Chapter 138 The Commute
The elevator doors of the Vance Racing headquarters in the city slid open with a soft, expensive chime that felt like a homecoming. For the first time in ten days, I wasn't looking at the ceiling of the Winslow Great Room or the flickering embers of a fireplace. I was looking at brushed steel, minimalist glass, and the humming energy of a global operation.
But the homecoming was tempered by the weight of my arm in its medical sling and the two shadows trailing six feet behind us—members of Arthur’s private security detail who hadn't left our side since we pulled out of the estate’s gates at 7:00 AM.
Rhys walked beside me, his gait slightly stiff, his left hand shoved deep into his coat pocket to hide the way he occasionally pressed his palm against his mending ribs. He looked every bit the CEO in his charcoal overcoat, but the pallor of his skin told a different story.
"You're overcompensating," I whispered as we walked through the lobby. "Stop trying to walk like you aren't wrapped in medical tape."
"I'm walking like a man who has a 9:00 AM with the board of directors," Rhys countered, though his voice lacked its usual bite. He glanced at me, his eyes softening. "How’s the arm? The vibration in the car wasn't too much?"
"The SUV felt like a tank, Rhys. I’m fine."
Returning to the office was a strategic necessity. We needed the high-encryption servers that only the headquarters could provide to finalize the 'Monaco Ghost' report for the FIA. But being back in the city felt strange. The noise of the traffic and the sheer number of people made my pulse skip. Every time a door opened too quickly or a stranger reached into a jacket pocket for a phone, my breath hitched. I found myself tracking the exits, my mind involuntarily mapping out the quickest way to get back to the armored car waiting in the basement.
The office staff went silent as we passed. It was a mixture of respect and the kind of morbid curiosity that follows a headline-grabbing tragedy. They knew about the "break-in." They knew about the "assault." They didn't know that the monster who had caused it was currently sitting in a psychiatric wing of a high-security prison, or that the man leading them was carrying the physical proof of a corporate heist in his pocket.
By 2:00 PM, the adrenaline of the return had begun to fade, replaced by a deep, bone-weary ache. I was sitting in Rhys's glass-walled office, my laptop balanced awkwardly on my lap as I ran a final diagnostic on the telemetry headers. Rhys was at his desk, his head resting back against the leather chair, eyes closed.
"We should head back," I said softly.
Rhys opened his eyes. He looked older than he had two weeks ago. "Just ten more minutes. I want to finish the briefing for the tech-forensics unit."
"Rhys. You’re gray. If we don't leave now, Mom and Helena are going to have a synchronized heart attack when we roll through the gates."
He let out a short, pained laugh. "They’ve formed a coalition, haven't they? The Winslow-Vance matriarchy is a formidable force."
"They’re scared," I said, my voice dropping. "And if I’m honest... I’m ready to be back behind the walls."
The drive back to the Winslow Estate was a transition from the sharp, jagged edges of the corporate world to the soft, protective embrace of the countryside. As the city skyline vanished in the rearview mirror, replaced by the skeletal trees of the valley, I felt the tension in my shoulders finally begin to unravel. Every mile closer to the valley was a mile further from the suffocating pressure of being "on display" for the shareholders. In the city, we were icons; here, in the deepening twilight of the rural roads, we were just two people trying to keep our skeletons in one piece.
When the iron gates of the estate swung open to admit us, the sound of the locks clicking shut didn't feel like a prison anymore. It felt like a sanctuary. The gravel crunched under the heavy tires, a familiar rhythm that signaled the end of our forced performance.
Inside, the house was warm, smelling of cedarwood and the slow-cooked roast Naomi had started earlier that afternoon. The Great Room had been restored to its usual elegance, but the two sleeper sofas remained in the center—our temporary island in the middle of the storm.
"They're back!" Ivy’s voice rang out from the kitchen, followed by the thundering footsteps of the kids.
Jace emerged from the hallway, checking his watch. "Twenty minutes late. I was about to call the escort."
"Traffic," Rhys lied easily, leaning against the doorframe to catch his breath.
The evening routine had become a strange, beautiful hybrid of our two lives. We spent our days fighting a digital war against Kian Hayes in the city, but our nights were spent in the quiet safety of the family. Arthur and Jace took turns patrolling the perimeter with the security team, while Mom and Helena sat by the fire, talking in low tones about anything other than the New Year. They had created a buffer zone for us, a world where the only "telemetry" that mattered was the steady beat of our recovery and the sound of laughter in the kitchen.
Late that night, after the house had gone quiet and the kids were tucked away upstairs, Rhys and I settled back onto our makeshift beds in the Great Room. The fire was low, just like the night before, casting long, orange flickers across the ceiling. I could hear the wind whistling through the eaves, but for the first time in years, the outside world didn't feel like an encroaching threat.
"We did good work today," I murmured, staring at the ceiling. "The FIA is going to have the full file by Friday. Kian won't know what hit him when the sanctions drop."
"We did," Rhys agreed. He reached across the gap between the sofas, his hand finding mine. His grip was steady, a silent anchor in the dark. I felt the rough texture of his skin and the heat of his palm, a grounding reality that silenced the echoes of Dale’s voice in my head. "But I think I like this part best."
"The paperwork?"
"The silence," he said. "Knowing that for the next eight hours, the only thing we have to do is breathe. No boards, no forensics, no ghosts."
I closed my eyes, the weight of the cast on my arm feeling a little lighter. We were mending—slowly, painfully—but as the wind howled against the heavy stone walls of the Winslow house, I knew that for the first time in my life, I wasn't just hiding. I was home, and the walls were finally strong enough to hold.