POV: Rosalind
I met Theo at a late-night diner off the highway that night, a place with bright lights and too many witnesses.
The kind of establishment where truckers stopped for coffee at three AM and teenagers gathered after concerts and no one asked questions about who you were or why you were there. Fluorescent lighting. Cracked vinyl booths. A waitress who'd seen everything and cared about nothing except whether you tipped.
Perfect.
Theo was already there when I arrived, sitting in a corner booth with sightlines to both entrances. But when I slid in, he didn't stay across from me. He moved to my side of the booth, shoulder touching shoulder, his thigh pressed against mine. His hand slid onto my leg under the table—just for one steadying second, firm and grounding—then withdrew.
"Tell me," he said quietly.
So I did. Everything. The man entering after I'd locked the door. The watch placed on the counter like currency or threat. The casual mention of Luca's schedule—where he worked, when he finished. Daniel's voice on speakerphone, cold and precise, demanding a name. Michael Hale walking out with a smile that suggested this was all going exactly as he'd planned.
Theo listened without interrupting. The waitress brought coffee neither of us had ordered. He wrapped both hands around his cup but didn't drink.
"Describe him again," Theo said. "Slower this time. Everything you remember."
I did. Height, build, the expensive suit that fit too well to be off-the-rack. The watch—mechanical, visible complications, the kind collectors wore. The way he'd moved through the space. The way he'd smiled.
"Did he look at the doors when he entered?"
"Yes. Both of them. Front and side entrance."
"Did he check for cameras?"
I thought back. "His eyes went to the corners. Brief. Like he was cataloging, not searching."
"Did he touch anything besides the watch and the counter?"
"No. Hands in his pockets most of the time."
"How did he speak? Fast? Deliberate?"
"Deliberate. Like he'd rehearsed the conversation." I looked at Theo. "How do you always know what questions to ask?"
Theo's jaw tightened. He took a slow sip of coffee, set the cup down with careful precision. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. Flat.
"Because I've been the man who asks them."
The admission hung between us. Heavy. Dangerous.
"What does that mean?" I asked.
"It means I know what surveillance looks like because I've done it. I know how threats are delivered because I've delivered them. I know how men like Michael Hale operate because I used to operate the same way." His hand found mine under the table. "Different employer. Different reasons. But the same skill set."
"You worked for people like the Hales."
"I worked for people who used the same methods. Clean approaches. Psychological pressure. Information gathering disguised as friendly interest." He squeezed my hand. "That's how I know Daniel's in serious trouble. Because the tactics they're using aren't about negotiation. They're about establishing dominance before the real demands start."
My stomach tightened. "What do you mean?"
"Michael Hale didn't come to your winery to taste wine. He came to demonstrate access. To show you and Daniel that your safe spaces aren't safe. That your boundaries are penetrable. That your son's schedule is known and trackable." Theo turned to face me slightly. "It's a power play. Step one in a series of escalating demands."
"What's step two?"
"The meeting Daniel agreed to. If he shows up tomorrow, it will be treated as consent to a chain of demands he won't be able to refuse. Because once you negotiate with people who've demonstrated they can reach your family, you've admitted they have leverage. And leverage only increases."
"So he shouldn't go."
"He won't have a choice. Not going means they come to the winery again. Or they approach Luca directly. Or they find another pressure point and push until something breaks." Theo's thumb traced circles on my palm. "But there's something you can control."
"What?"
"Keep Luca away. No matter what Daniel says. No matter what excuses he gives about wanting the family together or showing unity. You keep Luca separated from this situation."
"Daniel will argue."
"Let him. Your job is to protect your son, not accommodate your husband's strategy." His grip tightened. "If the Hales get access to Luca—even once, even briefly—they'll use it. A photo. A conversation. Anything that proves he's accessible. That makes him a permanent fixture in their leverage calculation."
"How do I stop that?"
"By practicing one sentence until you can say it without hesitation." Theo looked at me. "Ready?"
"What sentence?"
"'Luca is not available.'" His voice was firm. Matter-of-fact. "Say it with me."
"Luca is not available."
"Again. Like you mean it."
"Luca is not available."
"Again. Like it's not up for discussion."
"Luca is not available."
We sat there in the bright diner with our cold coffee and too many witnesses, and Theo made me repeat it until the words stopped feeling like a statement and started feeling like armor.
When we finally left, he walked me to my car in the parking lot. We stood between his vehicle and mine, using the shadows and metal for cover. He pulled me against him—tight, protective—and kissed me like he was trying to memorize the shape of my mouth, the taste of me, the feel of my body pressed against his.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine.
"You have to go home," he said.
"I know."
"And you have to practice that sentence."
"I will."
"Say it now. One more time."
"Luca is not available."
"Good." He kissed me again. Softer. "Drive carefully. Text me when you're home safe."
Then he let me go.
I drove home on empty highways with the radio off, repeating that sentence out loud in the darkness of my car. Over and over until my voice stopped shaking. Until the words sounded calm. Certain. Non-negotiable.
"Luca is not available."
"Luca is not available."
"Luca is not available."
By the time I pulled into my driveway, I almost believed it.