This is a different level of fucked.

Winston isn’t just an abuser with money. He has the connections to make people vanish. He doesn’t operate with threats—he operates with consequences. No wonder Blythe’s scared for her life.

I stare at my phone, my fingers twitching to type out, “How do we get rid of him?” Better yet, something like, “Can we make this happen tonight?”

But that’s not something I can just ask from Sanford or anyone from his circle. During my years working with Sanford and his network, I learned exactly what kind of people they deal with. They might be musicians, but they also work for a high-security intelligence company called The Organization. It operates in a gray area the law can’t touch. Their jobs aren’t about following rules—they’re about controlling threats before they escalate.

I trained with them, worked full-time for a few years before stepping back. Right now, I take a few jobs when they need me, but only if I feel like it’s worth the risk.

So yeah, technically, Sanford’s network could bury Winston. Unfortunately, you can’t make men like Worthington disappear without setting off alarms. You erase someone with that much reach, and you’re not just dealing with the fallout—you’re lighting a match in a gasoline-soaked room.

This isn’t about vengeance. It’s about giving a new life to Blythe and a chance for her child.

Sanford: We can give her a new identity and send her to another country. Maybe he’ll never find her there.

But then what? She’d still be running. She’d never stop looking over her shoulder, never feel safe.

She’d never be free.

That’s not a life. Not for her. Not for the kid.

I exhale and type back: That’s not a way to live. I’m not saying to take care of him—obviously—but is there another way?

I lock my phone and glance toward Blythe, she’s still there—curled into herself, silent.

The woman I met earlier, the one brimming with stubborn defiance, is probably still in there. I just need to assure her she no longer has to run so she can start being herself again. Well, that, and she needs to rest. She’s noticeably exhausted. It’s in her posture, in the way her shoulders sag, no matter how hard she tries to hold herself up. She’s spent too long-surviving, and now she’s running.

Not only running—but pregnant, barely eating, and almost out of options.

She needs a reason to stop. A reason to believe she has something to build instead of something to escape from. I have to give her that.

I push off the counter and walk toward her.

She notices me before I speak.