Page 66 of Knot Like Other Girls

He shrugs, turning back to his vanity to fuss with his hair. "We hooked up a few times at some industry parties. She got a little clingy, so I ghosted her. No big deal. She should be grateful she got to spend time with me at all."

No big deal.

Of course. Because in Braxley's world, toying with someone's emotions is just another Tuesday. My fingers flex at my sides, itching to grab him by his designer collar and shake some sense into him.

Not shake.Choke.

"Mr. Worthington," I say through gritted teeth. "This 'Heather' has made comments that could be construed as violent. She's displaying signs of obsessive behavior. Given the recent attempt on your life, we can't afford to overlook any potential threats."

Braxley spins around in his chair, eyes widening. "Wait, you think Heather might have something to do with the shooting?" He immediately laughs it off. "No way. She's not smart enoughfor something like that. She can barely put a coherent sentence together."

"It's a possibility we need to consider," I say, barely keeping my temper in check. "Can you tell me more about her? Full name, where you met, any details that might help us track her down?"

Braxley's brow furrows, and I can practically see the single brain cell bouncing around in his skull like a DVD screensaver. "Uh, Heather... Heather Patton, I think? We met at a launch party for some new energy drink. VitaBoost or MegaCharge or something like that. She was one of the promo models." He smirks. "Not top-tier, but she had a good body."

I nod, making mental notes while silently counting down from ten to keep myself calm. "And when was the last time you saw her in person?"

"A few months ago? She showed up uninvited to a club opening I was hosting. Made a scene, got escorted out by security. It was so embarrassing. I blocked her number after that. She ruined my big night."

"But not on social media," I point out, my tone sharp.

Braxley has the audacity to look annoyed at my question. "Well, no. I mean, engagement is engagement, right? Even negative comments boost the algorithm. And she's always commenting, so..." He shrugs like this should be obvious to anyone with a brain.

I close my eyes for a moment, imagining fifty different ways I could make this man disappear without a trace. When I open them, Braxley shrinks back slightly at whatever he sees in my expression.

"Mr. Worthington," I say, voice low and dangerous, "I need you to understand something. Someone tried to kill you. Whether it was this Heather or someone else, the threat is veryreal. Your safety—and Miss Emerson's—depends on your full cooperation."

At the mention of Bella, something flickers in Braxley's eyes. Guilt? Fear? Whatever it is, I can use it.

"Whatever," he says, flicking invisible dust from his sleeve. "What do you need me to do?"

"For starters, I need you to take this seriously," I snap, not bothering to mask my frustration. "No more dismissing potential threats as 'no big deal.' If someone makes you uncomfortable, if anything seems off, you tell us immediately. Understood?"

Braxley rolls his eyes. "Yeah, okay. I can do that." He rakes a hand through his hair. "Fuck, you're intense. Has anyone ever told you that you need to chill? You might want to try some CBD."

"Good. Now, I need you to go through your messages, your DMs, everything. Flag any interactions with Heather or anyone else who's been overly aggressive or possessive. Can you do that?"

He sighs dramatically. "I guess so. Not like I had anything better to do today." He reaches for his phone. "So we're doing this right now? For real?"

"Right now," I confirm, pulling up a chair next to him while maintaining as much distance as the task allows. "And Braxley? Don't leave anything out. Even if it seems embarrassing or trivial. It could be important."

For the next hour, we comb through Braxley's social media history. It's mind-numbing, made worse by his running commentary on his own posts. "Look at this one!" "Over a hundred thousand likes." "Everyone isobsessedwith my skincare routine."

Every minute spent with this narcissist makes me want to volunteer for a suicide mission just for the break.

But I notice things. The slight tremble in his hand when we come across particularly aggressive messages. The tightness around his eyes. He's scared, trying to hide it behind his usual bluster.

Not that I care about his emotional state, but fear makes people unpredictable.

And unpredictable clients get people killed.

"Braxley," I say sharply, using his first name to throw him off balance. He looks up, startled. "I know this is difficult. But I need you to be honest with me. Is there anything else you haven't told us? Anything at all that might help us figure out who's behind this?"

He hesitates, fingers drumming nervously on the arm of his chair. "I... there might be something. But it's not about Heather."

I lean forward, interest piqued despite my distaste for the man. "Go on."

Braxley takes a deep breath, eyes darting around the room. "A few weeks before the, uh, incident in Spain, I got a weird email. It was from some encrypted address, all numbers and letters. They said they had dirt on me, stuff that could ruin my reputation. They wanted money to keep quiet."

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