Page 76 of Cold Mercy

I grip my glass tighter when the grainy photo of Noah is suddenly replaced by a shot of me from one of our charity auctions, my own eyes staring back at me with a hollow intensity.

“Is it possible that the silent hand guiding this resurgence is Mercer’s own fiancé, Sophia Moreau, the woman the public has dubbed the Widow? Many insiders argue that it is only logical for Mercer’s great love to be just as entangled in the syndicate’s web as he was, yet the police remain silent on any potential progress.”

Oh, you gotta be fucking kidding me.

The broadcast shifts to a guest in the studio who speaks with a voice dripping in bitterness.

“If Mercer was the architect of this violence, it’s a fantasy to believe his fiancée was just a bystander. Yet we see no arrests and no leads, leaving us to wonder why the most obvious suspect is still walking free among us.”

Yeah, no shit. There is a suspect walking free among us, and his name is Elijah fucking Sterling. You know it, I know it, and I wouldn't be surprised if the motherfucker is personally cutting you a check for every minute you spend pointing the finger at me instead of him.

My eyebrows furrow so deeply it actually starts to hurt. I can’t believe I’m sitting here listening to this shit.

The camera zooms out, shrinking my face to one side of the screen while a massive, neon-red banner blares underneath:

THE WIDOW: VICTIM OR VILLAIN?

Victim, villain, saint, or sin, they don't know the state you're in. Play the part and wear the mask, answer when the strangers ask.

It looks like something out of a cheap tabloid, the kind of headline designed to make people hate me before they even know my name, and I feel a fresh wave of heat crawl up my neck. Then, the broadcast cuts to a snippet of a press conference featuring Grace O’Malley.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Wrap it up already.

“We have our people in every corner of New York, and we are thoroughly investigating every aspect of Sophia Moreau’s connection to Mercer’s business dealings, but currently, she is found still innocent of these accusations.”

In every corner? A dark, humorless smile pulls at my lips. Yeah, sure you do. Bring them in, Grace. Send every single one of your little soldiers to find me. Let's see how many of them actually make it back to you.

I take another sip of champagne, the cool liquid barely registering against the heat in my throat, my other hand tightening around the remote as if I could crush the screen just by squeezing the plastic.

Right before I can even move to change the channel, the remote is ripped from my grip with a force so sudden and violent that I jump, champagne sloshing over the rim and splashing onto my hand.

I look up, my heart hammering, to find Thomas towering over me with his chest heaving, his face a mask of dark, barely contained fury as he jabs the power button, killing the screen instantly. He tosses the remote onto the coffee table with a clatter that sounds like a gunshot.

“Why the hell are you watching this shit?” he snaps, his voice low and sharp, vibrating with an anger I’ve never heard directed at me.

I freeze, staring up at him, my hand still wet with champagne, my breath caught in my throat. For a split second, I see something in his eyes, something wild and dangerous that makes my stomach drop. It’s not just annoyance; it’s something possessive and terrifying, even for me. Then, just as quickly as it appeared, it vanishes. His shoulders sag, and the tension bleeds out of his frame as he realizes what he just did.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes out, sinking onto the couch beside me. “I’m so sorry, Sophia. I didn't mean to shout.”

He runs a hand over his face, looking genuinely shaken. He shifts closer, his arm sliding along the back of the sofa behind me, not quite touching but protective, encompassing. His thigh presses against mine, a solid line of heat.

“I just...I can't stand listening to them talk about you like that,” he murmurs, turning his head to look at me, his eyes now soft and pleading. “You shouldn't have to hear it. I don't want you stressing over their lies.”

I swallow hard, trying to steady my pulse. I saw it. I know I saw something different in him just now, but sitting here, with his warmth seeping into me and his eyes so full of concern, I force myself to push the fear away. I force a smile, trying to pull us back to safer ground.

“Relax, Thomas,” I say, my voice only shaking a little.

I nod toward the blank screen. “At least they used a high-res photo. My hair looked absolutely perfect that day. If they’re going to paint me as a villain, I might as well look good doing it.”

He lets out a low, rough chuckle, shaking his head as he shifts closer. His hand lifts, fingers brushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear, lingering there just a second too long.

“You always find a way, don't you?” he murmurs, leaning in until he's invading my space in that way only he does. “Pretending like none of this touches you, like you don't care.”

I do care. The thought echoes loudly in my head, a sharp contrast to my calm exterior. I care so much it feels like my chest is constantly being crushed. But what’s the point in screaming about it? Everyone has their own ghosts, their own battles. My nightmare isn't the only one in the room, and it certainly isn't the most important.

I hold his gaze, feeling the heat radiate off him. “Maybe...” I whisper, my voice dropping.

“Or maybe it's because I have a certain someone named Thomas hovering around me? A man who looks like he’s about five seconds away from murdering everyone in this room with just a look. So…he makes it hard to be scared of anything around.”