Chapter 159
Emily's POV
I considered the question, forcing myself to think through the fear. "Not immediate danger, no. My father—he's violent, but he's not stupid. Not when he's sober. He knows that if he actually hurts her, I'll stop giving him money. She's leverage. He won't destroy his own leverage."
"Good," Alex said, nodding slowly. "That gives us time to work. So our focus is on finding your father and dealing with him before he can escalate."
"We need to figure out where he's hiding," Ethan added. "He's got to have somewhere he's staying. Someone helping him. Escaped convicts don't just disappear into thin air."
"I can have investigators on it by this afternoon," Alex said. "Private security firms, people who specialize in locating fugitives. And I can put up a reward for information—anonymously, if you want, or publicly if that would be more effective."
"I've got reach too," Ethan said. "A platform. If we need to mobilize people to look for him, I can do that. Carefully, without putting you in the spotlight, but—"
"No," I interrupted, shaking my head. "No, I can't—I can't let you do that."
All three of them looked at me with varying expressions of confusion.
"Em—" Ethan started.
"I appreciate it," I said quickly. "I do. I appreciate all of it. You being here, supporting me, that's—that's everything. But this is my problem. My father. My mess to clean up. I can't drag you into this. Not when it could get dangerous. Not when it could—" I gestured vaguely. "Blow back on your careers, your reputations, your lives."
"Emily," Alex said, and his voice had gone very calm, very measured. "Do you understand what you're saying right now?"
"I'm saying I need to handle this myself," I said, even though the words felt wrong in my mouth. "I'm saying—"
"You're saying you don't trust us to help you," Mason said quietly, and the hurt in his voice made my chest ache.
"That's not—" I stopped, swallowed hard. "That's not it. I trust you. I do. But this isn't your fight."
"Bullshit," Ethan said flatly. "Em, listen to yourself. You just told us that you've been carrying this alone since you were eighteen. That you manipulated and planned and survived all by yourself because you had to. But you don't have to anymore. That's what we're trying to tell you."
"Even Superman can't solve everything alone," he continued. "That's not how it works. Asking for help, accepting help—that's not weakness. That's strategy. That's survival. Football's a team sport for a reason. Because no one person, no matter how talented, can win a game by themselves."
"And no general," Alex added, "no matter how brilliant, fights alone on the battlefield. Generals command armies. They use their resources—soldiers, intelligence, logistics—to achieve their objective. That's not weakness. That's leadership."
He leaned forward, holding my gaze with that intense focus. "You're at the center of this, Emily. You're the one making the decisions. But that doesn't mean you have to execute everything yourself. Use us. Use our money, our connections, our influence. Use our bodies if you need to." His mouth quirked slightly. "You already know how good we are at following your orders."
"You're not alone anymore," Mason said softly. "You keep saying you understand that, but I don't think you really believe it yet. We're not just here to hold you while you cry or fuck you until you forget. We're here to actually help. To be your team."
"To be your army," Alex added.
I looked between them—Ethan with his earnest determination, Alex with his cold calculation, Mason with his quiet solidarity—and felt something shift inside me.
They weren't asking to take over. They weren't trying to fix me or save me or handle things because I was too weak to do it myself. They were offering to be my resources. My weapons. My support system.
And refusing that—pushing them away because I was used to being alone, because accepting help felt like admitting weakness—that wasn't strength. That was just the echo of my father's voice in my head, telling me I was worthless, that I didn't deserve help, that no one would ever actually stay.
Feeling guilty for being loved was poison. The kind of poison my father had fed me my entire life. And if I wanted to truly escape him—not just physically but emotionally, psychologically—I had to stop drinking it.
"Okay," I whispered. "Okay. Tell me what I do."
"You?" Alex said, and there was something almost gentle in his voice. "You live your life. Let us handle the logistics."
"That's it?" I asked, feeling strangely unmoored by the simplicity of it.
"That's it," Ethan confirmed. "We'll ask you questions if we need information—about your father's habits, known associates, places he might hide. But otherwise, you just—exist. Let us do the rest."
"And you're not alone," Mason added. "One of us will be with you whenever you need to go somewhere. We'll figure out a schedule."
I nodded slowly, trying to process the idea that I could just—keep living. That I didn't have to drop everything and devote every waking moment to hunting my father down or looking over my shoulder in terror.
"Okay," I said again. "Then I should go to work today."
"No," Alex said immediately. "You're not going in today."
"Alex—"
"I already called Orion," he continued, overriding my protest. "Told him you had a family emergency and wouldn't be in for a few days. He was very understanding."
I blinked at him. "You—when did you do that?"
"This morning. Around six." He shrugged like it was no big deal. "I figured you'd try to go in anyway, and I wanted to make sure you had an out."
"I can't just not show up for days," I argued, even though part of me was relieved. "I need the money. I need the structure. I need—"
"You need to heal," Ethan interrupted gently. "Em, look at yourself. You've got bruises on your face. You're exhausted. You're traumatized. You're not going anywhere today except maybe back to bed."
"I can't just hide—"
"You're not hiding," Alex said firmly. "You're regrouping. There's a difference."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to insist that I was fine, that I could handle going to work, that I didn't need to be coddled. But the truth was, I wasn't fine. My body ached. My mind was still spinning with fear and adrenaline and the lingering echo of my father's hands on me.
"Okay," I conceded quietly. "Just for today. But tomorrow—"
"We'll see how you feel tomorrow," Ethan said. "One day at a time, okay?"
I nodded, too tired to fight anymore.
"Good." Mason stood and started clearing plates, moving with easy efficiency. "Then I vote we get you back to bed for a while. You barely slept last night."
"I'm okay—" I started to protest, but Ethan was already standing with me still in his arms, lifting me like I weighed nothing.
"Bed," he said firmly. "You can argue with us later."