Chapter Twenty-Four
Rhys wanted to put his fist through a wall. Enclaves like this resort, the kind stacked with the mega wealthy, didn’t want police. They didn’t want reports. No negative attention or publicity that couldn’t be controlled or coerced.
Neither, apparently, did Chad Montgomery, an up-and-coming Wall Street bro who was stupid enough to use a kink app called Anonymous, and the high-priced lawyers he worked with.
Even Jules started to see the merits of keeping the situation quiet. She didn’t want to give any satisfaction to whoever was behind the situation. And she felt bad for Chad. He had a morality clause tied to his employment and didn’t want this to be the reason he lost his job.
For both Jules and Chad, the collateral damage for a public report wasn’t worth the headache. And maybe that was the genius behind how it had been set up. At least when it came to Jules.
But that didn’t mean Rhys would keep quiet. Titan would update their contacts at the FBI. The Lowry legal team would add this information to the files they kept to assist investigators. Still, that didn’t feel like enough, and he was climbing the walls.
If he had spent longer outside their bungalow, this would have been so much worse.
Not to mention Rhys had been played. There was no update. The call had been faked. He’d fallen for it, leaving her locked up tight and taking a nap. Who else had their entry code? He didn’t trust that it had been reset.
Abigail and Jules nursed bowls of ice cream on the couch while Rhys paced, waiting for Vivian and Dean to map their next move. The resort had comped their entire stay and begged them to stay for the next week.
Nope. Zero chance.
They were out the moment HQ sent a plan. He hadn’t told the ladies that, but they had to assume. He didn’t know where they were going, and that was how it had to be. Jules might be pissed that they would separate from Abigail, but there’d be no chance anyone could find her until they understood what the hell was happening.
Jules dropped her spoon into the bowl of ice cream and set it on the coffee table. “Maybe we should eat less ice cream before dinner.”
“Maybe we need both.” Abigail scooped another huge bite. “Maybe we should get Rhys a Xanax. His head is about to explode.”
“If it did, I’d have a good reason,” he muttered. “Room service can bring dinner here.”
“I don’t want room service. I don’t want to hide. I’m on vacation. I want to go out to eat and maybe walk around with both middle fingers up so the paparazzi sends a message to whoever is messing with me.”
He turned to Jules.
“No.” She held up her middle fingers and shook them toward the front door. “Just like that. I’m not hiding.”
“You decided not to file a police report,” he countered. “That’s almost the same as hiding.”
“Not the same, Rhys. Going out is a choice. Filing a report gives everything to the public and leaves me without any control.” She dropped her hands, sulking. “Not filing a report is control. I’m controlling the narrative.”
“Someone crossed the line this time—”
“So sorry, Rhys,” she snapped. “I think I get it better than anyone else.”
“If you did, you would order room service for dinner.”
Abigail put two fingers in her mouth and whistled. “To your corners, both of you. Now.”
Frustration made his shoulders bunch. He stepped back but wasn’t done. “This isn’t the ridiculous ‘Please retire’ bullshit we’ve been ignoring. You could have been hurt. You could have been—”
“I know. But I’m not letting him control me—”
“Do you even hear yourself?”
“Have you ever met me?” she snapped. “If I deviate from my plans, he wins. Don’t you get that? If I file a police report, he wins.”
“Your life isn’t a damn game.”
Abigail whistled again. “What is going on with you two?”
Jules reached for her bowl and stabbed the spoon into the melting ice cream. “I’m wearing a cute dress, doing my hair up, and requesting the most visible seat in the entire restaurant.”
