Chapter 65 Webb Makes His Move
Brittany’s POV
The morning sun hit the studio floor in sharp, cold slats of light, but I didn't feel the warmth. I was sitting at my drafting table, staring at a small, cream-colored envelope that a courier had delivered ten minutes ago. It looked perfectly ordinary. It was the kind of stationery Marcus Webb always used, thick and expensive, smelling faintly of old books and cedarwood.
I didn't open it immediately. I waited for David and Leo to join me. When they were both standing behind me, I used a letter opener to slice the top. My hands were steady, even if my heart was starting to thud in my ears.
My Dearest Brittany, the note began. I recognized the handwriting instantly. It was the familiar, looping script of the man who had taught me how to price my first ebook and how to ignore the critics. I have been hearing troubling reports about your isolation inside the Blackwell estate. I worry that the walls of that house are closing in on you. Remember what I told you about your value. It is not tied to a name. I am here if you need help, or simply a connection to the world outside those iron gates. You are not alone.
I read it once, the warm and familiar language trying to pull at my old loyalties. He was using the voice of the mentor, the man who had guided me through the digital marketing world when I had nothing. I didn't say a word. I simply passed the paper to David.
David read it, his face a mask of iron. He didn't offer a comment. He passed it to Leo.
Leo didn't read the words. He took the paper to his workstation and placed it under a high-powered scanner. He used a pair of tweezers to examine the edges. "The paper stock is premium, but the watermark is from a boutique supplier in North Houston," Leo muttered, his fingers flying across his keyboard. "I’m tracing the courier company now."
"He sounds concerned," I said, my voice sounding hollow in the large room. "If I didn't know better, I’d think he was the only friend I had left."
"That’s the point of a sleeper agent, Brittany," David said, his voice low. "They wait until you are at your lowest point to offer the hand that pulls you under."
Leo let out a sharp, dry laugh. "Found it. The courier service is a front called Swift-Link Logistics. It’s registered to a holding group that sits in the exact same network of shell companies as the server the brothers used to monitor your bedroom. Webb isn't acting independently. He’s coordinating with Richard and Harrison."
"He thinks his cover is still intact," I said, looking at the scan on the monitor. "He thinks I’m still the same girl who listened to his advice on Gumroad pricing."
"Then let’s play the part," David said. He looked at me, a question in his eyes. "Can you do it?"
"I’ve been practicing," I replied.
I sat down at the desk and reached for a matching sheet of paper. I took a breath, closing my eyes for a second to find the voice of the version of myself that existed six months ago. The girl who was overwhelmed. The girl who was frightened. I wrote back, my pen moving with a slight, deliberate tremor in the lines.
Marcus, thank you for reaching out, I wrote. You have no idea how much your note meant to me. Things here are... complicated. I feel like I am walking on glass every single day. David is protective, but the house feels like a cage. I would very much appreciate the guidance of someone I trust right now. I don't know who else to turn to.
I folded the note and handed it to the guard waiting at the door. "Deliver this back to the courier," I said.
We waited. The afternoon stretched on, the silence in the manor growing heavier as the gala drew closer. I tried to work on the final hem of the midnight silk, but my eyes kept drifting to the clock. Leo remained at his desk, his screens a blur of data streams and map coordinates.
Within three hours, the doorbell rang again.
Leo intercepted the digital signature before the physical note even reached the room. "He’s fast," Leo said, his eyes widening. "He’s eager to get you alone."
David took the second note from the tray and brought it to me. I read it quickly. It was shorter this time. Webb expressed relief that I had replied. He told me he couldn't talk freely in a letter that might be intercepted by Blackwell security. He invited me to meet him privately the night before the gala.
"He wants a neutral and safe location," I said, reading the address out loud. "An old library annex on the north side. He says it’s quiet and away from the cameras."
Leo was already typing the address into his search engine. He didn't look for the library. He looked for the deed.
"Neutral?" Leo scoffed, hitting the enter key with a loud snap. "The annex is owned by a holding company called Pine Ridge Ventures. I just ran the paper trail through the state archives. Pine Ridge is a subsidiary of the original estate Harrison Blackwell set up in the seventies. It’s not neutral, Brittany. It’s a Blackwell property that hasn't been used in a decade."
I looked at David. The trap was so obvious it almost felt like an insult. They wanted me out of the house. They wanted me away from David’s security and Leo’s eyes. They wanted me in a place they controlled, with a man I was supposed to trust, just as we were about to launch our final strike.
"He thinks he’s bringing me to safety," I said, my voice cold.
"He’s bringing you to a slaughterhouse," David replied.
Webb's response arrives within hours, and in it, disguised within the mentor language, is an invitation to meet privately before the gala, at a location he describes as neutral and safe. Leo traces the location. It is owned by a holding company connected to Harrison Blackwell's original estate. The meeting place is a trap.