Page 42 of High Reward

As his fingers adjust the silk, I stare up at him. “How did you get him to agree? Hunter. He wanted to burn you to the ground a few days ago.”

Victor’s hands drop away. He moves to the other side of the room. “I didn’t. Samuel Carter did.”

I frown. I know the name. A close friend of Hunter’s. Not from here, but that’s all I know.

“He reminded Hunter of the public perception,” Victor continues, his tone all business now, like he’s delivering a report. “The PR angle.”

“What PR angle?” I scoff. “Hunter wouldn’t let reporters within a mile of her.”

“He won’t. No media will be in the room. Or the wing. But there will be a press release. Carefully worded. And there will be photographers outside the hospital entrance. When you leave, you’ll seem sad. Concerned. Devastated for your friend.”

“Trinity isn’t my friend. I barely know her.”

“She will be, to the world,” he says, his gaze sharp. “Two women, victims of the same violence, united in support. It killsthe narrative Phineas is trying to build. And it puts pressure on his mother.”

It’s all strategy. A series of chess moves with human pieces. I am one of those pieces. I smooth my blouse again, the vest underneath acting like a cage around my ribs.

Owen drives. I sit in the back of the black SUV, the tinted windows turning the bright Vegas morning into a muted gray landscape. Victor sits beside me, not speaking, his leg a warm, solid presence inches from mine. The silence is heavy, filled with the hum of the engine and my own strained breathing inside the vest. I stare out the window, watching the blur of casinos and palm trees pass, but all I see is Trinity’s face in my mind.

The SUV slows as we approach the hospital entrance. I can already see them. A small cluster of people with cameras, held back by a line of security.

The car pulls to a stop at a private side entrance, away from the press. Victor puts a hand on my arm before I can open the door. I turn to him.

His eyes are dark and intense. “Be smart. Be safe.”

It’s an order. And a plea.

I nod once, then open the door and step out into the desert heat.

A small group of reporters are gathered out front, and though I decline to comment, they snap photos of me as I walk through the emergency room doors—the entrance Owen decided was best.

The hospital is cold and smells of antiseptic. Every sound is muffled, absorbed by the polished linoleum floors and acoustic ceiling tiles. Owen leads me through a maze of corridors, his steps silent and purposeful. We pass nurses in scrubs and doctors with tired eyes, but there are others. Men in dark suits who stand too straight, whose eyes scan everything. Hunter’s security. Our escort.

We reach a set of glass doors, another guard standing sentry. Owen stops and turns to me. His face is serious, all traces of his usual charm gone.

“The plan, Liliana. Tell me.”

I comply like a student reciting a lesson. “Thirty minutes, maximum. No talking about Phineas or the case. I express my regret for what happened, I offer my support for her recovery, and then I leave.”

“And if Hunter gets hostile?”

“I don’t engage. I end the visit and leave immediately.”

He nods, satisfied. “Good.” He turns to the guard who has been watching us, a man with a thick neck and a jaw that looks like it’s been carved from granite. “This is Liliana. She has thirty minutes. When she comes out, you will escort her directly back to this point. I’ll meet her here. Make sure the rest of the detail on this wing knows she is not to leave this hospital without an escort. Understood?”

The guard gives a sharp nod. “Understood, sir.”

Owen looks at me one last time. His eyes convey a silent warning before he turns and walks back the way we came, leaving me alone in the quiet corridor.

The guard opens the glass door for me. I walk down a short hall to a room at the very end. The door is slightly ajar. My hand trembles as I push it open.

The room is filled with the soft, rhythmic beeping of machines. An IV stand holds several bags of clear liquid, tubes snaking down to a port in Trinity Novak’s arm. Flowers crowd every available surface, a riot of color that is out of place against the sterile white walls.

Hunter is slumped in a chair by the bed, his suit jacket off, his tie loosened. He looks as if he’s aged ten years in three days.

Then my eyes return to Trinity. She’s pale, her blond hair fanned out on the pillow, but her eyes are open. And they are fixed on me. They are sharp, intelligent, and surprisingly clear.

Before I can say a word, she speaks, her voice a little rough but firm. “Hunter. Go get something to eat.”