Chapter 186

Chapter 186
Harper

The next day, Blake visited my home, ostensibly to "discuss Henry's education." The children had been prepared for their roles with precision—not that they needed much coaching. Samuel and Grace possessed a natural talent for deception that sometimes worried me.

"Remember," I'd told them that morning, "Mr. Blake is dangerous. Just stick to the script, then excuse yourselves."

"We know, Mom," Samuel had replied seriously. "We've been practicing."

Grace had nodded eagerly. "I've been working on my innocent face." She demonstrated, her blue eyes widening in a perfect imitation of childlike wonder.

Now, as Blake sat in our living room, accepting the tea I'd offered, I watched the clock carefully. Right on schedule, the children made their entrance according to our rehearsed script.

Samuel wore a blue polo shirt, his expression serious as a little adult. He carried a tablet displaying complex code.

"This is my programming project, Mr. Blake," he explained formally. "Grandpa taught me. He said his most important research is locked in a special safe."

Blake set down his teacup, showing immediate interest. "Did he now? That's quite advanced for someone your age, Samuel."

Samuel shrugged with practiced nonchalance. "Grandpa said I'm a natural, like Mom."

Grace stood nearby in her pink dress, adding innocently: "Mom says it's our secret inheritance, and Grandpa's safe has a special password."

"Grace," I admonished gently, as if she'd revealed too much. "That's enough, sweetie."

Blake shifted his gaze from the computer screen to the children, showing casual curiosity. "Oh? Where is this safe? Do you know the password?"

Samuel closed his tablet protectively. "Mom says we shouldn't talk about it with strangers."

"I'm hardly a stranger," Blake said with a chuckle. "I've known your mother since before you were born."

Grace tilted her head. "But Grandpa said the men in black suits are the ones who hurt him. You're wearing a black suit."

Blake's expression flickered for just a moment before his smooth smile returned. "Well, many businessmen wear black suits, my dear. It's quite common."

I intervened at the right moment. "Children, time for homework. Mr. Blake and I have matters to discuss."

The children obediently left, Grace turning back to wave at Blake. I noticed Blake's gaze following them, his expression thoughtful.

"Remarkable children," he commented. "So articulate for their age."

"They've had to grow up quickly," I replied. "Losing their grandfather, now Rowan... they've seen too much loss."

Blake nodded sympathetically. "About Henry's education—I think it would benefit both him and your children if they continued at the same school. Consistency is important during times of change."

We discussed school arrangements for another fifteen minutes, both of us playing our roles perfectly. When Blake finally left, I watched through the window as he made a call from his car.

After Blake departed, Samuel and Grace immediately transformed into their alert state. They rushed into my study, expressions serious.

"Did he believe it?" Samuel asked, his voice carrying a calm beyond his years.

I checked the monitoring device hidden beneath my desk, its blinking red lights confirming my suspicions. "Blake has already sent people to search. The second layer of the trap is activated."

"They won't find anything in the fake safe, will they?" Grace asked, her previous childlike demeanor completely vanished.

"No, but they'll trigger our security systems, which will tell us exactly who they are and who they report to." I pulled her into an embrace. "You both did brilliantly. I'm sorry you have to be involved in this."

Samuel's eyes hardened. "He hurt Grandpa and tried to hurt Dad. He deserves what's coming."

"Mom," Grace held my hand, her voice small again. "What do we do now?"

I pulled her into an embrace. "Now we wait. The hunter thinks he's pursuing his prey, not realizing..."

"He's become the prey himself," Samuel finished, his eyes flashing with determination identical to Rowan's.

---

Serena

My heart thundered against my ribs as I stood outside Michael Blake's study, perspiration dampening my silk blouse beneath my tailored jacket. Through the tiny earpiece nestled in my ear, I heard the confirmation I'd been waiting for.
 
[Target has already left. Heading towards the Blake estate,] came Harper’s message through the phone.
 
I closed my eyes momentarily, forcing my breathing to slow. The stakes couldn't be higher. After years of playing the perfect accomplice, the dutiful mistress, the ambitious executive climbing the ladder at any cost—here I was, risking everything to expose the very man who had given me power.
 
This might be our only chance, Serena, Harper's warning from yesterday echoed in my mind, her usually cold eyes showing a rare vulnerability. But be extremely careful. Blake doesn't leave loose ends.
 
With a steadying breath, I withdrew the forged access card from my pocket, the weight of the special gloves Harper provided feeling strange on my fingers. The card slid through the reader with a soft hum, and the light flashed green. I slipped inside, moving precisely through the security camera blind spots we'd mapped out.
 
Blake's study reeked of power—leather-bound books he'd never read, hunting trophies from animals he hadn't killed, and the lingering scent of Cohiba cigars that cost more than most people's weekly salary. I'd been in this room dozens of times before, but never as an enemy. Never as a spy.
 
The Rothko painting concealing his safe looked especially blood-red today, as if prophetic. I worked quickly, using Harper's specialized device to bypass the electronic lock. The mechanism clicked open with surprising ease, revealing neatly organized files within.
 
"Bingo," I whispered, spotting a thick folder labeled "Wyatt Project." My pulse quickened as I extracted it and connected Harper's drive to Blake's computer. The screen came to life with images that made bile rise in my throat—unofficial photos from Wyatt Sinclair's mangled car, close-ups of the brake line that had been meticulously cut, insurance payout records in the millions, and a thread of communications with someone identified only as "Tristan."
 
One email made my blood freeze:
 
Subject: Sinclair Problem
 
From: M. Blake
 
To: Tristan
 
Need immediate resolution. Accident must appear self-inflicted. Wife's survival not necessary but preferable for narrative purposes. Standard compensation plus 50% bonus for clean execution.
 
Confirmation required by EOD.
 
"Oh my God," I breathed, scrolling further to find Tristan's chilling one-line response: "Consider it done."
 
I was so engrossed that I didn't hear the door open behind me.
 
"What are you looking for? Does my father's new bedwarmer need some financial advice?"
 
Ryan's voice, dripping with contempt, nearly stopped my heart.