Chapter 118 Chapter 118
Hailey’s POV
I sat on my bed, my phone in my hands, mindlessly playing a mobile game to distract myself from everything happening around me. The colorful blocks on the screen moved and matched, but I wasn’t really paying attention.
My mind kept wandering to Vincent downstairs, to the journals hidden under my mattress, to the growing sense that something was very wrong in this house.
A soft knock at my door made me look up.
“Come in,” I called.
The door opened, and Benita slipped inside, closing it quietly behind her. She looked around as if checking to make sure we were alone, then moved quickly to my bedside.
“Here,” she said, pressing something small and metal into my palm.
I looked down to see a bobby pin, but not a regular one. This one had been modified somehow, bent at a specific angle.
“This is for picking locks,” Benita said quietly. “I showed you the technique last night, but practice is what makes you good at it. Use this one. I’ve already shaped it the right way.”
“Thank you,” I said, closing my fingers around it.
“Just be careful,” Benita warned, her voice low and urgent.
“Don’t get caught. And don’t try it when people are around. Wait until late at night when everyone’s asleep.”
“I will,” I promised.
Benita nodded, then turned and left as quietly as she’d arrived, not wanting to draw attention to her visit or what she’d given me.
I looked down at the bobby pin in my hand, feeling its weight, remembering the practice session Benita had given me last night. The angle to hold it, the pressure to apply, the feeling you were supposed to wait for when the lock mechanism gave way.
It had seemed complicated when she was teaching me, but Benita had made it look effortless.
I carefully hid the bobby pin in my dresser drawer, tucked into the back corner where it wouldn’t be easily found if someone went through my things.
Then I stood up, suddenly feeling restless and confined in my room. I needed to move, to do something normal, to pretend for a few minutes that everything was fine.
I decided to go ask one of the maids for some orange juice. The baby had been making me crave citrus constantly, and it would give me an excuse to walk around the house.
I opened my door and stepped into the hallway, then made my way toward the stairs.
But as I passed the main living area, I heard voices and paused.
Louis stood near the fireplace, clearly trying to engage Benita in conversation. She sat on the couch, her arms crossed, her expression completely closed off and uninterested.
“I just thought maybe you’d like some company,” Louis was saying, his tone gentle. “You’ve been spending so much time alone. It’s not healthy to isolate yourself like this.”
“I’m fine,” Benita said flatly, not looking at him.
“Benita, I know you’re grieving,” Louis continued. “And I know nothing I say can make that better. But I’m here if you need someone to talk to. Or even if you just need someone to sit with you in silence.”
“I said I’m fine,” Benita repeated, her voice harder now.
Louis looked like he wanted to say more, but something in Benita’s expression must have told him to back off. He nodded and stepped away, giving her space.
I quickly moved past before either of them could see me lingering. It wasn’t my business, and I didn’t want to intrude on whatever complicated dynamic was developing between them.
I continued walking, deciding to skip the kitchen entirely and instead heading toward the balcony that overlooked the back garden. Fresh air sounded better than orange juice anyway.
I pushed open the glass doors and stepped outside, breathing in the cool evening air. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink.
That’s when I noticed Vincent stood at the far end of the balcony, talking quietly with one of the guards. They were speaking too low for me to hear what they were saying, but something about their body language made it look secretive.
As if sensing my presence, Vincent looked up and saw me. He immediately smiled and said something to the guard, dismissing him.
The guard nodded and left quickly, disappearing back into the house.
“Hailey,” Vincent said warmly, moving toward me. “Beautiful evening, isn’t it?”
“I guess,” I said, not bothering to hide my lack of enthusiasm for this conversation.
“How are you feeling?” Vincent asked. “The pregnancy must be exhausting with everything else going on.”
“I’m managing,” I said shortly. Then, unable to help myself, I added with clear rudeness, “Shouldn’t you be resting instead of trying to socialize? You’re supposed to be here for protection, not wandering around chatting with guards.”
Vincent chuckled, not seeming offended by my tone. “A guard’s job is never done, I’m afraid. Even when we’re the ones being protected, old habits die hard. I like to know who’s watching over me, what the security setup is like.”
“Louis is in charge of security here,” I said. “You don’t need to supervise his work.”
“Of course not,” Vincent agreed easily. “I’m just naturally curious. Occupational hazard from decades in this business.”
He looked at me with those assessing eyes, and I felt uncomfortable under his gaze.
“You know,” Vincent said, his tone shifting to something almost admiring, “you’re a tough nut to crack, Hailey. Most people in your situation. pregnant, caught up in a mafia war, nearly killed in an attack, they’d have broken by now. But your willpower to survive is amazing. Truly remarkable.”
I felt my defenses go up immediately. “I don’t need your compliments,” I said flatly.
“It wasn’t just a compliment,” Vincent said. “It was an observation. You’re stronger than you look. That’s a valuable quality in this world.”
“Whatever,” I said, turning away from him. “I should go back inside.”
I started walking toward the door, wanting to escape this conversation and this man who made my skin crawl for reasons I couldn’t quite articulate.
But just as I reached for the door handle, Vincent’s voice came from behind me, barely above a whisper but somehow carrying clearly in the quiet evening.
“Everybody runs out of luck someday.”
I froze, my hand on the door handle, my heart suddenly pounding.
I turned slowly to face him. “What did you say?”
Vincent looked at me with an expression of polite confusion. “I’m sorry?”
“You just said something,” I insisted. “About luck. What did you mean?”
“I didn’t say anything,” Vincent said, his face the picture of innocence. “You must have misheard.”