Chapter Thirty-Eight — Quiet Adjustments
(continued, Amira's POV)
The call comes when I'm halfway out of my dress.
One heel is still on. The other lies discarded near the couch. The apartment is quiet in that late-night way—city noise dulled, the air heavy with leftover laughter and the faint citrus of someone's perfume still clinging to the cushions.
I don't recognize the number.
I almost let it go to voicemail.
Almost.
"Amira Rivera," I answer, already knowing.
"Ms. Rivera," the voice says. Calm. Male. Professional. "It's Harlan. We spoke earlier."
My spine straightens.
I move to the window instinctively, pulling the curtain back just enough to look down at the street. Nothing unusual. No cars idling. No silhouettes lingering.
"I'm listening," I say.
There's a pause. Not hesitation. Consideration.
"I waited until you were no longer in company," he says. "This isn't something I wanted overheard."
My hand tightens around the phone.
"Go on."
"We found confirmation that Mr. Archer did not disappear voluntarily."
My breath stalls—not gone, not dead, not missing. Did not disappear voluntarily.
He continues before I can interrupt.
"His phone signal was interrupted manually. Not destroyed. Disabled. That alone tells me this wasn't panic or retreat."
I sit down slowly on the edge of the couch.
"You said earlier there were gaps," I say. "What kind of gaps?"
"The kind that don't happen to men like Julian Archer without assistance."
My stomach twists.
"Explain."
"Julian's financial footprint shows a controlled withdrawal two days before he vanished. Small. Intentional. It looks like preparation—except the withdrawal didn't come from his primary account."
I frown. "Then whose?"
"A secondary account routed through a trust structure. One he doesn't manage directly."
Cold creeps up my arms.
"And who does?"
There's a beat.
"Cassandra Archer has legal authority over portions of it."
The room feels suddenly too small.
"That doesn't mean—" I start.
"I'm not finished," Harlan says gently.
He tells me about the car next. Traffic cameras. A familiar vehicle driven by unfamiliar hands. Gloves. The car later abandoned, interior wiped clean—not rushed, not sloppy.
Professional.
"This wasn't a crime of emotion," he says. "It was a logistical operation."
I close my eyes.
Eli's face flashes behind my lids.
The break-in. The timing. The way Cassandra had smiled when she said untraceable.
"What about witnesses?" I ask quietly.
"Anyone who noticed anything has since retained counsel."
My jaw tightens. "Let me guess. Her counsel."
"Yes."
Silence stretches between us.
Then, carefully, "Ms. Rivera… I can't call this a kidnapping yet."
My heart hammers anyway.
"But?" I whisper.
"But I can say this: someone wanted him contained, not erased."
Contained.
Like evidence.
Like leverage.
"Can you find him?" I ask.
"We're tracing infrastructure now. Not people. Safe houses, shell logistics, transport patterns. This wasn't done on impulse. Which means it leaves architecture behind."
My fingers dig into the cushion.
"And Cassandra?" I ask. "Does she know you're looking?"
"No," he says. "But she will—if we push too hard."
I swallow.
"If we wait?"
"We might lose him."
The line goes quiet.
Then: "Your move."
The call ends.
I sit there long after the screen goes dark.
The city hums outside like nothing has changed.
I think of the money I just gave my friends. The laughter. The relief. The way I let myself believe—just for an hour—that the worst was behind me.
I open the tracker app again.
The signal hasn't moved.
Dormant.
Still alive.
Or at least… preserved.
My phone buzzes once more.
A text. Same number.
This was not improvised.
Someone planned for resistance.
My pulse thrums in my ears.
Across town—across this city—Cassandra Archer is sleeping peacefully, knowing exactly where her husband is.
And for the first time since this began, I understand the truth with terrifying clarity:
This was never about punishing me.
It was about removing variables.
I stand, walk into the kitchen, and pour myself a glass of water I don't drink.
Tomorrow, I'll smile.
Tomorrow, I'll pretend.
Tomorrow, I'll keep letting her think I'm still reacting.
But tonight?
Tonight, I finally admit it to myself.
Cassandra Archer didn't just take my job.
She didn't just try to ruin my name.
She took a man and put him somewhere no one could reach him.
And she thinks that means she's won.
