Page 43 of The Maverick

“This isn’t obsession anymore. It’s possession.”

“You mean he thinks she belongs to him?”

“I mean, he’s constructing a narrative. Rewriting her books. Her history. He’s not just trying to get to her—he’s trying to be part of her. Like he’s writing himself into her life as the endgame.”

Gavin’s jaw ticked. “Which makes him more dangerous than we thought.”

“Exactly. He’s not hunting her to hurt her. Not yet. He’s hunting her to own her. To force a reality where she chooses him. Or thinks she has to.”

Gavin’s eyes went cold. “And if she doesn’t?”

“Then he rewrites the ending again.”

The implication hung in the silence. Hawke drove back to the office with his fingers clenched on the steering wheel. Every mile that passed added to the pressure mounting in his chest.

He’d seen stalkers escalate. He’d seen women caught in the spiral of gaslighting, obsession, and control. But this? This wasn’t about punishment or lust.

It was about rewriting identity. Reconstructing reality. Brenner had used her own voice against her. Her own words. And now, he'd silenced the one man who might’ve led them to the next piece of the puzzle.

But Hawke still had leverage… Vanessa.

And if Brenner thought for a second he could manipulate her again, he was about to find out what it felt like to lose control.

The safe room beneath Silver Spur Security’s headquarters was luxurious, but kept its vault-like characteristics: reinforced concrete walls, no windows, and triple-locked entry coded to Hawke, Gavin, and Reed only. They filtered the air, scrambled signals, and prevented cell reception unless rerouted through secure lines.

It had been buried three levels below the operational offices—far from the club and even farther from anything that could be considered casual access. No one got in or out without alerting six different protocols.

When Hawke stepped through the last steel door, Vanessa was pacing.

She’d traded the flannel shirt she’d worn earlier to one of Roxie’s oversized hoodies to go with her leggings. No makeup. Her hair was up in a twist that had started neat but was falling loose around her temples. She looked tired—but she was still standing.

Roxie sat on the futon in the corner, phone in hand, running updates from the monitoring team. Keely was cross-legged on the floor with a laptop, scanning data from Reed’s most recent trace. Both women looked up when Hawke entered, but neither said a word.

Vanessa turned toward him, gaze sharp. “Well?”

He closed the door behind him. “Charles is alive. Barely. Compound fracture, concussion, ribs busted. But he’s breathing.”

She didn’t flinch. “Did he talk?”

“Not much. Said something about a storage locker. West end. Said Brenner keeps files. Insurance. The kind you don’t bury unless you plan to use them later.”

Her lips thinned. “You think he kept anything physical?”

“I do now.”

She crossed her arms. “Do you think they intended the SUV for him or for you?””

“Maybe both. I think it was about timing. Someone knew I was tailing him. Knew he was about to break.” He stepped closer, his voice low. “That means someone fed Brenner information.”

“From here?” she asked, her voice tightening.

“Either someone inside Silver Spur or someone close enough to spoof our internal logs.”

Keely looked up from the corner. “I’ve been scanning all system access points. So far, nothing off-script. But I’ll dig deeper.”

Roxie stood. “We can triple-verify the last sixty days. Physical and digital access. I’ll crosscheck any name we can’t personally vouch for.”

“Do it,” Hawke said. “Start with every staff member who had access to Vanessa’s files. Her transport schedule. The night we moved her out of her place.”

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