Page 95 of Only the Devil
Daisy
The anger, the hatred — I can’t look away from it. It’s final-level stuff.
My heart hammers and my muscles tense, bracing for a physical hit. He’s coming at me, and it’s going to hurt.
I never thought I’d be one of those NPCs — non-player characters — who freeze during the boss fight, but I lock up: no scream, no movement, nothing.
A black suit shields me, blocking the onslaught.
I blink, snapping out of a fear-induced coma like a system reboot.
“Mr. Sterling. Think. Breathe.” Jake’s firm, calm tone is a life raft in the turbulent sea of audience commotion and harsh lights. “There are hundreds of witnesses.”
Witnesses?
The stage lights burn overhead, making everything feel surreal and overexposed, like a glitched game cutscene.
I rise and step to the side, peering past Jake’s broad shoulder. As I inhale I catch the faint scent of sandalwood — the stuff he puts on his beard — and my vision clears. The curtains are open; people cluster to the side, watching.
Phillip registers it, too. His jaw is tight, his fingers curl in and out, and his posture is stiff, like someone caught in the headlights.
“She’s not responsible. We’ll find out who did it, but she’s not responsible.” Jake’s insistence snaps Sterling into something like action.
“How did this happen?” Phillip asks, ignoring that Jake is still between us.
“I don’t know.” My voice is a whisper. I search his expression for any sign he believes me, for proof he won’t lunge past Jake to strangle me.
“Back it up. She’s not the enemy.” His words cut through the commotion.
For the first time, Jake the soldier crystallizes in my mind. I envision him under fire, calm, deliberate.
Jake presses his hand to his ear. “Thompson — meet me on stage. Escort Sterling out the back.”
Phillip’s eyes sweep the room, taking in gawking faces, phones recording, the murmur of shocked voices.
Is it registering what’s happened? Is he panicked enough to slip? Or did we overplay our hand? He may just slip into damage control, calling lawyers and the best image rehabilitation PR agency in town.
His breathing slows. His fists unclench. The predator assesses his options. The fury morphs into cold calculation.
Thompson appears. “Local television crew pulled up outside,” he reports.
Phillip closes his eyes for a long beat. When they open, the man who almost throttled me thirty seconds ago is back in CEO mode: posture straight, jaw set.
“Priority one: contain the narrative,” he says, steady and businesslike. “Let’s go.” He spins on his heel with Thompson at his side.
It’s chilling how quickly he can compartmentalize — like watching someone switch user accounts.
As Sterling disappears around the corner with his phone already at his ear, the stage feels eerily quiet despite the chaos in the auditorium. The whole confrontation lasted maybe three minutes, but my chest aches as if I’ve been holding my breath or swimming laps.
Once Sterling’s out of sight Jake turns to face me, gently touching my arm. “You good?”
I nod, shuddering. I’d pictured this playing out with me in the audience, watching — not up here on stage.
Jake’s palm flattens on my lower back to guide me off the stage and through the side door into the auditorium.
I keep my gaze low, hyperaware of a million eyes. Yes: I was the woman on stage with Phillip Sterling. I am his newly acquired CTO. The CTO of a crooked organization.
Out of the corner of my eye Jake gives a hand signal. “Keep going,” he says when I slow. I look up and spot the tall, fit, dark-skinned man with the shaved head.
