Chapter 138: Emmaline and Marie

Cecilia

"Ceci." His voice came through rough and desperate, like he'd been shouting or crying or both. "Ceci, baby, are you okay? Where are you? Are you hurt?"

Hearing his voice after everything that had happened, after thinking I might never hear it again, broke something open inside my chest. "I'm okay," I said, and my voice cracked despite my best efforts to keep it steady. "Arthur, I'm okay. Your people found me."

"Thank god." I could hear him taking a shaky breath, could practically see him running his hand through his hair the way he did when he was trying to get his emotions under control. "I'm landing in twenty minutes. Harold is going to bring you to a safe house, and then—"

"I can't," I interrupted, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "Arthur, I can't go to a safe house. Daniel Brahmore is being held by the Grey family. They're going to torture him, they're going to—" My voice broke completely. "I have to save him."

Silence on the other end. Then: "Absolutely fucking not."

"Arthur—"

"No, Ceci. No." His voice had gone hard, inflexible in that way that meant he was putting his foot down. "You are not going anywhere near the Grey family. Do you have any idea what they're capable of? What they do to people?"

"I know exactly what they do," I said, feeling tears burn behind my eyes. "That's why I have to help Daniel. He's only in this mess because he was trying to help me investigate my mother's death. This is my fault, Arthur. I can't just abandon him."

"It's not your fault," Arthur said, but I could hear the war in his voice—his protective instinct battling against his knowledge that I was right, that we couldn't just leave Daniel to die.

"Ceci, please. Please just let Harold bring you somewhere safe. I'll handle the Grey family, I'll get Daniel out, but I need to know you're protected first."

"I'm going to the estate," I said firmly, wiping at my eyes with the back of my hand. "With or without your help. There's a plan—I can get in disguised as a German aristocrat—Von Reichenbach, and—"

"What the fuck kind of plan is that?" Arthur's voice rose with obvious panic. "Ceci, that's insane. That's—"

"It's the only option," I interrupted. "And I'm doing it. But Arthur, I need you to trust me. Please."

The silence stretched out, and I could practically hear him thinking, weighing the options, trying to find a way to keep me safe while also respecting my choice.

"Fine," he said finally, and I could hear the defeat in his voice. "But you're taking security with you. Harold, minimum. And you're wearing a tracker so I can find you if things go wrong."

"Okay," I agreed immediately, relief flooding through me. "Okay, thank you."

"I love you," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "More than anything. And if something happens to you—"

"Nothing's going to happen," I promised, even though we both knew I couldn't guarantee that. "I'll see you soon."

I hung up and handed the phone back to Harold, who'd been listening to the whole conversation with an expression that suggested he thought we were both out of our minds.

"You heard him," I said. "I'm going to the Grey estate, and you're coming with me."

Harold let out a long breath, his hand coming up to rub at his temples like he was fighting off a headache. "Miss Locke, with all due respect, this is a terrible idea. The Grey family's security is—"

"I don't care," I interrupted. "My friend is being tortured right now while we stand here arguing. So either you help me, or I go alone. Your choice."

He stared at me for a long moment, then shook his head with something that might have been grudging respect. "You're just as stubborn as Mr. Winston said you were."

"Is that a yes?"

"That's a yes," he confirmed. "But we do this my way. And the moment things go sideways, we extract immediately. Understood?"

"Understood," I agreed.

Harold pulled out his phone, already making calls to arrange everything we'd need. While he worked, I turned to Sophia, who'd been watching the whole exchange with wide eyes.

"You don't have to come," I said quietly. "If you want to stay here, or if Harold can take you somewhere safe—"

"I'm coming," Sophia interrupted, her voice firm despite the fear in her eyes. "The least I can do is return the favor."

I felt something warm move through my chest—gratitude, maybe, or just the relief of not having to do this completely alone.

"Okay," I said. "Then let's go save Daniel."

The car ride to Grey Manor felt endless, every mile stretching out as I sat rigid in the back seat of the black sedan Harold had somehow procured within twenty minutes.

Sophia sat beside me, her hands twisted together in her lap, while Harold drove with the focused efficiency of someone who'd done this kind of thing before—extracting assets from hostile territory, infiltrating places where one wrong move meant death.

I tried to get back into the persona of the Von Reichenbach sisters to calm my nerves.

"Emmaline and Marie. Twenty-two and twenty respectively. Old German aristocracy—the kind that survived two world wars by knowing exactly when to bend and when to break, by making the right alliances and keeping their mouths shut about the wrong ones."

Harold took a turn onto a narrow road that wound through dense forest, the headlights cutting through darkness so complete it felt like we were driving into nothing.

"Emmaline's the elder—art history major at Oxford, cold as ice on the surface but supposedly has a wicked sense of humor once you get past the aristocratic reserve. Marie's the warmer one, studied economics at Cambridge, better at small talk and social niceties."

"So I'm Emmaline," I said, understanding the logic immediately. Cold and reserved would be easier to maintain than warm and friendly—less room for mistakes, fewer expectations of charm I couldn't deliver.

"And I'm Marie," Sophia added quietly, her voice steadier than I'd expected given the circumstances.

Harold's eyes never leaving the road. "The boss sent me more detailed documents."

I pulled out the phone Harold had given me and started scrolling through the files, absorbing details with the kind of focus that came from knowing lives depended on getting this right.

Emmaline spoke three languages fluently—German, English, and French—with a particular accent that marked her as educated in Britain but raised in Bavaria.

She had a habit of pausing before she spoke, of choosing her words with deliberate precision, of looking at people like she was assessing their worth and finding them wanting. To her, children are worthless, and only adults are useful to exploit.

Beside me, Sophia was doing the same with Marie's information, her lips moving slightly as she practiced the softer German accent, the more approachable mannerisms that would make her the perfect complement to my ice-queen persona.