Chapter 4: Cuffs and Second Thoughts

The cab smelled like old vinyl and yesterday's takeout. I stared out at the high-rises bleeding neon into the rain, my thumb working the Zippo open and shut. The metallic snick cut through the driver's radio like a guilty heartbeat.

Every block brought me closer to Marcus and farther from the taste of Griffin's mouth in his office. That kiss hadn't solved anything. It had only made the lie feel warmer.

The driver glanced back. "Lady? You good?"

"Peachy." I tucked the lighter away before I could set the upholstery on fire. Then I stole a sugar packet from the console because apparently my coping mechanisms were still in middle school.

The newsroom lights looked too normal when I finally stepped out into the drizzle. My leather jacket might as well have been tissue paper against the coastal chill. Marcus was already waiting by the door, rumpled button-down sporting a fresh coffee stain, glasses crooked, limp worse than usual.

"Kid." He pulled me into a hug that smelled like protein bars and paternal panic. "You look like hell. My office. Now."

We wove past the late-shift desks. A couple of reporters glanced up, but nobody wanted to get involved in whatever fresh disaster I was dragging behind me. The door clicked shut and Marcus perched on the edge of his desk, arms crossed.

"Prints came back. Partial match to yours. Lieutenant says it's only a matter of time before they want you downtown for a chat."

I dropped into the guest chair. The vinyl stuck to the back of my thighs where the dress had ridden up earlier. Griffin's cologne still clung to the fabric if I moved just right. My stomach did an ugly flip.

"It wasn't me," I said. The words tasted like cheap whiskey.

"No kidding." He pushed his glasses up his nose. "But somebody went to a lot of trouble to make it look like it was. That lighter at the scene is a dead ringer for your dad's. You still carrying yours?"

I pulled the Zippo out. Click. Snap. The flame jumped between us, small and steady. Marcus stared at it like it might explode.

"Your old man used to flick that thing during stakeouts," he said quietly. "Drove your mom up the wall."

The mention hit like a dull knife. I closed the lighter, the click too loud in the quiet office. Dad chasing shadows until the shadows won. Mom following him into the ground two years later. Same old scars, new context.

"This connects to the inspector," I muttered. "The bribes. The whole mess."

Marcus reached for the half-eaten protein bar in his drawer. Stress eating, classic. "Kid, this stopped being a story the minute you started sleeping with one of the players. Your dad wouldn't want you anywhere near this."

I thought about Griffin's hands framing my face like I was something worth protecting. The way he'd straightened his cuffs twice when I pushed him on the murders. The controlled stillness that screamed danger even while he kissed me like a man drowning.

"I can't drop it," I said. My voice came out steadier than I felt. "Not now."

He chewed in silence, wrapper crinkling. "Then at least loop me in before you do anything that ends with me identifying your body. No more lone-wolf crap."

I nodded. We both knew it was mostly theater. I stood, smoothing the dress down over hips that still remembered Griffin's grip. Heat crawled up my neck at the memory.

"One more thing." I paused at the door. "The Harrington angle. It's... getting messy."

His eyebrows climbed. "Messy how?"

I thought of the books rattling on the shelf behind me during that kiss. The way my body had arched into his like it had picked a side without consulting my brain.

"Just messy." I slipped out before he could dig deeper.

The rain had eased to a drizzle by the time I hit the sidewalk. My phone sat heavy in my pocket. No new messages from the unknown number, but I knew where to find him. The waterfront warehouses. His latest development site. Perfect backdrop for an unscheduled interrogation.

Another cab. Another driver who didn't ask questions when I gave the address. Smart guy.

The warehouses loomed like concrete tombstones along the docks. I paid and stepped out, boots splashing through puddles that reflected too many bad decisions. My press pass bounced against my chest like a liar's medal.

Security was thinner than it should have been. The bored guard recognized my name from the gala guest list and waved me through with a grunt. "Mr. Harrington's in the main office. Last building on the left."

My heart tried to climb out of my throat with every step. The air tasted like salt, diesel, and the metallic edge of my own nerves. The office door stood ajar. Warm light spilled across the damp concrete like an invitation I probably shouldn't accept.

I pushed it open anyway.

Griffin looked up from behind a steel desk buried in blueprints. Jacket off, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The sight of those forearms should not have short-circuited my higher brain functions. His jet-black hair was slightly mussed, dark eyes locking on me immediately.

"Estelle." His voice curled around my name like smoke from an expensive cigar. "To what do I owe the ambush?"

"Liar," I said, stepping inside. The door clicked shut behind me with alarming finality. Shelves along one wall held a few rare books, but nothing like the collection in his penthouse. This place felt temporary. Tactical.

He leaned back, studying me with that predator's patience. "Another dance? Or are we pretending this is about waterfront redevelopment?"

I pulled out my phone like armor and sat in the chair across from him. The metal was cold against my thighs. The dress rode up again. His gaze tracked the movement before returning to my face with deliberate slowness.

"Harrington Enterprises has snapped up half these warehouses in the last eighteen months," I started, keeping my voice level. "Lots of unusual activity on the sites. Care to comment?"

His lips twitched. Not quite a smile. "Unusual activity. How polite. You mean the bodies with CLEANSE carved into them."

My pulse kicked hard. I tucked a curl behind my ear, buying time. "The inspector was about to blow the whistle on a bribery scheme tied to your projects. Funny how he ended up dead instead."

Griffin steepled his fingers. "The inspector was a parasite. The city breathes easier without him."

The words landed like stones in still water. Not a confession. Not quite a denial. I leaned forward, pressing harder even as my skin prickled with awareness of how close his hands were.

"And the others? All inconvenient people who needed cleansing?"

His eyes darkened. He reached for a pen, set it down without twirling it, then straightened his left cuff with meticulous care. Then the right. The tell. My stomach tightened into a fist.

