9. Liam

Chapter nine

Liam

Atlanta's skyline blurs past the car window, but I can't focus on it. My mind is reeling, and my knuckles are white as I grasp my knees. Beside me, Shiloh is a storm, her gaze fixed out the passenger side.

"Shiloh," I start, my voice sharper than I intend, "what's your problem?" She's been giving me the cold shoulder since we left Aegis, and it's grating on my nerves.

She doesn't even glance my way, just shrugs and mutters, "It's nothing."

But I know better; it's never 'nothing' with Shiloh.

"Come on," I press. "This is about last week, isn't it?" The memory of grasping her arm, thinking about turning her around, bending her over, spanking her… the fantasy flashes through my mind, unwanted and yet stirring something deep within me.

Her lips press into a thin line, her jaw tightens, and she finally turns to look at me, eyes sharp. "No, Liam, it's not about that." Her voice is clipped, and I don't miss the quick flicker of heat behind her facade.

"Then what is it?" I demand, feeling the tightrope of our relationship strain with every word.

She crosses her arms, and her voice trembles with restrained anger. "I can't believe you just go along with Derek's cheating. After all that talk about integrity, how Chris was an asshole, how I deserved better."

I'm confused for a second before the penny drops.

"Shiloh, it's my job." My words sound hollow even to my own ears.

"Is it your job to have no spine? To forget your principles?" Her tone stings, and I feel the heat rise in my face.

I scowl at her, my patience fraying at the edges. "I fix things. It's not about picking sides."

"Your paycheck seems to be picking sides for you," she shoots back, her gaze accusing.

I lean closer, my irritation boiling over. "Listen, I'm the one who pays you, remember? You might want to start getting used to how things work around here."

Her eyes flash, and I can tell I've struck a nerve. But she doesn't back down—never does—and that's why I can't get her out of my head.

We pull up to the curb outside Nora's house, and Shiloh's still got that stormy look on her face. I can tell she's simmering with anger, but she stays silent as we step out of the cab. The tension between us is thick enough to slice through.

Nora is at the door before we even make it up the walk, eyeing us like a hawk sizing up a pair of mice. She's got every right to be skeptical—hell, if I were her, I wouldn't trust me either.

"Mrs. Turner," I begin, giving her the most disarming smile I've got in my arsenal. "I work for Derek. I know this is hard, but talking to us could really benefit you."

She looks me over, clearly weighing her options, and I can see the moment she decides that whatever I'm offering might be worth hearing. With a reluctant nod, she steps aside.

As soon as the door shuts behind us, there's the sound of kids playing upstairs—a carefree symphony that grates against the reason we're here. My chest tightens, memories I'd rather forget clawing their way to the surface. Mom's tear-stained face, Dad's empty apologies...

"Focus," I silently chide myself, shoving the ghosts back into their box as we follow Nora to the kitchen table.

"Please, take a seat," she says, gesturing to the worn chairs. Her voice is threadbare, like a warning flag fraying in the wind.

I sit down and, out of habit, glance at Shiloh. She's not looking at me, but I catch the flicker of something vulnerable in her eyes before she turns her expression into indifference. This job's eating away at her, and I'm the bastard serving her soul to the devil on a silver platter.

"Look," Nora's voice cuts through the tension, drawing my attention back to her. "What does Derek want now?"

Her eyes are dull, the kind of exhaustion that seeps into your bones. I understand her fatigue all too well; I see it mirrored in the faces of every spouse we 'assist' through these corporate breakups.

But this is what pays the bills—what maintains the lifestyle I've grown accustomed to, even if it sometimes feels like I'm peddling pieces of my soul for each paycheck.

I reach into my briefcase, pulling out the reason we're here—the nondisclosure agreement, a piece of paper as cold and binding as the handcuffs it metaphorically is. My fingers brush against the crisp document as I slide it across the worn surface of the kitchen table toward her.

"Have a look at this," I say, keeping my tone neutral and professional. The NDA lands with a soft thud, its presence heavy between us.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Shiloh's hands on the tabletop, her knuckles white from how tightly she's balled her fists. The sight pinches at something inside me—guilt, maybe, or regret. I can't tell anymore.

"Take your time," I tell Nora, but my words feel hollow even to me. There isn't much choice in the matter, and we all know it. This is just part of the dance, the pretense that there's some semblance of fairness in all of this.

Shiloh shifts beside me, and I can practically hear her holding back whatever storm's brewing inside her. She's about to learn the hard way that around here, your heart takes a backseat to the almighty dollar.

And if she's not careful, she'll end up just as jaded and numb as the rest of us.

Nora's tired eyes skim the document, a visible weight settling on her slumped shoulders. I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table's edge.

