Chapter 183 Keep digging

Chapter 183 Keep digging
After some time, I slowly disengage myself from Kaden’s hold and slip off the mattress. I know he isn't actually asleep, his breathing is a fraction too steady, his body just a bit too still. I bend down, pressing a soft kiss against his temple, and linger for a long minute just staring down at him.
He looks heartbreakingly vulnerable lying there.
"I'm sorry," I mutter softly, for reasons I can't even fully articulate to myself.
I turn and exit the room before my resolve crumbles completely and I'm tempted to just say ‘fuck it’ and slip beneath the covers with him for the night.
When I step out of the house into the night air, my movements naturally slow. Standing right beside my car is George, his eyes glued to his phone screen. He's clearly been waiting out here for a while. I narrow my eyes, scanning the empty street before stopping right in front of him.
"Are you tracking my movements now?" I ask, my tone unpleased and heavy with warning.
George doesn't bother answering the accusation. He calmly slips his phone into his jacket pocket and extends his arm, holding his palm out toward me. "I'll drive," he says simply.
I'm in no mood to go to war with him. I drop the keys into his open hand without another word and walk around to the passenger side, sliding into the leather seat.
He e gets into the driver's side, starts the engine, and smoothly pulls away from the curb. "Kaden texted me about fifty minutes ago," he says casually, keeping his eyes on the road. "Said your arm was acting up again. Asked if I was available to come pick you up."
I turn toward him, my jaw tightening before I turn to glance out the window at the receding silhouette of Kaden’s house. I recall how he offered to drive, he was looking out for me.
"How bad does it hurt?" George asks quietly.
My expression instantly hardens into a glare of pure irritation. I know George inside and out. I can hear the subtle jab hidden beneath the quiet inquiry, the laced sarcasm buried under his practiced, neutral tone.
"Don't start with me," I say, my voice low.
George glances at me, his expression a picture of pure, innocent confusion. "What did I do?"
"Just drive," I snap, turning my head back toward the passenger window.
A heavy silence settles inside the car for several blocks, the hum of the tires against the pavement filling the space between us.
"How much longer do you think you can hide this from him?" He asks suddenly.
I stiffen, my eyes flashing as I glare at his side profile again. "Hide what? I'm not fucking hiding anything from him. And I'm thoroughly exhausted by you continually projecting your own bullshit onto my life."
He nods slowly, his face unreadable. "My mistake," he says, his tone devoid of real sincerity. "I didn't mean to offend you."
"Just drive," I command, the words grating past my teeth. "Or get the hell out and let me do it myself."
He holds up his right hand in a silent gesture of peace, returning both hands to the wheel without another word.
In true George fashion, he manages to hold his tongue for about two minutes before he starts talking again. At first, I brace myself, fully expecting him to launch into another one of his usual lectures. That's what this little dance always devolves into, a self-righteous lecture about my choices and my control. But he doesn't bring that up again.
"I looked into Vesper," he says, his voice dropping into his dry, analytical work tone as he keeps his eyes on the road. "I couldn't find anything out of the ordinary. On the contrary, its record is practically sparkling. Not a single speck of dirt to be found."
I turn my head toward him, my eyebrows drawing together. When I first reached out to place an aggressive buyout offer to Marcel Ruslan, famously known across the nightlife circuit simply as 'Red', and it was accepted almost overnight, I had immediately ordered George to dig deep behind the scenes. The swiftness of the transaction felt off to me. An asset that lucrative shouldn't hand over its keys so willingly.
And a spotless record in high-end nightlife is almost always a statistical impossibility.
"Absolutely nothing?" I ask, my voice sharpening. "No quiet liquor license disputes? Tax discrepancies? Under-the-table settlement payouts?"
George shakes his head once, his grip firm on the steering wheel. "Not a thing. It's clean. Exceptionally clean."
I rest my chin against my hand, my mind immediately working through the variables. "What do you make of it?"
"I think we keep digging," he replies flatly. "A track record that pristine in this industry is either a rare stroke of operational brilliance, or an indication of something very, very bad." He pauses, glancing at me briefly through the rearview mirror. "We already have hard proof of the kind of high-profile predators that frequent the VIP lounges there on any given weekend. For none of that noise to ever show up on an incident report... that’s a red flag."
"Why sell a place that generates that much revenue?" I murmur, mostly to myself.
Red had casually mentioned during our preliminary call that he was liquidating assets to invest in an exclusive country club development down south. But a man with his portfolio wouldn't need to strip himself of a primary cash cow like Vesper just to finance another venture. It doesn't add up.
"Look into Red's personal financial records. Run a full audit on his international holdings. Let's see if that makes any sense of his sudden urge to pivot."
"Will do," George says. "What about the current staff? Are you restructuring the floor?"
"When we negotiated the preliminary terms, maintaining the current roster was one of his explicit conditions," I say, leaning my head back against the leather headrest. "Though I’m calling Turner tomorrow morning. I want his team monitoring the floor staff for the next two weeks. Anyone who steps out of line or fails to align with my operational standards gets cut immediately. No exceptions."
"Good."
I take in a long breath and let it out slowly. Then I close my eyes, resting my head against the cool leather of the headrest.
For the remainder of the drive, my mind drifts entirely away from Vesper and straight back to that bedroom. To the heartbreakingly gentle image of Kaden lying under the covers, pretending to be fast asleep. Deep regret takes root in my chest, and all I can do for the rest of the night is wish I had been brave enough to simply man up and stay.