"Careful, Estelle." His voice stayed smooth, but ice edged underneath. "Some questions have teeth."

The air between us thickened until I could barely breathe. His cologne wrapped around me again, that expensive scent that made my thoughts fuzzy and my thighs clench. The desk suddenly felt like nothing at all.

"I know about the lighter at the scene," I said quietly. "Exact match to my dad's. Same scratches. Police think it might be mine. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

He went very still. The kind of still that made the hair on my arms stand up. His fingers moved back to his cuffs, adjusting fabric that didn't need adjusting.

"Your father was a good cop," he said after a moment. "Stubborn. Much like you."

My throat clicked when I swallowed. The Zippo in my pocket suddenly felt heavier. "Did you know him?"

Griffin stood slowly. The chair rolled back with a soft squeak. He came around the desk with that deliberate, predatory grace that made my pulse stutter. I stayed seated even though every survival instinct screamed otherwise.

"I know what it's like to lose the one person who taught you how the world really works." His voice dropped, rougher now. He stopped in front of me, close enough that I had to tilt my head back. Close enough to feel the heat rolling off him.

His fingers brushed my jaw, feather-light. Electricity raced across my skin. My breath caught, loud in the quiet office. Betrayal and hunger twisted so tight in my chest I couldn't tell which was winning.

I should have pulled away. Instead my hands rose of their own accord, fisting in his crisp shirt. His heartbeat thumped steady under my knuckles. Mine was trying to break free.

"I should hate you," I whispered against his mouth. Our lips hovered a breath apart. The tension coiled so tight it hurt.

"You should." His hand slid to my waist, pulling me up from the chair until we were chest to chest. The desk pressed into my back as he guided me backward. Blueprints scattered. I didn't care.

His mouth claimed mine in a kiss that tasted like ruin and relief at the same time. Deep. Hungry. His tongue traced mine and a small sound escaped me that would have been embarrassing if I could still think. His fingers tangled in my curls, the other hand gripping my hip hard enough to leave tomorrow's bruises.

I arched into him, years of loneliness and rage and grief pouring out in the way I kissed him back. For a moment the lighter, the bodies, the blood on his hands didn't exist. Just heat and breath and the solid reality of him against me.

Then his fingers brushed the press pass around my neck and he froze.

Griffin pulled back like he'd been burned. His breathing came ragged, eyes wild in a way that made my stomach drop. He stared at me like I was both prayer and punishment. His hands went to his cuffs again, straightening them with sharp, repetitive jerks. Once. Twice. Three times.

The monster was fighting for the wheel.

I touched my swollen lips, pulse roaring in my ears. My cheeks burned. He'd stopped. Again. Like I was something he couldn't quite bring himself to break. Or maybe something he was still deciding how to break.

"This was a mistake," he said, voice rough. He turned away, bracing both hands on the desk. The line of his shoulders looked carved from granite.

"Which part?" The words came out sharper than I intended. I straightened my dress with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. "The kissing or the stopping?"

Silence stretched between us, filled only by the distant slap of water against the docks and the thunder of my own heart. When he spoke again, the cultured mask had snapped back into place.

"All of it. You should go, Estelle. Before I forget why I keep letting you walk away."

The words should have sent me running. Instead they settled somewhere behind my ribs, warm and unwelcome. I wanted to push him until he admitted what those cuff adjustments really meant. But my legs felt like overcooked noodles and my moral compass had apparently filed for divorce.

I gathered the shreds of my dignity and headed for the door. My boots rang too loud on the concrete. At the threshold I paused, looking back.

"This isn't over," I said. "The story. Us. None of it."

His dark eyes met mine across the distance. Something like regret flickered before the mask slammed down. "I know. That's what terrifies me."

The drizzle had picked up again outside. It cooled my flushed skin as I made my way back to the waiting cab. The driver looked like he was pretending not to notice my wrecked lipstick.

The ride home blurred past in streaks of streetlight and second-guessing. I kept seeing the way his body had felt pressed to mine. The abrupt way he'd pulled back like touching me hurt. The cuffs. Always the damn cuffs.

My apartment building looked the same as always. Cracked sidewalk. Flickering lobby bulb. I took the stairs two at a time, suddenly desperate for the safety of my tiny one-bedroom.

The door was ajar.

I froze with my key halfway to the lock. Pulse roaring in my ears. I never left it like that. Never. The investigative part of my brain cataloged details even as fear crawled up my throat like bile.

Pushing the door open with my foot, I scanned the dark interior. Nothing obviously disturbed. But the air felt wrong. Too still. Carrying the faint trace of expensive cologne and old paper.

I flipped on the lights.

There on my kitchen counter sat a small velvet box. Next to it lay the silver hoop earring I'd lost that first night in Griffin's penthouse. The one I thought had disappeared between his sheets.

My hand shook as I opened the box. Inside rested a single object: an exact replica of my father's Zippo lighter, scratches carved to match perfectly. A note rested beneath it in elegant, slanted handwriting.

Stop looking. Some doors only open once.

I picked up the replica. It felt cold. Heavy with implication. The real one was still safe in my pocket where I'd carried it all night. This was a message. A threat. A promise.

He'd been here. Or someone acting on his orders. While I was confronting him at the warehouse, someone had slipped into my life and left this little bomb on my counter.

My phone buzzed. Unknown number. The screen lit up with a new text.

Next time I won't leave gifts. Come to me when you're ready to choose.

I stared at the words until they swam. The replica lighter burned in my palm. Dad's legacy twisted into a warning. Griffin's cologne still on my skin. My fracturing heart caught between them.

The choice wasn't coming. It was already here, pressing against my ribs like the rain against the window. And I had no idea which way I was going to fall.