"That's it? I'm supposed to forgive you?" When she glanced back at him, his heart nearly stopped beating. Her eyes shimmered with anguish—with a pain so deep, it reverberated through his chest.
"I don't expect forgiveness, Travis. I made a mistake. What I'd hoped for was your understanding. That it was only a mistake. Not a plot to hurt you."
He shook his head. Lies. To suck him in. To use against him. Heartbreak visible in the eyes he'd grown to love, he ignored it. Shut it down, he ordered his brain. "It was a damn big mistake, Mariela."
"One I'll pay for," she blurted, her voice choked with tears. "A thousand times over—I'll pay." She dragged in a shuddering breath. "I lose, too, Travis," she reminded. "Because I really love you."
He jerked back at her words. This wasn't love. It couldn't be. The pain knifing him was anguish. In a heartbeat, he flashed back—to suffocating blackness. A locked closet. A beaten twelve- year-old boy being sucked into a vortex of darkness. A sobbing six-year-old pounding on the door, too small to turn the knob . . .
"You're not the only one suffering."
As he fought to regulate his breathing, he was relieved when she turned away from him. Travis wiped the sweat pouring down his face, still feeling lightheaded. "I'm not suffering," he lied.
"Your loss is—a delay. It's money. You'll get it all back." Sorrow drenching her eyes, she turned for the door. "I lose everything."
As MaryJo walked away, his instinct screamed to follow. As the distance separating them grew, Travis wanted to run after her—to grab her hand and jerk her back. He wanted to shout at her—for destroying what they'd had. For hurting him—perhaps beyond repair. At the same time, he wanted to hold her so tight she could never leave him.
As the gulf between them widened, his feet remained planted. Paralyzed. His own life hanging in the balance—he let her go. Let her leave. Shattering the dream he'd harbored—the vision he'd begun to embrace. Of them together. Always. A united front in anything that came their way. With MaryJo—he'd believed . . . all of it.
Whether her explanation was true, Travis finally realized—it was all too much. The feelings swamping him were too big. If one woman could do this to him—he was better off without it. Because this was too hard. Maybe she was right. Maybe he wasn't capable of trusting her. Of trusting anyone.
Yet, as he watched her cross the parking lot, head down, hand brushing impatiently at her blowing hair, Travis could almost see the heartbreak in her luminous eyes. The all-consuming anger pulsing through his chest—the self-righteous sense of betrayal—drained away, leaving him curiously empty. His legs almost too heavy to lift, he turned for the elevator. As his brain slowly fired back to life, he couldn't help questioning the things she'd said. Despite his lie, he did care about her explanation. He'd grown to rely on MaryJo. She saw things so clearly—sensed emotions that were hopelessly muddled to him—issues that went completely over his head—were intuitive to her. She'd provided him an avenue of hope with his brother. She'd won over Curtis, battle-scarred and suspicious of everyone. With her kindness. Her openness to help someone without judging.
"Trav-"
Running footsteps approached. Reluctantly, he tore his gaze from the car growing smaller as it maneuvered the twisting drive. "Yeah?" He turned away—unable to bear watching her leave him.
MARYJO CLUTCHED THE steering wheel, tears blinding her eyes as she tried to get away. From Tiberius. From Travis. From the memory of his angry words. Worse than anything, was the resignation in his eyes. His belief she could hurt him. As though he'd expected to be disappointed. "How do you change that?" Her ragged sobs filled the car. His love for her had lasted all of . . . nine hours. Wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her jacket, she felt a bubble of hysteria rise. "A new, Mullaney world record."
It took several minutes before she noticed the panel truck behind her. Before she remembered it had been there since she left Tiberius. "Sean would give you hell," she muttered. For failing to notice her surroundings. For failing to notice it creeping up on her. Crowding her. "Not another one." Sniffing back her dripping nose, she searched for a spot to pull over. Maybe a place to grab coffee. She would need her wits about her once she got home. To pack a bag. And just—run. Somewhere. Where she could regroup. Cry for a few days. Where she wouldn't be tempted to answer the phone- "Like—he's gonna call?" Her voice rose on a squeak of despair.
A moment later, she was fighting to keep her Corolla on the road. Despair took a backseat to terror. The truck had . . . bumped her? Had she . . . imagined it? Fear hitched in her throat as she watched the truck grow larger in her rearview mirror. "He's coming again." Tearing her gaze from the mirror, she tried to accelerate—but he was coming too fast. Already on top of her. Bracing for impact, MaryJo hung onto the wheel. He hit her again, harder this time, the sick screech of metal on her bumper as he pushed her into the barrier. The sound of scraping paint as she ricocheted off the barrier. "Oh, God-" She fought to correct her path . . . and failed. As she crossed the center line, she experienced a moment of relief—that the road was empty. Until she heard the roar of the truck engine behind her. Pushing her into the barrier on the opposite side of the road . . . where nothing stood between her car and the tree-lined ravine beyond it. "Stop. Please—no-"
She jerked against the seatbelt that fought to restrain her, her car fishtailing as she battled to bring it back under control. A flash of trees before her eyes as she collided with more metal. A hellacious, grinding noise filled her senses as the barrier lurched on impact. An explosion of shattering glass raining down on her as her scream echoed in her ears. Then, silence as she finally stopped moving.
