90

“Look around,” Adeline said, motioning vaguely with her free hand. “Every single face you see here? They all have stories. And trust me, none of them are bedtime stories with happy endings. If you’re gonna survive here—if you’re gonna get their help—you need to let them know who you are. What you’re about. Otherwise…” She trailed off, her expression hardening for a moment. “Well, let’s just say trust doesn’t come cheap around here.”

She leaned back slightly, her sharp eyes narrowing on me. “But let me help you understand what you’re stepping into. This isn’t a sorority, sweetheart. It’s a family. And family doesn’t come easy.”

She turned to the woman by the fridge first.

“Margaret ‘Maggie’ Hensley,” she said, her tone carrying a weight of respect.

Maggie was tall and broad-shouldered, her presence commanding even as she stood quietly. Her pale skin was freckled, her dark hair cut into a sharp bob that framed her face. A jagged scar ran along her jawline, disappearing into her neck. Her steely blue eyes met mine with unwavering intensity.

“She was an interrogator for the CIA,” Adeline explained. “Recruited straight out of college for her language skills and sharp instincts. Maggie was good at what she did—too good. She uncovered something she wasn’t supposed to: evidence of a covert operation targeting innocent civilians in the Middle East to manipulate political outcomes. The kind of evidence that could’ve toppled governments.”

Adeline’s voice grew colder.

“When she tried to go public, they turned on her. Labeled her a traitor, leaked her identity to the enemies she’d spent years fighting. Her home was raided, her husband and two-year-old daughter taken in the night by mercenaries they hired. Maggie was left alive—to live with the guilt, to serve as an example. But they underestimated her. She’s here now because she doesn’t forget, and she sure as hell doesn’t forgive.”

Maggie’s jaw tightened, her hands gripping the counter behind her as Adeline moved on.

She gestured to the woman leaning against the stove, her arms crossed.

“Lucia Morales,” Adeline said, her voice softer now, tinged with something that felt like grief.

Lucia was petite but wiry, her caramel-colored skin marred by faint burn scars on her hands and neck. Her dark, curly hair was pulled back into a messy bun, and her piercing brown eyes were framed by dark circles, as if she hadn’t slept in years.

“She was a journalist in Mexico. She had a knack for uncovering truths people wanted buried. She exposed a cartel’s connections to high-ranking officials—names that no one dared to speak aloud. She thought the truth would protect her. Instead, the government sold her out to the same cartel she exposed. They found her family first—her husband, her twin boys. They burned her home to the ground with them inside while she was at work.”

My stomach churned, bile rising in my throat.

“She didn’t even get to bury them. The cartel left a message for her at the site: ‘Run.’ And she did. She ran until she couldn’t anymore. Now, she’s here, fighting to make sure no one else has to lose everything the way she did.”

Lucia’s face didn’t change as Adeline spoke, but her knuckles whitened where she gripped her arms.

Adeline’s gaze shifted to the blonde woman hunched over the island counter, her hands still trembling slightly.

“And then there’s Clarice Ramsey,” she said, her voice steady but laced with something deeper—something personal. “You two have one enemy in common. Vaughn.”

My breath hitched. 

Clarice looked up briefly, her green eyes locking on mine. Her face was pale, almost gaunt, with a haunted quality that was impossible to ignore. Her hair, tied back in a messy ponytail, was damp with sweat, and her hands were red and raw from her earlier fit of chopping.

“She was married to him. Back then, she thought she had it all. He was charming, successful—a businessman who always seemed to have the world at his feet. He traveled constantly for work, and while she missed him during his trips, she never suspected a thing. Clarice was busy with her own career as a journalist, raising their young son, Liam, while Vaughn built his empire—or so she thought.”

Adeline leaned against the counter, her voice growing colder.

“But then things started to feel... off. Vaughn’s trips became more frequent, his stories more inconsistent. He’d come home with expensive gifts but never an explanation for where the money came from. And the phone calls—always whispered, always behind closed doors. Clarice is smart, though. She started digging, using the skills that made her a damn good journalist. What she found?”

Adeline’s lips tightened into a thin line.

“She uncovered the truth about the man she’d married. He wasn’t just a businessman. Vaughn was a monster. He was tied to child trafficking rings—selling children like property, even harvesting and selling their organs. The man she loved, the father of her son, was neck-deep in horrors she couldn’t even begin to comprehend.”

