Chapter 8 - Shifting Loyalties
We sat in the private study of Jack’s penthouse on First Hill, the city glittering like spilled diamonds beneath a curtain of clearing mist.
A doctor had already come and gone, checking the minor scrapes on Jack’s men and ensuring I wasn’t in shock. I wasn’t. My pulse was steady, my mind sharp, but the adrenaline had left an ache in my temples that two aspirins hadn't touched.
Jack stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, holding a glass of amber liquid, looking out over the city he ruled from the shadows.
“You knew they were coming,” he said, not turning around.
“I knew David was desperate,” I replied, sitting on the leather sofa with a cup of black tea. “A man who has lost his reputation, his money, and his mistress has nothing left to protect. He was always going to come back to the source of his humiliation.”
Jack turned slowly, studying me over the rim of his glass. “Most women would have taken the settlement money, moved to California, and never looked back.”
“I’m not most women.”
“Clearly.” He walked over and sat in the armchair opposite me, setting his glass on the marble coaster. “Jennifer signed the divorce papers this afternoon. She took a single condominium in Scottsdale and five percent of her original trust. She leaves tomorrow.”
I took a slow sip of the tea. “Did you love her?”
Jack paused, considering the question with a seriousness that caught me off guard.
“I thought I needed her,” he said quietly. “When you operate in my line of work, society demands a veneer of respectability. Jennifer was born to the right family, smiled at the right galas, and never asked where the shipping margins came from. It was a transaction. But transactions fail when one party forgets their value.”
He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his gray eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the room feel suddenly smaller.
“You, Clare... you don’t need a veneer. You see the machinery beneath the floorboards, and you don’t look away.”
“Is that a compliment, Jack?”
“It’s a warning,” he murmured. “People who understand how the gears turn often end up caught in them.”
I set my teacup down. The porcelain clicked softly against the saucer.
“I didn’t dismantle my husband to become another man’s silent partner,” I told him, meeting his gaze without flinching. “I helped you clean your docks because David stole from me. That ledger is balanced. The court will finalize our divorce in thirty days, the assets will be liquidated, and I intend to open my own independent forensic consulting firm.”
A slow, genuine smile spread across Jack’s lips—the first true smile I had seen on his face since the rainy night we collided in the corridor of the Rain Room.
“Independent,” he repeated, savoring the word. “In Seattle?”
“I know where all the bodies are buried, Jack. Especially yours.”
He laughed—a low, resonant sound that vibrated through the quiet room. “I suppose you do.”
He stood up, walking over to his desk, and retrieved a thick, blue leather portfolio. He brought it over and set it on the table between us.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“A contract,” Jack said. “Not from Thompson Maritime. From the Port Authority. They’re launching an independent oversight board to audit every private logistics terminal from Bellingham to Tacoma. They need a chief forensic director who can’t be bought, intimidated, or charmed by the men running the docks.”
I looked at the document, then back up at him. “You’re offering me a position where my job would be to watch *you*?”
May you like
“I’m offering you a position where nobody in this city will ever call your work a hobby again,” Jack corrected softly. “And if I’m going to have someone holding a knife to my throat, Clare, I’d rather it be someone who knows how to use it.”
***
