”
“But my gut tells me this isn’t betrayal. Someone took them both.”
Monty watches me land there and gives a slow nod. He knows the cost of that conclusion and what it means.
If someone took them—someone who kills innocent people—then Jag and Dove are somewhere bad.
Maybe being tortured.
Maybe already dead.
Grief rises without warning and punches me in the throat. My breath locks up then breaks apart. I try to swallow it down, clenching my jaw and sucking air through my nose. But the pain keeps coming, scrabbling its way up from somewhere too deep.
The first sob rips out, cracking my ribs. The next one erupts louder and wetter. My hands curl into fists on my thighs, nails digging in, trying to anchor myself, but I’m slipping, body shaking, and I lose it, right there in front of my father.
I hate it. Hate how weak and small I feel.
Until his arms envelop me, reminding me I’m safe with him.
He hugs me like it’s the most natural thing in our lives, one hand at the back of my neck, the other around my shoulder, as if he can somehow bear part of it for me.
I lean into him, shaking and crying like the world just ended, because maybe it fucking has.
It takes a while to pull myself back together, to slow the sobs and breathe without breaking. When I finally lift my head, my nose is wet, and makeup streaks my face.
But he’s not judging me. Not a hint of disappointment in his eyes. Just steady warmth.
“You’re strong.” He grips my shoulder and squeezes. “Stronger than I’ve ever been.”
I blink at him, stunned.
Montgomery Strakh, the man who built a kingdom out of nothing, who clawed his way through grief and guilt and the ruins of our wrecked family, is calling me strong?