I inched forward, testing the tension in the zip ties. My wrists throbbed. My back ached. But my mind was clear—sharpened by adrenaline and defiance.
“Let me guess,” I said, keeping my tone casual, almost breezy. “You two didn’t grow up dreaming of guarding a woman in a haunted mansion while your boss plays plantation cosplay, right?”
Righty’s head twitched, just a fraction. Lefty’s lips pressed together.
“I’m just saying,” I continued, “I know how stories get written. And the way you guys are cast right now? You’re not heroes. You’re not even good henchmen. You’re disposable.”
Lefty’s brows furrowed, but he didn’t interrupt. Righty paced, his steps creaking over the warped floorboards.
“I know spin. I know how to make villains into underdogs and mistakes into miracles. Hell, I’ve spent my whole career making companies that suck look like saviors. Let me tell you—your boss? He’s got about two weeks before his name leaks, and the whole world finds out what he’s doing.”
Righty froze.
“Yeah,” I said, seizing the shift in energy. “That’s the thing about rich men with secrets. They think they own the narrative. Until a woman like me decides to burn it all down.”
I stood—or tried to. The zip ties made it clumsy, and I winced as I got halfway upright. But I held their gazes anyway.
“You let me go, I’ll make sure you don’t get lumped in with him. I’ll spin it. You were the inside men. You saved me. Gave the right people just enough to track me. You’ll be anonymous heroes.”
Righty turned to Lefty, and for one brief, shining second, I thought I’d done it. I thought I’d found the opening.
Lefty shifted his weight. His mouth parted like he might speak.
But then Righty’s face hardened again—like a switch flipped. He muttered something under his breath, took two strides forward, and slammed the butt of his rifle against the wall just inches from my head. The thud echoed like a gunshot.
“Sit. Down.”
I flinched, heart hammering now. I hadn’t meant to—hadn’t wanted to show fear. But that closeness? That sudden crack in the calm? It rattled something deep.
I sank back onto the sofa, slower this time, pulse thudding in my ears.
“You think you’re clever,” Righty said, voice low and shaking with fury—or maybe something worse. “You think you’re gonna play us? Manipulate us with your big words and little smirks?This isn’t a chick flick where the witty debutante convinces the guys with guns that they should change careers. Grow up, bitch.”
Lefty didn’t say a word. He just looked down at the floor, jaw clenched so tight I thought it might crack.
I swallowed hard, the heat draining from my face. My tactics had worked—too well. I’d pushed him past the edge of reason and into something scarier. Unpredictable.
Stupid, Sloane.
The silence returned like a weight dropped over the whole room. Even the chandelier seemed to sway with tension now, like the house itself was holding its breath.
And that was when I heard it.
A noise.
Small at first, like a creak.
Then louder.
Boots. Heavy. Moving fast. More than one pair.
The guards stiffened.
Righty turned toward the door, adjusting his grip.
Lefty reached for the radio clipped to his chest, but he didn’t get to speak.
Because the door exploded open.