The thought doesn't scare me the way it should.
It sharpens me.
***
I don't sleep.
I lie in bed with the lights off, phone face-down on the nightstand like it might burn me if I look at it too long. Every sound in the building feels amplified—the elevator cables shifting, a door closing down the hall, sirens somewhere far enough away to be irrelevant but close enough to remind me the world hasn't paused just because mine has.
Julian is somewhere.
Contained.
That word keeps circling my thoughts like a vulture.
By morning, I've decided on three things:
One—I won't call the investigator again today.
Two—I won't change my routine.
Three—I won't let Cassandra see the panic she's earned.
I dress carefully. Neutral. Professional. Not defiant, not fragile. The version of myself she expects to see now—contained, but not broken.
The lobby of the building hums with quiet activity when I arrive. Fewer whispers than before. The scandal has cooled into something heavier, less exciting. People avoid my eyes again—not out of judgment this time, but caution.
I ride the elevator alone.
Halfway up, my phone vibrates.
Unknown Number.
My breath catches, but when I open it, there's no threat. No warning.
Just a calendar invite.
Subject: Informal Discussion
Location: Conference Room C
Time: 10:30 a.m.
Attendees: Cassandra Archer
No agenda.
No sender name.
My pulse ticks up a notch.
I don't accept it.
I don't decline it either.
At 10:28, I walk past Conference Room C on my way to nowhere in particular.
The door is open.
Cassandra is already inside.
She's standing by the window, back to me, phone pressed lightly to her ear. She wears navy today—tailored, immaculate, the color of authority disguised as restraint. Her hair is pulled back, not tight, but intentional.
She ends the call without turning around.
"You can come in," she says pleasantly. "I know you're there."
I step inside.
The door clicks shut behind me.
She turns slowly, appraising me the way one might inspect a chessboard mid-game—not rushed, not anxious. Her eyes flick briefly to my face, then lower, cataloging details.
"You look composed," she says. "That's good."
I don't respond.
She gestures to the chair across from the table but doesn't sit herself. She remains standing, one hand resting lightly on the table's edge.
"This isn't an official meeting," she continues. "No notes. No witnesses. Just clarity."
I cross my arms. "About what?"
Her smile curves faintly.
"About how much you know."
There it is.
Not accusation.
Confirmation.
I keep my face neutral.
"I don't know what you're referring to."
"Of course you do," Cassandra says softly. "You wouldn't have hired two investigators otherwise."
My chest tightens, but I don't move.
She knows.
Not guessed.
Knows.
She tilts her head, studying me now with open interest.
"You made a smart choice," she says. "Quiet men. Expensive ones."
I say nothing.
"That's how I knew," she adds lightly. "Smart people recognize patterns."
She walks around the table slowly, heels whispering against the carpet.
"Tell me," she says conversationally, "did he explain to you why he disappears when pressure mounts?"
I meet her gaze. "Did he explain to you why you felt the need to orchestrate all this?"
She stops.
For the first time, her smile doesn't reach her eyes.
"Careful," she says. "That's a serious accusation."
"Is it?" I counter. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like someone removed a witness."
Her expression shifts—not anger, not fear.
Approval.
"There it is," she murmurs. "You've finally stopped pretending this is personal."
"It always was personal," I say. "You made it that way."
She exhales slowly, as if savoring something.
"You should understand something, Amira," Cassandra says. "Julian has a… habit. He believes he's free long before he actually is."
My nails dig into my palms.
"And when he forgets that," she continues, "I remind him."
I take a step closer without thinking. "Where is he?"
She laughs—soft, amused.
"Oh, I didn't say I knew," she replies. "I said I understand him."
She turns back toward the window.
"The difference between us," Cassandra goes on, "is that you think love gives you leverage."
She looks at me over her shoulder.
"It doesn't."
My voice comes out steadier than I expect. "Then why are you here?"
She considers me for a long moment.
"To see whether you were brave enough to connect the dots," she says. "And whether you'd panic."
"And?" I ask.
Her smile returns, measured and sharp.
"You didn't."
She walks past me toward the door, stopping just inches away.
"Which means," she whispers, "you might actually be dangerous."
Her hand rests briefly on the door handle.
"Oh—and Amira?"
