Chapter 38: "The Locker’s Secret" Marcus POV

I’m still at the bar, Tessa dragging me out after Victor pulled that gun, his words—“Claire’s got bigger plans for you”—ringing loud in my head. My hands are shaking, and I’m scared—proper scared—because he’s out there, loose, and Julian’s gone, mad at me. Tessa’s in the car, yelling, “Move, Reid!” but I can’t think straight—can’t shake the guilt, the mess I’ve made. “The Mirage,” I say, voice rough, starting the engine. “Julian’s there—I know it.” She frowns, but nods, and we’re off, tires humming through Vegas’s dark streets, my chest tight with hope and dread.

We pull into the parking lot, and it’s quiet—too quiet—neon buzzing overhead, air cold. Tessa’s muttering about Victor, but I’m out, scanning, heart pounding. Then I see him—Julian, by the staff door, with Sam, both looking shook. My stomach flips, and I run—boots splashing puddles—calling, “Jules!” He turns, slow, eyes hard, and I stop, close but not too close, breathing hard. Sam steps back, nervous, and it’s just us—me and him—and I’m desperate, needing him to hear me.

“Jules,” I say, soft, stepping forward, “I’m sorry—I messed up bad.” His face is cold, bruised from the ambush, and my throat’s tight, guilt choking me. “That voucher—Victor’s cash—I picked you, Jules, always will. Should’ve told you, but I was scared—scared you’d leave.” My hands reach out, shaky, and I’m begging—proper begging—because three weeks ago I kissed him, made him mine, and now he’s slipping away. “Forgive me,” I say, voice breaking, “please—I can’t lose you.”

He’s quiet, just staring, and it’s killing me—his silence worse than yelling. Then he pulls his phone out, slow, and holds it up—screen glowing with a text: “Check your locker.” My heart drops, and I’m froze, reading it—no name, just those words—and my skin crawls. “Claire?” I mutter, and he nods, voice flat. “Met her out here—cornered us. She’s got Diego’s recording, flipped it to bury us.” My chest hurts—Claire, still close, still twisting the knife—and I’m thinking—my choice, that $5,000, pushing her to this.

I grab his arm, gentle, and say, “We’ve got to check it—together.” He pulls back, cold still, but nods, slow, and Sam follows, quiet. We slip inside—staff door creaking, halls dim—and my heart’s racing, scared of what’s waiting. Julian’s ahead, leading us to the locker room, and I’m watching him—his stiff walk, his silence—and it’s breaking me. “Jules,” I try again, soft, “I meant it—you’re my world,” but he doesn’t look back, just keeps going, and I’m stuck, hoping he’ll soften, hoping I’m not too late.

The locker room’s small—lockers lined up, air stale—and Julian stops at his, number 17, staring at it. My hands are sweaty, and I’m close, saying, “Open it, mate—we’ll face it.” He glances at me—eyes sharp, hurt—and pulls the key, slow, turning it. The door swings open, and my breath catches—stuff spills out, papers, junk—and there it is, right on top: a photo, old, creased, of me and Claire. We’re at a staff party, years back, smiling, and scrawled across it in black ink—“Betrayer.” My stomach drops, and I’m shook—her handwriting, her hate, right here.

Julian picks it up, slow, staring, and I’m trembling—guilt hitting hard. “Marcus,” he says, voice low, and I see it—next to the photo, a casino chip, etched rough with “$5K.” My throat’s dry, and I’m thinking—that voucher, my choice, carved into this—and it’s Claire, leaving her mark, telling me I broke her. “She’s everywhere,” I mutter, voice rough, and Julian nods, holding the chip, cold as ice. “Told me I stole her life,” he says, quiet, “because you picked me over Ethan.”

My hands rub my face, and I’m gutted—proper gutted—seeing it clear. “I didn’t know it’d go this far,” I say, looking at him, begging again. “I picked you because—because you’re it, Jules. Didn’t see her pain, didn’t think.” He’s still, photo in one hand, chip in the other, and my chest’s tight—three weeks ago, he was mine, warm and laughing, and now he’s holding proof of my mess. “She’s desperate,” he says, slow, “hacking slots, setting traps—all for him.” I nod, heavy, and I’m thinking—I did this, pushed her there.

Sam’s by the door, watching, and I step closer to Julian, needing him to feel it. “We’ll fix it,” I say, soft, “you and me—we’ll stop her.” His eyes meet mine—hard, searching—and I’m holding my breath, hoping—hoping he’ll stay. He doesn’t answer, just puts the photo and chip back, slow, and shuts the locker, quiet. My heart’s sinking, and I’m thinking—he’s cold, done with me—and I’m scared, scared I’ve lost him for good. “Jules,” I start, but he shakes his head, turning away, and I’m stuck, watching him pull back.

Then it hits—loud, shrill—a security alarm blares, cutting through the silence, and I jump, spinning round. Red lights flash on the walls, and my stomach drops—someone’s tripped it, someone’s here. Sam’s at the door, peering out, whispering, “What’s that?” and I’m froze, listening, heart slamming. Then the PA crackles—static, loud—and Victor’s voice booms through, rough and smug. “Found you,” he says, clear as day, and my skin’s crawling—he’s here, in the casino, and he knows we’re inside. Julian turns to me, eyes wide, and I’m thinking—Claire, Victor, closing in—and we’re trapped, right where they want us.