Page 24 of Velvet Betrayal
“Cheer up, Rubes,” I said. “At least you’re one step closer to home.”
She almost laughed, then checked to make sure Rosie was asleep before she muttered, “That’s just fucking awesome.”
Ruby
The hotel Kieran picked was the kind of place my mother’s side of the family would have died to get into—all marble floors and gold leaf, the lobby ceiling painted with cherubs and city royalty. We parked out front, the car too ordinary for the valet, and walked inside like we belonged. Kieran checked us in under a fake name, not even blinking as he handed over a credit card with someone else’s initials. He kept a hand at my back, guiding me through the lobby, and for a second I felt less like a DA and more like a mistress in a bad spy movie.
Maybe the difference didn’t matter anymore.
The room was nicer than I expected. Two queen beds with crisp white linens, blackout blinds, a view of Boylston Ave lit up in a bruised haze of city light. Rosie made a beeline for the window, flattening her palms to the glass. “We’re in the air!” she said, delighted. She’d always loved being up high. Kieran dumped the bags and did a slow sweep of the suite, eyes flicking to every vent, closet, and corner. Old habits. For a second, he looked embarrassed to be caught doing it, but then he just sat on the edge of the bed and unlaced his boots, one eye on the hallway door.
I ducked into the bathroom, flicked on the light. The mirror was huge and unkind. I looked like hell—borrowed leggings, hoodie two sizes too big, dark circles under my eyes, windburn on my cheeks. I splashed water on my face, watched it bead and drip. The adrenaline comedown was already setting in, making my hands shake. I braced myself on the counter and tried to breathe. Panic was an option, but not in front of Rosie. Never in front of Rosie.
For a second, I let myself feel it—the real fear, the kind that crawled up your spine and settled in your teeth. Ten years prosecuting fraud and trafficking had rewired my panic, made it colder, more controlled. But this—this terror for Rosie, for me, for how many hours we could outrun whoever was after us—this was different. I dried my face, rubbing at my skin like I could erase everything that had happened with friction. My eyes wouldn’t clear: red, rimmed in last night’s mascara. The face in the mirror was leaner than it had been in law school, the bones set deeper, but still recognizably me. I ran through my mental checklist: things left to do, things left to prove, things never to repeat.
At the bottom: never sleep with a Callahan.
I didn’t need a sticky note to remind me of that. Never sleep with Kieran Callahan again. One wonderful thing, and a thousand bad ones. I was on the implant now, and I refused to get pregnant by this man a second time.
I changed into the hotel robe, feeling like every exhausted mom who ever gave up at the end of a long road trip, and sat at the tiny desk. Kieran was ordering room service for Rosie—pancakes and orange juice, her only food group after 8pm.
“Thank you,” I said.
He shrugged. “We should eat too. What do you want?”
“Whatever you’re having,” I said, too tired to care.
He raised his eyebrows. “You’ve gotten so easy going.”
I rolled my eyes. “Burrata plate. And the lobster ravioli, if you want to split.”
“You still take half my food,” he said, already swiping the wine list.
“You told me I never finish my food.”
“You don’t. Thank you for ordering the burrata.”
He rattled off the order like a pro, adding steak frites for himself, and recited the room number from memory. Rosie had already turned the suite into her personal playground: she’d commandeered every blanket, lined up her two stuffed animals (both a crisis gift-shop purchase, don’t judge), and built a fort under the desk.
Kieran pretended not to see her, but I caught the twitch of a smile at the edge of his mouth. He poured himself a glass of water and stared out at the city, and for a second, it almost felt like we were just hiding out from the world instead of running for our lives.
Eventually, Rosie burrowed into her fort and went quiet—a sign she was reading the book I’d thrown in her suitcase. I knelt by the blankets and watched her mouth move, half-whispering the words to herself.
The tenderness of it hurt.
For half an hour, nothing happened. I almost fell asleep in front of a muted Chopped rerun when a sharp knock at the door snapped me awake. Kieran jerked upright too. We exchanged a look. He motioned to me: get the kid, back up.
“Room service!”
He moved fast, silent. Palmed a switchblade from somewhere—an actual switchblade, because of course he had one. I’d fought like hell to keep things like that off the street…but I knew Kieran. He’d probably had that knife for years, tucked in a boot or glovebox, flicked open with the same casual arrogancehe used to break my heart. Somehow, it felt like a personal attack.
He pressed his back to the wall, blade glinting. The knock came again, louder. A cart rattled outside. Room service—or someone dressed for the part.
“Let’s stay real quiet, peanut. We’re still playing hide and seek, okay?”
She smiled, pressing her lips together, eyes wide with mischief. I felt like a bad mother…like a liar.
She would need to learn at some point that itwasn’ta game. I just wasn’t ready to tell her.
