Chapter 11 A Friend in the Fox Den
The bruises on Alessia’s wrist darkened over the next two days.
She hid them under long sleeves, layered makeup when necessary, and the careful mask she’d perfected over years under her father’s roof.
Liam hadn’t apologized. Not once. Hadn’t even glanced her way.
They moved around each other like ghosts—sharing space but living in separate worlds. Breakfast was silent. Dinner was avoided. The only time they spoke was when it was absolutely unavoidable.
The cold war had settled into their bones.
Alessia spent her days mapping the penthouse, noting security cameras—twelve in total—tracking Liam’s patterns (he left at eight, returned at six), and calculating how she might contact Thorne without triggering either the tracker at her throat or the bug behind her bed.
She was a prisoner with a view.
On the third day, the doorbell rang.
Alessia was in the living room, staring at her laptop but not really seeing it, when the chime sounded.
She froze.
No one had visited since they moved in.
Carefully, she approached the door and checked the security screen.
Siobhan O’Sullivan stood there, arms full of bags, her red curls wild, wind-tossed, and a bright, chaotic smile on her face.
Alessia’s chest loosened, just a fraction.
She opened the door.
“Siobhan.”
“Surprise!” Siobhan stepped inside, energy spilling into the penthouse like sunlight breaking through clouds. “I know, I know—I should have called first, but I figured if I asked, Liam would say no. So… I just came.”
Alessia’s lips curved into a small, real smile despite herself. “He’s not here.”
“I know. I waited until he left.” Siobhan set her bags on the kitchen counter, grinning. “I’m sneaky like that.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to see you, not my grumpy brother.” She started unpacking—art supplies, canvases, paints, brushes. “And… I thought maybe you could use a friend.”
Alessia’s throat tightened. “I’m fine.”
“Liar.” Siobhan’s tone was firm but gentle. “You’re trapped in a penthouse with my brother, whom I love dearly, but who is also an emotionally constipated nightmare right now. You’re not fine.”
Alessia laughed, the sound rusty, foreign. “Emotionally constipated?”
“It’s a medical term,” Siobhan said solemnly, then grinned. “Okay, not really. But it should be.”
She pulled out a blank canvas, setting it on the counter with flourish. “I brought supplies. We could paint. Or talk. Or just exist in the same space without all the toxic masculinity and family drama.”
Alessia stared at the paints, a warmth spreading through her chest. Kindness. Real, human kindness.
“You didn’t have to do this,” she said quietly.
“I know.” Siobhan softened. “But I wanted to. You looked so lost at the wedding. And the fitting. And… I just thought maybe you could use someone who sees you as a person, not a chess piece.”
Alessia’s mask cracked, ever so slightly.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Don’t thank me yet. I’m a terrible teacher.” Siobhan grabbed two brushes, handing one over. “Come on. Let’s make something beautiful in this cold, soulless penthouse.”
They painted for an hour.
Or rather, Siobhan painted while Alessia mostly watched, occasionally adding awkward strokes that made Siobhan laugh.
“You’re overthinking it,” Siobhan said, guiding her hand. “Art isn’t about perfection. It’s expression. What are you feeling right now?”
Alessia hesitated, brush hovering. “Trapped.”
“Then paint that.”
“How do you paint ‘trapped’?”
“However it feels to you.” Siobhan tilted her head. “Dark colors? Sharp lines? Or soft, like you’re trying to fade away?”
Alessia stared at the blank canvas.
Then dipped her brush in black paint, dragging a jagged line across the white.
“There,” she said. “Trapped.”
Siobhan smiled. “Perfect.”
They worked in silence for a while, tension loosening with each stroke.
“Can I ask something?” Alessia said finally.
“Shoot.”
“Your family… Liam. Why is he so… angry?”
Siobhan froze, brush still. Expression serious.
“He wasn’t always like this,” she said quietly. “Before Declan died, Liam was different. Lighter. He laughed. Joked. He was still responsible, but he wasn’t… consumed.”
“What happened?”
“Declan—our older brother—was supposed to be the heir. Everything Liam isn’t. Charismatic. Fearless. Reckless.” Siobhan’s smile was sad. “He died in an ambush meant for Liam. Took the bullet that should have been my brother’s.”
Alessia’s chest tightened. “I’m sorry.”
“It destroyed Liam. He blames himself. Always will.” Siobhan picked up her brush but didn’t paint. “And then our father… he’s not a bad man, but he’s weak. Has been since Declan died. Liam had to step up. Be the heir. Carry the weight of everything.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No. It’s not.” Siobhan glanced at her. “But fairness doesn’t exist here.”
Alessia nodded slowly, understanding more than Siobhan realized.
“And Uncle Cormac,” Siobhan continued, voice lowering. “He thinks he should be running things. Undermines my father, quietly building alliances, whispering in the right ears.”
Alessia noted it all. Cormac. Disloyalty. Internal conflict. Thorne would want to know.
“Does Liam talk to you about this?” Alessia asked carefully.
“Not really. He tries to protect me. But I hear things. I see things.” Siobhan’s gaze sharpened. “Why?”
“Trying to understand him. He’s… complicated.”
“That’s an understatement,” Siobhan laughed softly. “He’s not bad. Just broken. Doesn’t know how to let anyone help him.”
Alessia stared at the jagged black line on her canvas. Trapped. Maybe Liam was too.
They painted and talked for another hour, existing in a bubble of normalcy that felt unreal.
For the first time since her mother died, Alessia had a friend. A real friend. Not an asset. Not a mission. Just… a friend.
When Siobhan gathered her bags to leave, Alessia felt a pang of loss.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For coming. For… everything.”
“Anytime.” Siobhan smiled, then hesitated. “Can I hug you? I’m a hugger. Problematic, I know.”
Alessia laughed. “Okay.”
The embrace was warm, human, grounding. Alessia let herself lean into it, feel comfort without calculation.
Siobhan pulled back, serious. “He’s not all stone, you know. Liam. He loved my brother fiercely. He loves me fiercely. Just… doesn’t know how to show it. Terrified of losing anyone else.”
Alessia’s throat tightened.
“Don’t be the one to break what’s left of him,” Siobhan whispered. “Please.”
Alessia couldn’t speak.
She was going to break him. Mission. Job. Betrayal. She’d expose his world.
Siobhan—good, kind Siobhan—would be collateral.
“I’ll try,” Alessia whispered.
Siobhan smiled, oblivious to the war inside Alessia. “That’s all I can ask.”
Door clicked shut.
Alessia stood, staring at the closed door.
Guilt. Sharp, visceral, undeniable.
She would betray the one person who had shown her real kindness.
Hands trembled as she returned to the canvas, staring at the jagged black line.
Trapped.
Now trapped not just by Liam, the Council, or her mission—but by her own conscience.
And she had no idea how to escape.