I look at her.
"Stop digging."
I don't flinch.
"Or what?" I ask.
She opens the door.
"Or the next disappearance won't be as tidy."
Then she's gone.
The door swings shut behind her, leaving the room silent.
My phone vibrates in my hand almost immediately.
Private Investigator:
She knows you're looking.
And she wants you to know she knows.
I stare at the message, Cassandra's voice echoing in my head.
Stop digging.
I exhale slowly.
No.
Now I dig smarter.
***
I don't go straight home.
I circle the block once, then twice—old habits from a life where safety was something you learned to manufacture when no one else would do it for you. When I finally park, I sit in the car with the engine off, hands resting on the wheel, breathing through the tension still coiled tight in my chest.
Cassandra knows.
Not suspects. Not assumes.
Knows.
The words settle differently now. Less like panic. More like a deadline.
I pull out my phone and make three calls.
The first is to the security firm Harlan recommended—private, discreet, ex–government types who don't advertise and don't ask unnecessary questions. The man on the other end listens without interruption as I outline what I need.
Personal protection.
Residential surveillance.
Rotating routes.
Non-invasive presence.
"And my friends," I add. "They're not optional."
"Understood," he replies. "We'll keep it invisible."
Good.
The second call is to Tasha.
"Are you alone?" I ask.
"Yes," she says immediately. "What's wrong?"
"I need you to come over," I tell her. "And bring Janelle and Marisol if you can. Tonight."
There's a pause. "Amira—"
"Please."
That's all it takes.
By the time they arrive, the apartment feels different. Not warmer—sharper. The city lights outside the windows throw long shadows across the floor, and I realize how exposed I've been, how naïve I was to think confidence alone could substitute for safety.
They sit on the couch, close together. Wine untouched. Phones face-down.
I don't ease into it.
"I hired security," I say. "For all of us."
Marisol's brows shoot up. "All of us?"
"Yes."
Janelle frowns slightly. "Why?"
I take a breath. "Because Cassandra Archer just confirmed she knows I'm investigating Julian's disappearance."
The room goes very still.
Tasha's hand finds mine immediately. "Disappearance," she repeats carefully. "You're sure?"
I nod. "I'm not speculating anymore."
I tell them everything—what the PI said, what Cassandra implied, the way she smiled when she warned me to stop digging. I don't dramatize it. I don't soften it either.
When I finish, silence hangs heavy.
"So," Marisol says finally, voice low, "she didn't just try to ruin you."
"No," I say. "She removed a variable."
Janelle exhales slowly. "Julian."
"Yes."
Tasha's jaw tightens. "That's… that's not a threat. That's a declaration."
"That's exactly how it felt," I say. "Which is why I need us to play this smart."
I outline the plan calmly:
No posting locations.
No routines.
No meeting alone at night.
Security rotates—unmarked, unobtrusive.
If something feels off, we don't rationalize it away.
"This isn't about living in fear," I tell them. "It's about staying alive long enough to win."
Marisol lets out a short, humorless laugh. "Damn. And here I thought my ex was dramatic."
Tasha squeezes my hand. "You're not overreacting," she says firmly. "You're adapting."
I meet her eyes, grateful.
"We keep it low-key," I continue. "No confrontations. No flexing. We don't give her anything she can twist."
"And Julian?" Janelle asks softly.
My throat tightens, but I keep my voice steady. "We assume he's alive. We assume he's being contained. And we assume she'll use him if she can."
They don't argue.
Security arrives within the hour—two men and a woman, professional to the point of invisibility. They survey the apartment quietly, install temporary measures, exchange numbers.
When they leave, the space feels… fortified.
Not safe.
Prepared.
Later, after the girls head home with instructions and escorts, I stand alone by the window again, watching the city move on as if nothing has changed.
My phone buzzes once more.
Private Investigator:
She's escalating.
Which means you're closer than she wants.
I lock the screen and set the phone down.
Cassandra thinks fear will make me smaller.
She's wrong.
Fear just taught me how to armor up.
If you want, next we can:
Show Cassandra testing the perimeter with subtle pressure
Shift to Amira building alliances quietly
Or escalate with a near-miss that proves the threat is real
Just say where you want the tension to spike next.