Chapter Seventy-Three

Brooklyn 

Grant’s office feels colder than the hallway, even though the air’s thicker and it smells like old cigarettes and bleach, and the moment I step inside, I feel something crawl up my spine like a warning. The walls are lined with filing cabinets and shelves full of binders that probably hold every awful detail he doesn’t want anyone else to see, and there’s a desk in the middle with stacks of papers and a small metal lockbox that makes my stomach twist.
Grant shuts the office door behind us, and the sound hits the room like a weight. My back stiffens because there’s no way out, not without going through him, and even with Jackson standing a few feet away, the air feels thin and sharp.
Grant walks behind his desk, slow and steady, like he owns the ground under our feet. His eyes move between Jackson and me, dragging over every inch of me until my skin crawls, and then he smiles at Jackson like he already knows everything he needs.
“So,” Grant says, voice smooth, too calm, too cold. “Looks like my little bird didn’t get far after all.”
My stomach turns. He never called me by my name when he spoke like this, only that one, and the sound of it makes the room tilt. Jackson steps a little closer without making a fuss, keeping Monroe’s loose posture even though I can see the tension in his jaw.
Grant gestures lazily toward me with two fingers. “My guy said she was right beside you when he showed up at Teddy’s place.” His eyes sharpen as he studies Jackson. “Funny timing.”
Jackson doesn’t blink. He plays Monroe perfectly, casual and unimpressed, arms loose at his sides. “I was already there for the drop,” he says, tone bored. “She walked in behind me. Guess Teddy forgot to warn you.”
Grant stares at him for a long moment, and I swear I hear my heartbeat echo in my ears. I don’t breathe. I don’t move. Jackson doesn’t look away, and the quiet stretches just long enough that I think Grant might see through everything.
Then Grant laughs once and shakes his head. “Teddy never did keep his shit clean.” He looks at me again. “You really been hiding in that dump of an apartment, little bird. All this time.”
I keep my voice low so it doesn’t shake. “I wasn’t hiding.”
“Sure you weren’t,” he says, amused and cruel. “You think I don’t know where my girls end up.”
Jackson steps in again. “You drag me out to see your inventory, or you gonna talk in circles all night,” he says, rolling his shoulders like he’s already bored with the conversation and ready to get down to business.
Grant looks back at him, interest flickering in his eyes. “You want a tour.”
“Yeah,” Jackson says, shrugging. “I’d like to take a look before we talk deals.”
Grant leans back in his chair, studying him, studying me, weighing every piece of what he saw in that hallway minutes ago. Then he smirks and pushes himself upright.
“You got guts,” he says. “Most men don’t look me in the eye when I catch them with something that belongs to me.”
Jackson shrugs again. “You wanna talk ownership, we can talk ownership. But you called Teddy, not me, so I’m guessing you already figured out she wasn’t trying to run.”
That line lands exactly the way Monroe would want it to.
Neutral and shrugged, without any sort of challenge defense or even a hint that Jackson’s covering for me.
Grant’s eyes narrow slightly, then he looks at his desk, tapping a knuckle against the metal lockbox.
“You two walked into my operation on the same night one of my guys told me he saw her breathing,” Grant says quietly. “That’s why you’re standing in front of me. I don’t believe in accidents.”
Jackson lifts one eyebrow. “Then don’t.”
The room goes still again.
Grant watches him longer than before, then laughs softly.
“Alright, Monroe. Let’s see what you know.”
Grant says it like he is inviting Jackson into some kind of game, and the air shifts as soon as the words leave his mouth, because there is no game here, not really, not when Grant is the one calling the shots, so every tiny movement he makes feels heavy, sharp, and dangerous. Jackson stays leaning against the edge of Grant’s desk like he doesn't care at all, but I can see the truth under the easy posture. I know him, and I know the way tension sits in his shoulders when he’s seconds from breaking someone’s jaw, and that tension is right there, tight and coiled, even though he's pretending he's relaxed.
Grant steps closer to him, taking slow steps, as if he enjoys the sound of his own boots on the floor, and he studies Jackson as if he's trying to peel something skin-deep, so that he can see what’s underneath. “You walked in here like you belong,” he says, his voice low and calm, and it's the calm that makes everything feel worse. “So show me that you understand where you're standing.”
My stomach flips, and I try to breathe quietly through it, because anything loud will draw his attention back to me, and I'm not ready for his hands again, not right now, not when the room feels like it's shrinking around us. Jackson tilts his head like he's bored. “You wanna know what I know,” he says, and he even adds a lazy shrug that looks real if you don't know him. “Ask.”
Grant smiles, slow and pleased, and that smile’s wrong in every way. “Good,” he says, and he steps around Jackson and starts circling the room like something measuring the size of its prey, then he stops beside me again. I don't even breathe, or blink. I just stand there and hope he doesn't put his hands on me again.
