13. Hunter

THIRTEEN

HUNTER

" I wish I could tell you I have good news, boss," Rio says from his place near the door of my office. Leo and I have been head down at my desk for the last few hours searching for connections who might know where my father is.

He's gone underground, and despite our best efforts to locate him at his usual spots around the globe, he's not appeared.

In front of me is a list of seventy-five potential accomplices in his hiding as well as the locations of the properties they own. There are hundreds, almost a thousand places he could be.

Pressure tightens at the base of my skull, and I have a fleeting thought that maybe I'm about to stroke out. I force myself to take deep breaths.

I didn't sleep well after my middle-of-the-night jaunt with Winter last night. Not that I sleep well at all these days. But after spending time with her in a place that my mother loved—a place that my mother and I shared—I couldn't get my brain to rest.

Throughout the rest of the night, I kept replaying the sound of her laughter.

I'm desperate to hear her laugh again.

The thing I want more than anything right now is for Winter to be okay, safe.

I need to fix this.

Max taps away at his computer in the corner. He sits with his hoodie pulled up and back hunched as his hands fly over his keyboard. A Twizzler hangs from his mouth as he makes his way through his third pack, grabbing pieces of candy without looking at the container.

Rio settles back against the closed door.

"Rio, how fast can you assemble a team to check all these places," Leo murmurs, thumbing through the pages of the legal pad on my desk.

"I can get a team together, no problem. The problem is, however, how to assemble that team and get them to these separate places without their covers being blown or this taking two years to finish."

Always one step behind.

I release the tension in my neck, allowing my head to drop back against the headrest.

"Holy shit," Max says, his voice several octaves higher than usual. He jumps up from his seat, and when he does, chip crumbs cascade from his lap.

Moving to the side table, he grabs the thin television remote.

"What now?" Leo asks Max, running his hand over his prickly jaw.

Max lets out a dark chuckle. "Well, you'll see," he says, flipping to CNN.

"Mr. Winthrope, thank you for joining us today," the blonde newscaster says. She sits at a large U-shaped desk built for television. Although the seating arrangement allows for multiple guests, the only ones on the screen are the show host, Morris Winthrope, and Blair.

"Thank you for having me, Addison," Morris says, smiling brightly. He wears a blue tie and a gray suit. Next to him, Blair looks poised in her complementary dress and muted lipstick.

"Mr. Winthrope, it's an exciting time at Winn Corp. Today you announced that you're stepping down as CEO and chairman of the board for the company your father began more than five decades ago. This news came as a shock to the nation, especially to your shareholders, who described the news as ‘blindsiding.' What do you have to say about this development?"

Morris's face is impassive as he stares the newscaster down while she speaks. "Well, Addison, the truth is that Winn Corp. is stronger than ever. Our profits are record-breaking, the company morale has never been higher, and we're more efficient than ever. So while I'm taking a step back to focus on the most important things, including family, I'm doing so with the company in the strongest position possible."

Morris smiles again, and the manufactured look on his face turns my stomach.

"I see," Addison replies, a sly smile on her face. "Speaking of family, Miss Winthrope, I believe congratulations are in order?"

Blair preens. "Yes, thank you. I'm very excited." My mother's ring flashes on her finger.

"Of course, we're talking about your upcoming nuptials to Hunter Brigham, CEO of BwP Technologies. Tell us about your fiancé. How did you meet?"

"Well, Hunter and I have known each other since we were kids. We attended the same school, and our parents have been friends for many years."

Blair has the audacity to become misty-eyed. "Hunter is one of my best friends. What started out as a companionship has turned into love." Blair sighs. It's a gentle expulsion of air. "I'm so happy he asked me to marry him."

She smiles at Addison.

Addison returns a look filled with adoration. "That's so lovely, Blair. Mr. Winthrope, I'm sure this is what you mean by ‘stepping back to focus on family,' yes?"

Morris leans into his daughter's shoulder. "Indeed, Addison. My Blair here will be tying the knot with Hunter in three short months." Morris turns to look at Blair. "And I hope not too long after that, I can welcome in some grandkids."

"Dad," she says, blushing.

"Do you hear that, Hunter?" Morris says, looking toward the camera.

Except when it pans to a spot off the set, I double over with the wind knocked out of me.

Standing there in a suit is...me.

"What the actual motherfucking hell!" Leo shouts, rushing closer to the screen until he's inches from my digitized face.

The Hunter on the screen laughs, though the sound is muted. He waves off Morris's words and blows a kiss to Blair. When they pan back to the Winthropes, she pantomimes catching it.

"Well, I can tell you now that America will love this love story," Addison says, leaning closer to Morris. "Now, you know I'd be remiss if I didn't mention the murmurings floating around Washington about you, Mr. Winthrope. Is it true that there may be hopes for the presidency in your future?"

