He Found My Secret Revenge

Faith woke up with a gasp, her lungs dragging in air as if she'd been underwater.

The knife. The alley. The cold.

Her eyes flew open, expecting damp brick walls and darkness.

Instead, she was met with grey. Soft, expensive grey.

She was lying in a bed that was larger than her entire kitchen. The sheets were Egyptian cotton, cool and smooth against her skin, smelling faintly of lavender and starch.

Faith sat up, clutching the duvet to her chest. The room was bathed in the pale, blue light of early morning. The curtains-heavy, automated velvet-were slowly retracting, revealing the Chicago skyline waking up under a blanket of fog.

Memory crashed into her.

Earl. The penthouse. The deal.

She looked at the nightstand.

There was a stack of clothes there. Folded with military precision. A pair of soft grey sweatpants, a white t-shirt, and...

Faith reached out and picked up the lace bra sitting on top of the pile.

It was her brand. La Perla. And it was her exact size. 34C. She didn't blush. Instead, a cold shiver ran down her spine. These weren't new. The lace was slightly worn at the strap. These were hers. The ones she had left at the estate two years ago. He had kept them. He had kept everything.

"Control freak," she whispered, her fingers tightening around the silk. It was a reminder. Even when she thought she was free, she had been archived in his life, stored away in a box like a dormant asset waiting to be reactivated.

She threw the covers off and dressed quickly, feeling the strange intimacy of wearing clothes he had preserved. They fit perfectly. It was terrifying.

She opened the bedroom door and stepped out into the hallway.

The smell of coffee hit her first. Rich, dark roast. Then, the salty, savory scent of bacon.

She followed the smell to the open-concept kitchen.

Earl was there.

He wasn't wearing a suit. He was wearing black athletic shorts and nothing else.

Faith stopped dead in her tracks.

He was hanging from a pull-up bar mounted in the reinforced frame of the pantry door. His back muscles rippled and bunched like shifting tectonic plates as he hauled his massive frame up, chin over the bar. Down. Up. Down.

But it was wrong. He wasn't using his legs. His right leg-the injured one-hung dead weight, the toes of his sneaker dragging slightly on the mat below. He was compensating entirely with upper body strength, his teeth gritted in a rictus of exertion, sweat slicking his bronze skin.

"Ninety-eight... ninety-nine..." he grunted.

He dropped.

He tried to land on his left leg, but the momentum carried him forward. His right foot tapped the floor to stabilize. A sharp, guttural hiss of pain escaped his lips as the impact shuddered through his wounded thigh.

He stumbled, catching himself against the granite island, his chest heaving.

Faith stared. Her mouth went dry. It was a physiological reaction, she told herself. Just biology. And horror at the fresh bloom of red staining the white bandage on his thigh.

He saw her.

"Morning," he grunted. He didn't seem embarrassed to be half-naked or in pain. If anything, he stood a little taller, shifting his weight entirely to his good leg. "Sleep well?"

Faith cleared her throat, forcing her eyes to stay on his face. "Yes. Actually. It's the first time in months I haven't woken up every hour."

"Good." Earl walked to the coffee machine, a slight limp betraying him. "Me too."

He poured a mug and slid it across the marble island toward her. Black. Two sugars. Just how she liked it.

Faith took the mug. "Thank you."

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

She jumped, nearly spilling the coffee. She pulled it out. The screen flashed a name: Mr. Henderson. Her elderly neighbor.

Faith's stomach dropped. She tapped answer.

"Mr. Henderson? Is everything okay?"

"Faith, dear," the old man's voice was trembling, thin with fear. "That man... the one in the cheap suit? Chad? Or... no, he was screaming about money. He was banging on your door at 3 AM. He kicked it in, Faith. He was screaming he was going to kill you."

Faith gripped the phone so hard her knuckles turned white. The blood drained from her face.

"Did he... is he still there?"

"The police came," Mr. Henderson said. "But he was gone. Faith, you can't come back here. The door is off the hinges."

