Chapter Forty-Four — Extraction
I know something is wrong before the phone rings.
It's the stillness that gives it away—the kind that presses against your ears, the city suddenly muted beneath your window like it's holding its breath. I'm sitting at the small table in my apartment, papers spread in front of me that I haven't looked at in ten minutes. Legal briefs. PR drafts. A half-cold cup of coffee. All of it arranged like proof that I'm functioning.
I am.
I just don't feel alive inside it.
The phone vibrates against the wood.
Private Investigator.
I don't answer right away. I stare at the screen as if it might blink, reconsider, soften whatever's about to be said. My chest tightens—not panic exactly, but something close. Anticipation sharpened by fear.
When I finally pick up, I don't say hello.
"I need you to sit down," he says.
I already am.
"We found him."
The world doesn't explode.
It narrows.
My fingers curl against the edge of the table. "Where?"
"Alive," he adds quickly, as if he knows where my mind just went. "Shaken. Guarded. Off-grid."
A pause. Just long enough to feel intentional.
"Not hiding," he continues. "Contained."
My throat goes dry. "By who?"
"We're still verifying," he says carefully. "But the infrastructure lines up with what we suspected. Private security. Shell properties. Payments routed through two intermediaries."
Cassandra.
He doesn't say her name. He doesn't have to.
"How long?" I ask.
"Long enough," he replies. "Longer than he wants you to know."
I close my eyes. The image that flashes behind my lids isn't violent. It's worse—Julian alone, pacing, calculating, trapped inside his own silence. A man who lives on control forced into stillness.
"Is he okay?" I ask.
Another pause.
"He's lucid," the PI says. "Coherent. Angry. Very clear on one thing."
I hold my breath.
"He doesn't want to see you. Not yet."
The words sting more than I expect. Not because I feel rejected—but because I understand exactly why.
"What happens now?" I ask.
"We extract quietly," he says. "No press. No announcements. Law enforcement will be looped in, but not in a way that tips her off."
Her.
Cassandra still isn't a name. She's a gravity field.
"You need to stay where you are tonight," he adds. "Low visibility. Security stays tight."
"And him?" I press.
"He handles the next move," the PI says. "On his terms."
The call ends before I can say anything else.
I sit there long after the screen goes dark, hands folded like I'm waiting for a verdict. Relief should come. Triumph. Something resembling victory.
Instead, what settles into my bones is dread.
Because I know Cassandra Archer well enough by now to understand one thing:
If Julian has been extracted, she already knows something slipped.
The next twenty-four hours crawl.
I keep my phone nearby but untouched, as if checking it too often might summon bad news. The girls hover without hovering—present, alert, but careful not to suffocate me. Tasha makes jokes she doesn't finish. Janelle watches me like she's memorizing my face. Marisol paces like she's waiting for permission to break something.
Security rotates in quiet shifts. I hate how normal it starts to feel.
That night, I dream of locked doors.
Not him behind them—me.
By morning, the city feels off. Not hostile. Just… attentive.
I leave the apartment with sunglasses on, posture straight, shoulders back. The PR team insisted I maintain routine. Normalcy is camouflage. I almost laugh at that.
Nothing about my life is normal anymore.
At noon, my attorney texts:
She's been quiet. Too quiet.
At one-thirty, the PI sends a single line:
Extraction complete. He's safe.
I stop walking.
Pedestrians stream around me, annoyed, oblivious. I step to the side of the sidewalk and press my hand to my chest, grounding myself against the rush of relief that finally breaks through.
Safe.
Not free.
Not whole.
But alive.
I look up at the glass façade of the building across the street, my reflection staring back at me—eyes sharp, jaw set, expression unreadable.
This is what winning looks like, I think.
It doesn't feel like winning.
The breadcrumb comes at 3:17 p.m.
It's not dramatic. Not overt. Cassandra Archer doesn't do sloppy.
It's an email forwarded to me by my attorney—originally sent to the firm's compliance department, cc'd to two partners and, tellingly, no one else.
Subject line: Clarification of Testimony Timelines
The body is brief. Polite. Impeccably professional.
Cassandra expresses concern about "recent speculation" regarding her husband's availability. She notes that Julian Archer has been "under unusual stress" and suggests any absence be attributed to "health-related privacy matters."
The wording is flawless.
The implication is not.
She knows he's gone.
More than that—she knows I know.
My phone buzzes seconds later.
Unknown Number.
One line.
Careful, Amira. Even victories have consequences.
No signature.
I don't respond.
I don't need to.
The game has shifted.
That evening, I call the girls together—not to celebrate, not to panic. To inform.
We sit in my living room again, but the energy is different now. Focused. Serious. Adult.
"She took Julian," I say plainly.
Silence crashes down.
Marisol swears under her breath. Tasha's hand flies to her mouth. Janelle exhales slowly, like she's bracing for impact.
"She's capable of more," I continue. "And she knows I'm not backing down."
"So what do we do?" Tasha asks.
I meet their eyes, one by one.
"We protect ourselves," I say. "And we stop underestimating her."
I explain the security expansion—personal details, routines, safe words. I don't sugarcoat it. Cassandra isn't emotional. She's strategic. If she feels cornered, she'll test boundaries.
"And Julian?" Janelle asks quietly.
"He's handling his part," I reply. "I'm handling mine."
Marisol leans forward. "Which is?"
I take a breath.
"Preparing for war."
No one laughs.
They nod.
Later that night, alone again, I stand by the window and watch the city pulse below me—lights blinking, lives intersecting, secrets hiding in plain sight.
Somewhere out there, Julian is breathing free air again.
Somewhere else, Cassandra is recalculating.
And me?
I'm done reacting.
The next move won't be quiet.
It will be deliberate.
It will be visible.
And when it comes, Cassandra Archer will finally understand something she's spent her life denying:
I am not a phase.
I am not leverage.
And I am no longer afraid.