Morris chuckles. "Now Addison, if I were to run for president, I promise you'd be the first to know." Then he winks.

The table chuckles. "Well, on that note, let me thank our guests again, Morr?—"

Max turns the TV off.

I can't form words. Leo stares at the floor, also speechless. Rio looks disturbed, and Max simply hops up and down on the balls of his feet like a rabbit on coke.

"I'm not hallucinating, am I?" I finally utter through a stiff jaw.

"Nope," Leo says, finally raising his eyes to mine. When they meet, the reality of this world—this game—I'm stuck in slams into me like a linebacker.

"What the fuck was that? How did they get me on television when I'm right here? Was that live?"

I swing around to Max, who looks like he's suppressing his excitement when he says, "Deepfake."

"A what?"

"A deepfake. This was pre-recorded from earlier today, but it's easy enough to create a good deepfake if you know what you're doing and have enough footage of the person you're trying to fake. They got someone who looks somewhat like you to stand in on set, then used technology to alter the face to be a perfect replica of yours."

They cloned me without needing my genetic material.

"Max, could you please not look so happy about this? There's nothing to be happy about," Leo says.

Max has the sense to look chagrined. "Sorry, boss! It's just that's really...fucking...cool." The energy in his words deflates like a popped balloon as we all glare at him. He averts his gaze at the look I give him, which must telegraph the throttling I contemplate unleashing on him.

"So basically, they can just do some computer magic and boom, there's Hunter." Leo starts talking rapidly, pacing, and eventually moves into Spanish.

I make my way to my chair, falling into it and staring at the pages on the desk. I don't see them.

"Who is behind most of the deepfake stuff?" Leo asks the room.

Rio and Max both say, "The Russians. "

Max clears his throat. "And the Chinese. The technology is fascinating in its simplicity," he adds.

Leo is quiet for a moment. "Right," he says blandly.

"I should issue a statement. Let the world know the engagement is off," I say while still staring at the desk. The names of the people connected with my father start to swirl on the yellow legal pad.

"No, H, you shouldn't do that."

I squint at Leo. "And why not?"

"Because we don't want to draw more attention to ourselves. They know you're around and alive, I'm sure of it. But any action on the offensive will only drive your father further into hiding and likely accelerate whatever the fuck the Winthropes are planning."

I tilt my chin down, acknowledging his words.

"So in the meantime, I'm to just...."

"In the meantime, you should lay low. That will give us time to figure out a way to capture your father. Once we have him sorted, the rest will fall into place. I'm sure of it." But Leo doesn't seem sure of anything based on the look on his face.

I lean back into my chair. "Right. More waiting. More letting them do whatever the fuck they want."

Leo's expression is grim, apologetic. He starts to talk, and I tune him out. I tune everyone out.

Leo, Rio, and Max keep talking, but I can't focus on their conversation long enough to participate. All that circles around my brain are two things.

One, Morris Winthrope, and by extension my father, can do whatever the fuck they want when they want to do it. Unless they're stopped.

Two, I have to fix this before I can even think of repairing my relationship with Winter.

"They all need to go. My father, Morris Winthrope, and Blair," I say with a calm I don't feel. Leo looks over his shoulder at me, and Rio raises his eyebrow. This isn't news to them. I'd planned on taking them out simply for what they did to Winter. But now, this? This is beyond even what happened to her.

They can do whatever they want unless they're stopped.

I stand so quickly that my leather rolling chair smacks into the wall behind me. I storm off toward the door.

"Where are you going, H?" Leo asks.

I have to stop them. How can I?

Max returns to his computer, tapping at the keyboard at a more furious pace than before, if that's even possible. He doesn't spare me a glance.

Control. I need to control this situation.

"I'm..." I don't finish the sentence. I just leave.

They're in control. They're in control. They are in fucking control.

I leave the office with no destination in mind, so when my feet take me to the home gym, I'm relieved to have something to do.

The exercise room hasn't been used in over a month, certainly not since Winter came home.

Winter. Home.

What would happen if she were to hear that I'm still "engaged" to Blair? Would she believe that the man who looks like me on the television isn't me?

Of course, she'll understand. I just need to explain it to her.

I'll explain it to her…and bring her even deeper into this mess.

I walk the perimeter of the gym with my hands on the top of my head, clutching at my hair. None of this would have happened if she'd never gotten with me—if I'd pushed back against Ella and stood my ground when she hired her.

I'm no good for Winter.

And yet, even knowing that, I can't let her go.

I strip off my button-down shirt and step up to the punching bag. I don't bother wrapping my wrists in sports tape, instead opting to put all my power behind the right jab.

Control it.

I focus on the sensation of my fist pummeling the leather bag, imagining that I'm pushing through the faces of the people who have hurt me. Hurt the people I love: August. Mom. Winter.