"Derek is willing to offer a generous settlement out of court," I begin, watching Nora's reaction closely. "He'll continue to cover the expenses for you and the children to live in this house."

I pause, ensuring I have her full attention.

"In return, he asks that you tell the press the divorce was mutually decided upon and that there was no infidelity." The words taste like ash in my mouth, but they're part of the job—a job I can't afford to screw up. Not for myself, not for Shiloh.

From the corner of my eye, I catch Shiloh's sharp intake of breath, a sound barely louder than a whisper, yet it cuts through the tense silence like a knife. Her shock resonates in the small kitchen, and without thinking, my hand slips under the table, finding her knee in a silent bid for... what?

Reassurance? Control? I'm not even sure anymore.

Her muscles tense beneath my touch, and I realize the gravity of my impulse. This isn't just about calming her down; it's a silent plea for her to understand, to see that sometimes the lines between right and wrong blur when you're sitting where we are. But even as my grip tightens, I can't help but question if I'm trying to convince her or myself.

Her face pales, and I know she's struggling with the scene unfolding before us. Nora's head shakes faintly as tears brim her eyes, a silent battle raging within her. Shiloh's eyes flick to mine, wide and fraught with a turmoil that mirrors my own. We're in too deep, and there's no simple way out.

"Tell Derek he can go fuck himself," Nora spits out, the venom in her voice laced with despair.

The air thickens with tension, and my fingers involuntarily clench tighter around Shiloh's knee, a reflexive act of solidarity against the vitriol. My fingertips graze the soft skin of her inner thigh, a move that's more intimate than intended. She sucks in a harsh breath, and I know we're both acutely aware of the contact, an electric current in the charged atmosphere.

But I need her to fucking stay quiet.

Nora will cave. They always do when that much money is on the table.

We watch, a pair of silent spectators, as Nora's resolve crumbles under the weight of reality. Her hand trembles as she reaches for the pen, the sound of it scratching against the paper echoing like a death knell in the quiet kitchen. The line on the NDA where her signature now lies feels like a chasm between what is and what should be.

I release my hold on Shiloh, withdrawing my hand from beneath the table as if burned by the heat of our connection. There's a part of me—a big part—that hates this game, but it's the world I navigate, the rules of which I'm bound to follow. And Shiloh, she’s caught in its snare just as much as I am.

Minutes later, we step out into the night, NDA signed and secure. The chill of the autumn air bites at my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the coldness settling in my chest. The day's events weigh on my conscience, heavier than any business deal I've ever brokered.

I’ve done worse, but with Shiloh as my witness, it feels like my greatest sin.

When I exit Nora's house, Shiloh is already at the curb, her silhouette illuminated by the sparse streetlights. She stands rigid, her posture screaming defiance and disgust, no doubt for what we've just done—for what I've just done.

"Dammit," I mutter under my breath. She's upset, and rightly so. This job isn't for the faint of heart. It's dirty, it gets under your skin, and sometimes you have to watch people sign away their right to fight back.

"Shiloh!" My voice slices through the silence, but she doesn’t turn around.

The cab isn’t here yet. We're stranded on this quiet suburban street with only our thoughts and the echo of Nora's resigned sobs for company. I make my way over to Shiloh, feeling the weight of each step.

"Shiloh," I say again, softer this time, and reach out to catch her by the elbow. She spins around, her face a mixture of anger and something else I can't quite place—shock, maybe? Or disappointment?

"Look at me," I urge, my grip firmer than intended. Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I'm lost in them—like she could swallow me whole with the weight of her gaze.

"Let go," she hisses, and I can feel the tremor in her voice.

I release her elbow but hold her stare. "This is how the job works," I say, my voice steady despite the storm brewing inside me. "You need to get used to it. Keeping your composure is part of the game if you want to stay."

"Is that right?" She steps closer, and I can feel the heat radiating off her despite the cool night air. "And what about you, Liam? Are you going to punish me for losing it back there?"

Her challenge hangs between us, a gauntlet thrown. My heart hammers in my chest.

And without thinking, the words spill out. "Do you want me to?"

There's a fire in her eyes now, a dangerous dance of light that seems to dare me, tempt me. We're caught in this moment, a taut line stretched to the point of snapping.

A car pulls up to the curb, the sound of the engine cutting through our standoff. It's the cab. We break eye contact reluctantly, both of us stepping back as if the proximity is too much to bear.

We slide into the back seat, the silence thick and unwieldy. Neither of us speaks, not a word about the tension that just hung in the air nor the questions we've left dangling like threads pulled too tightly.

The city lights blur past, casting shadows that flicker over Shiloh's face. She stares out the window, her profile stoic, giving nothing away.

And I'm left wondering if I've just crossed a line that can't be uncrossed… or if I even want to.