"TRAVIS—IT'S NOT AS bad as we thought," Moe confirmed. "Eli found the string of code. He was able to shut it down."
"Okay." Travis tried to rein in his splintering thoughts. Tried to focus. Eli and Moe had been working for the last hour . . . to contain the untold damage. He should care more about that. His work. His life. "Shut it down until we know more."
"It may not be as bad as we thought," Eli announced, his eyes studious behind his glasses. Moe nodded, his wild hair looking as though he'd just been tased. "We took a hit . . . but it may not be as catastrophic as we thought ninety minutes ago."
"When was the last backup?" He was so . . . weary. Of problems. Of battles. If MaryJo was truly gone- He swallowed hard. There wasn't much left he cared to fight for. The damned game would be delayed. In the scheme of things—who cared? Who cared? When his life was rupturing at the seams.
"Shit—after all the problems, we've been backing up every ten minutes." Moe glanced to Eli, who nodded. "This might not be entirely . . . professional-"
Warning strafed across his senses. "What?"
"This is gonna sound bad . . . but it's not what you think-"
"Would one of you just tell me what the hell is going on?" Travis reined in his impatience.
Eli shrugged. "Three nights ago . . . we . . . uh . . . offloaded to a standalone server-"
His pulse spiked. "Why?"
"The Beastmaster was driving us nuts," Moe jumped in. "Every friggin' hour, Trav. She was pressuring us. She'd go into the game like she had a right to be there—demanding our passwords-"
"Yeah, she was sorta freaking us out. So, we . . ." Eli shot Moe a glance. "We started saving to two places. I know—it probably looks like we were gonna steal it-"
"But—what we noticed was the work started going faster," Moe confirmed. "After one night . . . it felt normal again. Fix a bug. Move on. None of the bullshit strings of random errors." He cracked his knuckles as he spoke. "When we looked at the problem like . . . it was someone inside—inserting buggy code, we weighed the risk of you finding out about the standalone server."
Admiration trickled through the numbness and regret. No matter how many mistakes he'd made—his team had his back. "I think it was brilliant."
"We're sorry about the not-telling-you thing-" Moe risked a glance at him. "But, we'll be able to recreate everything,"
he confirmed. "Only the network server is damaged."
Travis smirked. As thought that wasn't catastrophe enough?
"IT is working on that," Eli added.
The game was safe. If Travis hadn't been completely overwhelmed, he might have smiled. Their focus was so lasered in on the product. A good thing—but what about the rest of his company? What about financial records? "I'll need a status update in the next hour." He glanced to Moe. "Check in with every department manager. I want a summary of their losses, too." He'd had enough of relying on Patrice. The kid ran a hand through his hair, attempting to flatten it. "Once we know the extent of the damage, I'll make a statement to the media in a few hours. Then we'll talk to marketing about pushing back the launch."
Moe nodded. "Maybe we offer a discount to all the gamers who've pre-ordered."
Distracted, Travis nodded. He wanted to go. Hide in his office. Do something. Anything that would remove the image of MaryJo's tear-filled eyes from his brain. Her determined face—as she'd tried to make him understand. As she'd willed him to believe her. "Have them work up a few ideas—how to spin this so it's worth the wait."
As Eli and Moe scattered, Travis headed for the elevator. His memory flashed to the cocktail party. MaryJo had been there only a few hours before she'd picked up on the vibe between Chuck and Patrice. After meeting the guy he'd known more than a decade, she'd instantly sensed his friend was cheating on his wife.
Even today—knowing she would face his anger . . . MaryJo had come to him. To explain. She'd taken his shots. And returned fire with a few of her own. At the horrific end of something he'd come to value so much—he'd faced her honesty.
Mariela didn't cower. She hadn't made excuses. She'd accepted the blame he'd been eager to pile on her. The blame Patrice had rigorously assured him belonged entirely to the Mullaneys. MaryJo had absorbed his misdirected fury—when it should've been aimed at himself. Patrice was a problem he should have dealt with months ago. A known, toxic presence he'd allowed to remain. She'd poisoned his teams—damaged Tiberius' reputation. And he'd allowed it. Because he was bored by the tedious parts, he'd offloaded the management of his company—his dream—to a woman he'd never trusted.
