Page 97 of High Reward

“I was going to tell you today,” he says finally. “That’s why I came looking for you.”

“Because Lili forced your hand.” I sound defensive, and I hate it.

He runs a hand through his already messy hair. “Partly. But also because I have more information now. More certainty.”

“So, you were waiting until you had all the answers tied up in a neat bow?” I fold my arms across my chest. “That’s not how this works, Victor. Not with me. Not anymore.”

He steps past me and sinks onto the edge of the bed, exhaustion suddenly more visible in the slump of his shoulders. His eyes meet mine, dark with emotion I can’t quite name.

“You’re right,” he says simply.

The admission catches me off guard. I expected more resistance, more justification. Not this quiet concession.

“I’ve been handling this wrong,” he continues. “With you. With Lili. Trying to control the flow of information. Trying to manage how and when you learned things.” He rubs his palms against his thighs. “Old habits.”

“Bad habits,” I correct, but my voice softens.

“Yes.”

I move closer, standing between his knees. His hands come to rest on my hips again, the motion automatic and familiar.

“I don’t need you to be perfect,” I tell him. “I don’t even need you to stop being overprotective. It’s part of who you are, and sometimes I even like it. But you do need to trust that I can handle the truth, whatever it is.”

His thumbs trace small circles against my hipbones. “I do trust you,” he says. “This isn’t about not trusting you. It’s about…” He pauses, struggling for words. “It’s about not wanting to see fear in your eyes. Not wanting to be the one who puts it there.”

“That’s not your choice to make,” I say gently. “My reactions are my own. My fears are mine to face. You can support me through them, but you don’t get to decide whether I experience them at all.”

Victor looks up at me, his expression stripped of the careful control he usually maintains. Raw. Open. I might even call it vulnerable. A rarity for Victor.

“Tell me everything,” I say. “No more filters. No more deciding what I can handle.”

He nods once, decision made. “It’s going to take a while. You should sit down.”

My stomach tightens, but I keep my expression calm as I sit beside him on the bed. Whatever he’s about to tell me, I asked for it. I demanded it. Now, I need to be ready to hear it, no matter how bad it is.

Victor takes my hand, laces our fingers together. Steadying us both for what comes next.

“It starts with Sampson Lindon,” Victor says, his voice gentle but direct. For a moment, the name hangs in the air between us. Sampson. My ex. Part of the failed triad relationship that sent me running to Las Vegas. I haven’t allowed myself to think about him or Kara except in passing until recently. My body tenses, preparing for his next words.

“What about him?” I ask, the words coming out sharper than intended.

Victor’s hand tightens around mine. “Sampson committed suicide six months ago.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. My lungs empty, and the room seems to tilt. Sampson is dead? And he did it himself?

“What?” I whisper, not trusting my voice for anything louder.

“I’m sorry, butterfly.” Victor’s eyes hold mine, steady and caring. “Owen found out when he was investigating your stalker situation. Sampson left a suicide note. Your name was in it.”

My free hand rises to my throat, fingers finding the collar there. It’s an anchor when everything else is spinning.

“My name? What did it say? Why would he…”

Victor shifts closer, his thigh pressing against mine. “We don’t have the exact wording. Just that you were mentioned as one of the reasons. There were others. Financial problems, marriage falling apart. But your name was there.”

I stare at the carpet, trying to process this. Sampson with his booming laugh. He cooked me breakfast every Sunday for a year. Fancy ones. And he played the guitar when he couldn’t sleep, which was often.

That man is dead. Gone. And his death is connected to me? None of this makes sense.