“Why would Clint need my commander’s verification for taxes?” I asked again, trying to make sense of it.
Gavin let out a short, dismissive laugh—the kind I had slowly learned to recognize, the kind that always made me feel small in my own questions.
“You deal with the wilderness, sweetheart,” he said smoothly, like he was explaining something obvious to a child. “Let me deal with the money. I already left an updated power of attorney on the desk. Just sign it before you head out for training. It’ll make everything easier while you’re gone.”
His tone was calm, almost rehearsed.
I followed his gaze to the manila envelope resting neatly on the desk. It looked ordinary, but something about the way it was placed made my stomach tighten. There was a stillness in the room that didn’t belong.
A warning instinct flickered through me, quiet but insistent.
I wanted to trust him. I wanted to dismiss the feeling creeping in under my skin.
But when I stepped closer and picked up the envelope, my thumb brushed against something odd at the edge of the flap—slightly raised, faintly glossy, as if something had dried there.
I turned it over.
A lipstick mark.
Bright, unmistakable red.
Not mine.
Alyssa Miller’s.
Gavin’s wealthy client—the one he always insisted was “just business.”
In that instant, the details that had once felt disconnected suddenly snapped into place. His increasing secrecy over the past weeks. The sudden urgency around legal documents. The way he pushed for signatures without explanation. The carefully controlled calm in his voice, as if everything had already been decided without me.
And worst of all, the way he looked at me lately—like I was no longer part of the equation, just someone standing in the way of a plan already in motion.
The realization didn’t come slowly. It arrived all at once, sharp and unavoidable.
Something was wrong.
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