Clarice’s hands clenched, her knuckles white, but she didn’t look up.

“When she confronted him, he didn’t deny it. He laughed. He told her she could never prove it, and even if she did, no one would touch him. But Clarice wasn’t about to let it slide. She started working on an exposé—gathering evidence, names, transactions, even photos. She was going to blow the whistle and destroy him. But Vaughn caught wind of what she was doing.”

Adeline’s gaze darkened, her voice sharpening.

“He didn’t just threaten her—he acted. One night, while she was working late, Vaughn’s men stormed their house. They took Liam. When she came home and found him gone, there was a note waiting for her: ‘Stay silent, or you’ll never see him again.’”

I swallowed hard, the weight of the story pressing on my chest.

“Clarice didn’t stay silent. She went public anyway, but before the story could air, Vaughn had her kidnapped. He dragged her to one of his facilities, made her watch as he erased every trace of the evidence she’d collected. And then he told her that Liam was gone. Taken somewhere she’d never find him. She begged, screamed, fought—but Vaughn didn’t care. He left her for dead, ordering his men to ‘clean up the mess.’”

Clarice’s voice cracked as she finally spoke, barely above a whisper. “They shot me. Twice. Left me in a grave in the middle of nowhere.”

“But she didn’t die,” Adeline continued, her tone hard. “Somehow, she crawled out of that grave and made it to a hospital. And she’s been fighting ever since. She doesn’t know where Liam is—if he’s even alive. But she hasn’t given up.”

Adeline turned her gaze to the youngest in the room, the girl sitting cross-legged by the glass wall.

“And that’s Sofia Cruz,” she said, her tone softening for the first time.

Sofia was slight, almost frail, with long, dark hair that hung over her face like a curtain. When she lifted her head slightly, I caught a glimpse of her eyes—wide, dark, and filled with a sadness far too heavy for someone her age.

“She’s fourteen,” Adeline said quietly. “Her family was gunned down by men looking to collect on a debt they didn’t owe. They stormed her house in the middle of the night, shot her parents, her older brother, even her dog.”

My chest tightened as Adeline’s words sank in.

“She played dead. Laid in a pool of her brother’s blood for hours until the men left. She’s here now because there’s nowhere else for her to go. But don’t let her age fool you. She’s tougher than she looks.”

I and Sofia locked eyes. Her soft brown gaze flickered to mine for only a moment before darting away, as though the weight of my stare was too much to bear. She fidgeted with the hem of her oversized hoodie, tugging and twisting the fabric between her fingers. Her shoulders slumped forward slightly, and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her unease noticeable.

She glanced up again, fleetingly, before lowering her head, her dark, wavy hair falling into her face like a curtain she could hide behind. Her lips parted as though she might speak, but no words came. Instead, she bit her bottom lip and glanced sideways, her hands now clasping and unclasping in front of her.

The scene tugged at something deep within me, a sharp ache in my chest I hadn’t felt in years. She reminded me so much of myself—back then, when everything had been stripped away in a single night. When Vaughn had come for my family, leaving nothing but ashes and silence behind. I had been just like her: lost, unsure, trapped in a world I didn’t understand but couldn’t escape.

Adeline’s voice cut through the moment, sharp but not unkind. “Your turn, Eleanor,” she said, her arms crossed as she leaned back against the counter.

The air in the room seemed to still as all eyes turned to me.

“What’s your story?” Adeline asked, her tone firm but expectant. “If you’re going to be here, they deserve to know who you are and why you’re here.”

Sofia glanced up at me again, her gaze hesitant but curious now. The faintest crease appeared between her brows as though she, too, wanted to understand why I was standing in this room with them.

Clutching the bottle in my hand, the surface cold against my palm, I felt its weight tether me to the moment, grounding me when I wanted nothing more than to drift away. Every pair of eyes on me, expectant, waiting, made the room feel smaller, like the walls were closing in.

Adeline raised a brow, her expression steady, patient, but with a hint of challenge beneath it. The kind that said she wouldn’t let me slip away without a reason. The kind that dared me to say what I was thinking.

“I…” My voice cracked, and I cleared my throat. My gaze dropped to the floor, the tiled patterns suddenly fascinating. “I need to leave.”

The words tumbled out before I could stop them, the silence in their wake deafening.

Adeline straightened from where she was leaning, her arms uncrossing slowly. “Excuse me?”