Page 88 of The Lair

They found me.

The past six years, all the measured steps I took and sacrifices I made, have been for nothing.

“Leave,” I say one last time, my voice shaking as badly as my hands. “I-I don’t want to be part of this.”

This time, Tom doesn’t insist. His defeated sigh makes something uncomfortable roll in my stomach.

“All right.” He reaches into his pocket and takes out a business card, placing it in front of me. “Call this number or email me if you change your mind.”

I don’t take it. I barely move, still shaking, as he leaves the way he came.

The sound of the door shutting behind him echoes in my head and buries the footsteps closing in.

“Allie?”

As if physically shaken by Travis’s voice, I sober up at once.

I grab a nearby cleaning cloth to busy my hands so he can’t see them shaking. “Hi, boss man.”

When his eyes follow the movement, I know there’s no way he’s buying my nonchalant facade.

And when he asks, “What’s wrong?” I confirm it.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

The lie feels bitter on my tongue, but I can’t risk Travis asking questions. I said no to Tom enough times for him to get the memo. I don’t think he’ll come back to bother me again, so there’s no reason for Travis to know why I’m so shaken up. What would I even tell him?

The truth, once and for all.

“Allie. Talk to me, please.”

I shake my head and lower my gaze. “I’m fine.”

He spots Tom’s card at the same time I do, but he’s quicker to grab it. He reads it once, twice, before his eyes land on me again.“A production company?” he asks slowly. “What is this doing here?”

“Just some guy.”

“Did he bother you?”

I hate that my heart jumps at his protectiveness. I don’t deserve him, this selfless man who always looks out for me when all I do is lie to his face.

“I’m okay, Travis,” I insist.

He stays quiet for a moment, and I think he’s going to leave until his gentle hand takes the cleaning cloth from my fingers.

“Your hands are shaking.”

It’s not a question, so I don’t give him an answer.

Jude calls his name from the kitchen, but he doesn’t move. Not for a moment, and not before he says, “We’ll talk at home.”

I don’t nod or say anything.

On autopilot, I power through the rest of my shift, managing to remember everyone’s orders despite my head circling back to Tom every two seconds. His business card ended up in the back pocket of my jeans, and even though I’ve thought of throwing it in the trash and forgetting about this nightmare, I can’t bring myself to do it.

This changes nothing.

George Eden and his team can do whatever they want, but I, too, deserve to move on. I deserve to make my own choices—choices that don’t involve revisiting a past that is ruining my present.

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