Page 169 of House of Cards

Same envelope.

Same handwriting.

Same Saran-Wrapped finger.

I’m betting he thinks I haven’t changed. He’s wrong. I chose Zoey’s life over her brother’s without consulting her. Some might call it mercy. She’ll probably call it selfishness.

I call it evolution.

Elonzo isn’t calling the shots tonight, and Christ, that makes me smug. But cold realization suffocates the satisfaction settling in my chest.

Zoey is about to shatter.

And instead of Elonzo,I’mthe one holding the hammer.

I’ve spent years perfecting the art of breaking women. But this? This is different. This is survival masquerading as betrayal, and I already know Zoey won’t accept the distinction.

I pull up to the villa’s entrance, the Bentley’s purring engine dropping to a whisper. In the sudden quiet, I hear Zoey’s breathing grow harder, faster, like she’s struggling to keep herself together through sheer force of will.

“What the fuck?” she whispers, her voice shaking. “What theactualfuck?”

The car doors unlock with a soft click as I turn off the engine. Zoey gets out before I can say a word, slamming the door so hard the Bentley rocks on its suspension.

“You’ve really got to work on your communication skills, Smith,” Troy says.

“Nothing I could have said would’ve made this easier.”

“Not her I was talking about.”

I briefly catch Troy’s eye in the rearview mirror, but I force myself to look away. Instead of answering, I draw Elonzo’s note from my pocket and hand it to Troy over my shoulder. I see recognition flicker on his face as he takes it from me. He was there when I found Michelle’s envelope. Her finger. Thank God he didn’t go to the drop. Myles needed him some place else that night.

He might not have survived.

Many of our men didn’t.

“Jesus fucking Christ. How did he?—?”

“I don’t know.”

Troy lets out a heavy sigh. “I mean…I get it…but, fuck, Smith, you gotta talk to her.”

“Planning on it,” I mutter, reluctantly getting out of the car.

Zoey stands in the circular driveway, staring up at the villa’s imposing facade like a tourist in front of a landmark to a historical genocide. She doesn’t turn to me when I approach, despite the loud crunch of my shoes over the gravel drive.

“Zoey.”

The security lights paint her face in harsh white, spotlighting the exact moment understanding crashes over her like an icy wave.

Her shoulders sag. Her arms fall to her sides.

“You were never planning to take me to him, were you?”

I get out slowly, Troy following suit. The night air is crisp, carrying the scent of jasmine from the gardens. It should have been idyllic. Instead, it feels like I’m standing in a minefield.

“No,” I tell her. “I wasn’t.”

She turns her head, staring at me. Expressionless.

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