Chapter 162
Dahlia ran all the way out of the hotel and flagged down a cab at the curb. The moment she slid into the back seat, the tears she'd been holding back finally spilled over.
The driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror and asked carefully, "Where to, miss?"
Dahlia gave him an address, then slumped against the seat and let the tears fall in silence.
The cab cut through the night. Neon signs streaked past the window one by one, blurring into smears of color. Inside her head, the scene from the ballroom played on a relentless loop.
She wasn't naive. She knew Mireille had done it on purpose. She knew exactly what kind of person Mireille was.
Back when Mireille had used her as a pawn against Arabella, it had been the same playbook. Play innocent. Act fragile. Cast herself as the victim until everyone else looked like the unreasonable one.
But Dahlia couldn't fight it.
She couldn't perform the way Mireille did—couldn't squeeze out tears and play wounded when she was actually seething with rage.
She'd lost.
The cab pulled up in front of a bar. Dahlia paid the fare, got out, and walked inside.
She found a corner booth, ordered a stiff drink, and threw back a long swallow. The liquor burned down her throat, making her cough, but she didn't stop. She took another drink.
She lost count of how many glasses she'd had. Her head swam. She slumped forward onto the bar, thinking hazily that it would be nice to just stay drunk forever.
Through the fog, she felt someone sit down beside her.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Ms. Morris, drinking alone and going this hard—don't tell me you got dumped."
A woman's voice. Cool, but not cruel.
Dahlia struggled to lift her head, squinting for a long moment before the face beside her came into focus.
Sophie tilted her head, a trace of mockery glinting in her eyes.
"What happened to that bossy attitude of yours?"
"Why is it you…" Dahlia mumbled, too drained to argue.
Sophie glanced at her, then at the row of empty glasses on the bar. She frowned. "You're out here drinking alone like this. Aren't you worried something might happen?"
"So what if it does."
Dahlia let out a bitter laugh and grabbed her glass to take another swig. Sophie caught her wrist and held it down.
"Enough. Stop drinking. I'll take you home."
"I'm not going home!"
Dahlia wrenched her hand free, her voice cracking with hysteria.
"I'm not going back to that house. I never want to see any of them again!"
Sophie studied her—the red-rimmed eyes, the trembling lips. She was quiet for a few seconds, then sighed.
"Then come to my place."
She settled the tab, then half-dragged, half-carried Dahlia out of the bar.
Dahlia stumbled along beside her, still mumbling something incoherent under her breath.
Sophie hailed a cab, pushed Dahlia into the back seat, and climbed in after her.
Once the car started moving, Dahlia slumped against the seat, her head lolling to one side. She seemed to have fallen asleep.
Sophie glanced at her, something complicated flickering in her gaze.
She had no particular fondness for Dahlia. She remembered clearly how Dahlia had helped Mireille scheme against Arabella.
But one woman to another—she couldn't just leave a drunk girl alone in a bar.
Fine. Call it a good deed for once.
---
The next morning, Dahlia woke to a pounding hangover.
She opened her eyes and found herself on an unfamiliar couch, a thin blanket draped over her. Sunlight sliced through the gap in the curtains, sharp enough to make her squint.
She sat up, rubbed her temples, and looked around.
The room was simply decorated. The desk was piled with files and a laptop, and the wall was covered in sticky notes and photographs.
She recognized those photos. This was Sophie's workspace—she'd seen it on Sophie's Instagram not long ago.
"You're up?"
Sophie's voice drifted from the kitchen. "I figured you'd sleep till the afternoon."
Dahlia rubbed her eyes. Her voice came out hoarse. "How did I end up at your place?"
"You were passed out drunk at a bar last night. I happened to walk by and scraped you off the counter."
Sophie came over with a glass of water and held it out.
"Drink up. It'll help."
Dahlia took the glass and sipped. The cold water slid down her throat, clearing some of the haze from her head.
She stared down at her hands, silent for a long moment. Her eyes reddened. "Thank you."
Sophie dropped into the chair across from her, crossed her legs, and studied Dahlia with an appraising look. "Why were you drinking like that last night? Ulysses again?"
Dahlia's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the glass. She didn't answer, but her expression said everything.
Sophie didn't push. She stood, walked to the desk, and picked up a stack of documents, flipping through them.
Dahlia's gaze drifted idly to the photos in Sophie's hand—then froze.
In the photograph, a middle-aged man stood in front of a villa, wearing a dark jacket and sunglasses. The shot had been taken from a distance, the angle slightly off, but his features were clear enough.
Dahlia stared at the photo. A memory sparked.
She'd seen this man at her mother's birthday party last month.
"This guy…"
Dahlia pointed at the photo, her voice uncertain. "I've seen him before. Are you investigating him?"
Sophie's hands went still. She turned to look at Dahlia, her expression sharpening. "You're sure?"
"Positive."
Dahlia paused, searching her memory.
"Last month, at my mom's birthday. This man came to our house."
"They talked in the study for a long time—over two hours. I was bringing my mom some fruit and stopped at the door when I heard voices. I couldn't make out what they were saying, but I remember his face."
Sophie set the documents down. She walked over to Dahlia and crouched in front of her until they were eye to eye. "Do you remember the exact date?"
Dahlia thought for a moment, then gave her a date.
Something flashed in Sophie's eyes.
That date was exactly three days before a large offshore wire transfer linked to Hawk had landed in a domestic account.
She stood and paced the room, then turned back to Dahlia.
"When they were talking that day, do you remember hearing any place names, people's names—anything at all that stuck with you?"
Dahlia frowned, straining to remember. Finally, she shook her head.
"I was standing outside the door. I could barely hear anything. But there was one word I caught—something like 'the docks'?"
"The docks?"
Sophie repeated the word, her gaze darkening.
She walked to the desk and opened a folder containing her compiled map of Hawk's domestic assets. Her finger traced across the map and stopped at a location in Amber District.
An abandoned dock.