“Tell me what you saw on your way in,” Grant says without taking his eyes off me.p
Jackson taps his finger against the desk like he is thinking. “Looks like you got order,” he says. “Organization. Structure. Plenty of manpower.”
Grant nods once, and his hand lifts, fingers dragging through my hair like he's petting something he already decided belongs to him, and I swallow hard because my body wants to jump away but my mind knows that if I flinch, Jackson will react, and if Jackson reacts, Grant will pull a weapon or snap something in me just to prove he can.
“And,” Grant says, finally letting go of my hair.
“And you got product,” Jackson says. “A lot more than most people would expect.”
Grant smiles wider at that and steps in front of me, looking up at Jackson again. “Anyone can say I have product,” he says. “Anyone can look at a cage and understand what it means.” Then he leans down just enough that I feel his breath on my cheek. “Value is different.”
My knees almost buckle.
“And that,” Grant says as he looks back at Jackson, “is what I want to know if you understand.”
Jackson holds his gaze, still playing the part of Monroe, smooth and strategic. “Then tell me what you want to hear.”
“Oh, I don't want to hear anything,” Grant says as he straightens and moves closer to Jackson again. “I want to see it.”
He steps so close that their boots almost touch.
“Tell me,” Grant says, “what a girl is worth to you.”
My entire body goes cold at his words, because it's then that I know this isn't just business, or even curiosity.
No, this is punishment and control. It's Grant's way of reminding me that I never stopped being something he could use against someone else.
Jackson doesn't move for a second, and I feel my breath catch in my throat because I know that tiny stillness means he’s fighting everything in him to keep his cover on, to keep the smirk on his face, but then he shifts, casually, and leans back a little.
“What she is worth to me,” Jackson says, “depends on what you say she’s worth.”
Grant’s smile twitches like he likes that answer, but not enough to reward it. “That's not what I asked,” he says. “I asked what she is worth to you.”
Jackson lets out a short laugh like it's nothing. “She was fun,” he says. “Wild. Good for a night. Easy to forget if I wanted to.”
My heart drops even though I know none of those words are real. They feel real. They hurt like they’re real. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep anything from slipping out, and I stare at the floor because I don't trust myself to look at either of them.
Grant steps closer to Jackson again and tilts his head. “Better,” he says. “Much better.” Then he turns to me, and before I can brace for it, he grabs my face with one hand, squeezing a little too hard, tilting my head back so he can look at me like I'm something he's thinking about buying at a market.
Jackson’s whole body goes rigid and Grant notices, it's exactly what he wanted.
“You disappeared,” Grant says softly, eyes still locked on mine. “Little Bird flew away again.”
My pulse pounds so hard it feels like it might bruise me from the inside.
“And then suddenly,” Grant goes on, “you show up here, walking right back into my hands.” He looks at Jackson without releasing my face. “Coincidence.”
Jackson forces a grin. “No such thing.”
Grant squeezes a little tighter before letting go of me. I take one slow breath, so I don't collapse on the spot.
“You think you understand fear,” Grant says to Jackson. “But fear is cheap. Fear fades. Fear collapses under pressure.” He steps toward Jackson again. “Loyalty is different.”
Jackson tilts his head like he's curious, even though I can see how tight his jaw is. “So which one do you want me to show you?”
Grant’s grin spreads. “Both.”
My stomach flips.
Grant steps back, folding his arms as if this is some kind of twisted exercise.
“Tell me,” Grant says, “how you would teach a girl who ran not to run again.”
The room goes so quiet that I swear I hear the buzz of the wiring inside the walls.
Jackson sits forward slowly, elbows on his knees, and it’s him sitting there, not his posture, slouch, or careless confidence, but it's his eyes that find mine and hold just long enough to say *This is the only way, baby, trust me.*
“It depends,” Jackson says. “You want fear or loyalty.”
Grant nods once. “Fear first.”
Jackson’s voice stays steady. “Fear keeps her where you put her,” he says. “Fear makes her listen, makes her small, makes her really easy to handle.”
Grant’s smile widens like he’s pleased with what he's hearing.
“And loyalty,” Jackson continues, “keeps her close.”
Grant lowers himself into the chair behind his desk, settling like a king waiting for tribute.
“Show me,” he says and my breath catches.
Jackson rises slowly, moving toward me with this easy swagger that's foreign to me, and even though I know he won’t hurt me, and that he's still Jackson under all the layers, my heart pounds against my ribs like it wants to escape, because Grant is watching, and he expects something, and if Jackson doesn't deliver it just right, we die here, in this room.
Grant leans forward, eyes bright. “Go on,” he says. “Teach her.”
Jackson steps into my space, and the whole world tilts.
His hand lifts toward my jaw.
And fear spikes through me at not knowing what’s going to happen next.