A flash of Adam Collins' face manifests in my consciousness—him alive and present in his inmate photo. I punch the bag again and again, imagining the feeling of his skull cracking beneath my fists and the pulp of his brain matter squishing under my knuckles.

Control yourself.

When was the last time I felt I could master my emotions while things were going haywire? It was when Maiya had just died, and I fucked the flight attendant while on the way from Türkiye to D.C., right before I met Winter. The flight attendant was so eager to do whatever I wanted, so when I took her, controlling her every move, even controlling whether she breathed, I felt in control. Aggression, dominance, whatever anyone calls it, let me access the thing I needed most: Calm.

Even though I was quite literally jetting into the unknown, I was able to silence the negative voices in my head and feel on solid ground for a moment.

But then I saw the same flight attendant standing over Winter on the flight from North Carolina. Not that I planned it that way. Leo and Misha handled the logistics of our transportation so I could focus on Winter. It's not like I had the brain space to plan anything like that.

But when I walked up the aisle and saw my past colliding with my present—my future—I felt sick.

Control. Control. Life makes sense when I am in control, especially when I can fall into my dominance.

The women I held power over…I never needed to know their names. I never needed to feel anything for them. They were an outlet—a way to avoid pain, cover up hurt. A way to get high.

A transfer addiction.

I punch the bag harder, harder. In my mind, the smack of flesh hitting leather takes up the rhythm of past fucks.

"God-fucking-damnit!" The sound bursts from my lips and the echo against the glass-paneled walls causes more tension to settle in my muscles.

I never needed more. I never needed to face the shit I was running from head-on. I could just run and run and avoid and avoid.

I could exist, but I wasn't living. I didn't start living until…Winter.

I close my eyes and focus on Winter's face. In the vision that materializes behind my lids, she kneels for me—in the same position she took before me in her shower all those months ago.

Instead of her innocent, fragile gaze staring up at me, she's bound. Gagged. Helpless to me, so she has no other choice but to submit.

"Fuck!" The thought has me doubled over, clutching my abdomen as the contents of my stomach threaten to make a reappearance.

Is that what I want for her? For us? How does that make me better than Adam Collins?

I pace the length of the room again, back and forth, trying to school my breathing, but it doesn't work.

Nothing fucking works.

With Winter, I can't fall into the same patterns I've used before to make myself feel better. But is this really about me feeling better?

I shake my head at the thought.

No. This is about her trusting me fully and knowing that I can take care of her because I can. Because I do .

I'm not steeped in this impotence and failure that plagues me every moment of every day.

Weak.

I'm weak.

I return to the punching bag, not letting up until my fists slip on the leather from my blood.

I bend over at the waist, drawing in massive gulps of air. The floor wobbles as I stare.

"Shit," I press out, stumbling over to the dumbbells. I lean against the rack and force my eyes to stay open against the salty burn of sweat.

And tears.

"Shit, shit, shit !" I repeat, but each utterance turns into a sob. My fingers curl around the weights. And then, not unlike the snap of a rubber band, I break.

I scream, howl, and the mirrors on the walls shake with the force of my voice and my rage.

Taking the twenty-five-pound weight, I fling it toward my reflection, hoping the resulting crash would tip me over the edge and into calm.

It doesn't. Instead, as the shards of tempered glass shatter all over the rubber-coated floors, everything spins.

My body—my soul is on fire.

And I don't know how to put it out.

"Goddamn it!" I return to the bag and jab-jab-jab.

I punch the bag for Winter.

I punch the bag for August.

Jab. Jab. Jab.

I punch the bag for me.

I unleash all the agony trapped in my chest from all that has happened in the last month, year, lifetime and deliver one final punch to the bag before collapsing on the ground.

Breathe.

Breathe in and out.

Breathe .

Winter. I've got to fix this shit for Winter. She's bled enough, and I won't let another drop spill from her veins because of me.

So now.

Today.

I need to capture control as much as I need my next breath.

Calm yourself.

My hands shake so violently that blood splatters everywhere in fine droplets. I don't deserve to rebuild my relationship with Winter until this is over. Finished. Safe. I owe her this—because if I don't, she'll only get hurt again.

Picking up my shirt, I wrap the crisp linen around my split knuckles. I couldn't give two shits about this shirt. Leaving the decimated gym behind, I wander through the house. My feet take me to Winter's door.

I lay my head on the doorframe, closing my eyes to breathe her in. Even from my position outside her room, I smell her rose-scented shampoo and conditioner. Rustling sounds come from the other side of the door.

I put my good hand on the handle. What would I do if I saw her right now?

Talk with her?

Kiss her?

Fuck her, even if she's not ready?

Closing my eyes, I remove my hand from the door and step away.

Control.

If I can't control anything else, I can control myself.