Page 69 of High Reward

“Who?”

Victor hesitates. I can see him weighing how much to reveal, how much he can trust me with. “Someone from her past. Someone who might blame her for something that wasn’t her fault.”

The careful phrasing tells me more than the words themselves. This isn’t just about protecting Grace from worry. This is about protecting her from pain. I can respect that, but it’s not his choice to make.

“She has a right to know,” I say. “If someone is targeting her specifically, she should be prepared.”

“She should be safe,” Victor counters. “And sometimes that means not knowing every detail of every threat. She already knows she’s a target. That’s enough for now.”

“That’s not your decision to make.”

“Yes, it is.” His voice hardens. “I’m responsible for her safety. For yours too, now. That means making hard choices about what information to share and when.”

I lean forward, matching his intensity. “You’re not her father, Victor. You’re not her legal guardian. Being her Dom doesn’t mean you can decide what she gets to know about her own life.”

“I can and I will decide what she gets told and when.” His tone brooks no argument. “Grace has been through enough trauma. I won’t add to it unnecessarily.”

The frustration builds in my chest, hot and sharp. This is too familiar, this assumption that he knows what’s best for everyone else. That his protective instincts override our autonomy.

“What if you’re wrong?” I ask. “What if keeping her in the dark puts her in more danger?”

Victor’s expression flickers. And there it is. The doubt he’s been trying to suppress.

“I’m not wrong,” he says, but there’s less certainty in his voice now.

I sit back, studying his face. The guilt is there, barely hidden beneath his authoritative mask. He knows I’m right, but he’s too committed to his course to change direction now.

“Grace trusts you completely,” I whisper. “Don’t make her regret that trust.”

I stand and walk away without another word. My steps echo against the polished floor. Victor’s protective instincts might come from a place of love, but they’re suffocating Grace just as surely as Phineas’s control suffocated me.

The club feels smaller now, crowded with people seeking safety in numbers. But the tension is thick enough to cut. Everyone knows we’re under siege, even if they don’t understand the full scope of the threats we face.

I pause near the bar, letting my anger cool before I approach Grace. She doesn’t need to absorb my frustration with Victor. She has enough of her own worries to carry.

From here, I can see her clearly. She’s claimed a corner booth, a small tray of assorted charcuterie sits in the center of the table, likely enough to feed three, and her laptop is open in front of her, but her attention keeps drifting to the room around her. Her paper assignment, the one Victor keeps pushing her to finish, sits abandoned on the screen. How can anyone expect her to focus on schoolwork when bombs are being planted, and people are overdosing?

Grace looks small in the oversized booth, shoulders hunched forward in a protective posture I don’t love. She’s trying to make herself invisible, hoping to avoid drawing more danger to the people she cares about. Guilt is written across her features, the way she takes responsibility for things beyond her control.

The sight makes my chest ache. This gentle, caring woman doesn’t deserve to be at the center of such violence. She deserves safety, peace, the chance to build the life she’s working toward. Instead, she’s trapped in a web of threats and secrets, protected by men who think they know better than she does about her own life.

I watch as she glances toward the corridor where Victor disappeared earlier, hope and worry warring in her expression. She trusts him completely, believes he’ll keep her safe and tell her what she needs to know. The faith in her eyes makes Victor’s deception even more disturbing.

Grace picks up her phone, checks for messages, then sets it down again. The motion is repeated several times, restless energy seeking an outlet. She’s desperate for information, for some sense of control over the chaos surrounding her.

Across the room, Tyson and Sabrina sit close together, heads bent in quiet conversation. Trinity wheels herself between different groups, offering comfort and mindless chitchat. Hunter shadows her movements, protective but not overbearing. The contrast with Victor’s approach is stark.

I make my decision and cross to Grace’s booth. She looks up as I approach, face brightening with relief.

“Mind if I join you?” I ask, though I’m already sliding into the booth beside her.

“Please,” Grace says, closing her laptop and pushing it aside. “I can’t concentrate anyway.” She nods to the platter in front of her. “Tyson made us charcuterie. Where did Victor go?”

Up close, I can see the exhaustion more clearly. Dark circles under her eyes, tension lines around her mouth. She’s been pushing herself too hard, trying to be strong for everyone else.

“When did you last sleep?” I ask, settling against the leather back of the booth, purposely ignoring her question about Victor.

Grace considers this. “Really sleep? Two nights ago, I think. Before everything with Trinity and the hospital.”