Faith lowered the phone. Her hand was shaking uncontrollably. The coffee in her mug rippled.

Earl was there in a second. He took the phone from her hand.

"Mr. Henderson," Earl said. His voice was a low rumble, calm and authoritative. "This is Detective Grant, private security for the building. I'm working with the police on this case."

Faith looked at him, confused. Grant? It was his middle name. And he lied so easily.

"Lock your door, sir," Earl continued. "We have a protective detail stationed in the lobby now. They will be there in five minutes. Do not open the door for anyone who doesn't have the code word 'Olympus'. Can you remember that?"

He listened for a second, then nodded. "Thank you. Stay safe."

He hung up and slid the phone into his pocket. Not hers. His.

"Grant?" Faith asked, her voice breathless.

"Earl Grant Hampton," he said, turning back to the stove to flip a piece of bacon. "Less baggage attached to the middle name. And people trust authority figures. It keeps him calm."

"But my apartment," Faith stammered, panic rising again. "If Chad kicked the door in... anyone could get in. My... things."

She meant the hardware key. The encrypted USB drive taped to the underside of her bedside drawer. It was the physical failsafe for the Oracle network. If Chad ransacked the place, he might knock it loose. If he found it, he wouldn't know what it was, but if he sold her stuff to a pawn shop... or worse, if Mr. Black's men swept the wreckage...

"I have to go back," she said, stepping toward the door.

"No." Earl didn't even turn around. "The site is compromised."

"I have to go to work then," Faith improvised, desperate for a reason to leave, to get to a secure terminal, to initiate the remote kill switch. "I have a shift. I can't just no-call no-show. It looks suspicious."

"You're not going to work," Earl said, plating the bacon. "You're dead to the world, remember?"

"If I disappear the same day my apartment is broken into, the police will start asking questions," Faith argued, her mind racing. "I have to go in. Just to... just to resign. To get my things from my locker. There's... personal medical data in there."

Earl paused. He looked at her, weighing the risk.

"Fine," he said finally. "You go in to resign. You clear your locker. But you don't go alone. And you don't stay longer than twenty minutes."

"Private security is expensive, Earl. I can't afford-"

"Employee benefits," he cut her off. He pointed to a sleek, new iPhone sitting on the counter next to the fruit bowl. "That's for you. Encrypted. New number. Throw the old one in the lake."

Ding-dong.

The doorbell rang.

Faith flinched.

"Relax," Earl said. He walked to the door and opened it.

A man stood there. He was dressed in a UPS uniform, but his posture was too straight, his eyes too sharp. It was Alfred, Earl's head of personal security.

"Package for Mr. Grant," Alfred said, keeping his face perfectly neutral. He pushed a dolly loaded with boxes into the hallway.

"Thanks, Al," Earl said.

Alfred nodded once at Faith, a flicker of amusement in his eyes, and left.

Earl started unpacking the boxes.

Faith watched, stunned.

Organic kale. Grass-fed steaks. A crate of avocados. And... a box of La Mer face cream. Tampons. Shampoo.

"Is this... employee benefits too?" Faith asked, picking up a jar of moisturizer that cost more than her car payment.

"Tactical resupply," Earl said, deadpan. He shoved a carton of almond milk into the Sub-Zero fridge. "Can't have the asset deteriorating due to poor nutrition."

He turned to look at her. He was still shirtless, holding a carton of eggs. The domesticity of it-the billionaire making breakfast, the boxes of groceries-clashed violently with the violence of the night before.

"Given the threat level," Earl said, closing the fridge door with his hip. "Until the Board backs off, this is your base of operations."

Faith looked at him. She looked at the food. She looked at the man who had secured her building, replaced her phone, and stocked her fridge, all before she had even brushed her teeth.

She felt a crack in her armor. Just a small one.

"Thank you, Earl," she said softly.

Earl walked over to her. He stopped inches away, looking down. He smelled of sweat and coffee.

"Don't thank me yet," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "Eat your eggs. We have a wedding to get to."