Startled, his own words returned, floating before his eyes as the elevator doors opened. His best friend was cheating. With Patrice. Did that mean Chuck was in on it, too? Frozen, he watched the elevator doors close again. Chuck—who’d conveniently suggested he cave to Patrice’s desire to sell—as though it might be best for everyone. Chuck, who'd quizzed him incessantly about MaryJo. His brain sifting memories, he recalled MaryJo's surprise the night of the party. "You told her about my hacking?" He hadn’t understood her comment. Hadn’t paid attention. Because he'd been more interested in getting her home—and into bed.
The truth was—he wouldn't have breathed a word about MaryJo, for fear of Patrice somehow using it against him. To corrupt their relationship. To hurt her. Because destruction was Patrice's specialty.
Floored, Travis acknowledged his best friend had betrayed him. With the woman who'd set him up to lose everything. Hell—Patrice had used his request—test Tiberius’ security—to her advantage. And she'd set MaryJo up to take the fall. Patrice had known exactly how to hurt him. For a woman who thrived on finding the weakness in others, she'd hit the jackpot with him. Guessing how he felt about MaryJo, she'd used it—knowing the damage she'd inflict. The negative press would assure his software release would be met with skepticism. Who would risk buying a game riddled with flaws?
After the body blow of being betrayed by MaryJo, had Patrice expected him to fold? To quickly sell to the buyer she'd likely already lined up? Expecting him to slink away and lick his wounds. While she and Chuck cleaned up. All while laughing their asses off. At him.
Fumbling with his phone, Travis pulled the invoice from his pocket, the proof Patrice had delightedly flung in his face—and dialed Sean Mullaney's number, praying he'd reach him before it was too late. With Sean's connections, he might be able to find any trail left behind that could confirm his suspicions about Patrice. When Sean's voicemail picked up, he left a detailed message, explaining what he needed. If there was evidence, he could use it as leverage on Patrice and Chuck. His friend—the man so risk averse he'd sold back his ownership stake. Yet, he could do this? Destroy a ten-year friendship? He could cheat on his beautiful wife. What else was he capable of? No way would Chuck have the backbone to stick around for a charge of industrial espionage.
Turning back to the lobby, his gaze followed the winding drive, his thoughts on MaryJo. He'd let her believe she was at fault—used her willingness to believe she deserved it. He'd done this to the woman he claimed to love? "What the hell is wrong with you?"
With everything he had—he'd wanted her. But—he'd wanted her without risk. As though she were a prized toy on the shelf—one he didn't have enough money to buy. So—he'd admired her from afar. Visiting the store each day . . . picking it up. Holding it . . . before carefully placing it back on the shelf. Always afraid the next time he stopped by—the toy might be gone. Yet, never able to summon the courage to buy it.
Keeping her at arm's length meant never having to admit how important she'd become. Because if he had—she would hold all the power. And she could use it. Loving her would become a stick she could—beat him with. As . . . others had. He released a shaky breath, fighting the visions that wanted to control him. Saying I love you hadn't relieved the pressure building in his chest. Because the words wouldn't bring MaryJo closer—not with a monster hovering between them.
The fountains in the atrium were suddenly ferociously loud as the lobby seemed to tilt under his feet. Memories assaulted him. A sobbing baby, tangled blond ringlets, arms outstretched as she was snatched from his arms- A dark, stifling closet—the dreaded, whistling snap of the leather belt biting into his legs. He flinched, his ears ringing with his mother's twisted laughter . . . and a boy's plea for it to stop. Under the vortex of images clouding his brain, Travis stumbled to a chair, grateful it was partially hidden among the ferns.
"Stop." Stop. Perspiration dotting his forehead, he gulped in shuddering breaths to keep the nausea at bay. The caustic, soul-crushing words that had become a daily, humiliating mantra still screamed through his head. MaryJo would never- He wanted to drop his head between his knees.
"MaryJo would never do that." He fixed a picture of her in his mind. The velvety warmth of compassionate, brown eyes. Her fingers locked with his. Her smile. His erratic heartbeat slowed from its gallop. She was the most genuine, honest person he knew. And somewhere along the way—she had become his anchor. She'd become the center of his life. That knowledge had terrified him. Because she could realize she deserved—so much more.
But without her, nothing would be right. Regret wanted to crush him. Yet, he felt the tiniest flicker of hope—beckoning him to act. Still a little unsteady, Travis finally stood. Before today, he would have ignored it. Before today, he would have talked himself out of wanting someone—wanting her—more than anything. Before today, the thought of laying bare all the corroded parts inside him—was unthinkable. Of exposing himself to the risk that his wish, once spoken, could never be retracted—but could easily be denied.
His legs propelling him across the lobby, he realized he didn't give a damn about the risk. "Only the outcome." Pushing through the revolving doors, he shivered as the cool, spring air shook him free of the cobwebs. As his head cleared, he was seized by a sudden frisson of intuition. What if Patrice viewed MaryJo as a loose end? An annoying problem to be dealt with? His hunch morphed to edgy, prickling fear. Patrice liked winning. But more than winning, she liked bludgeoning the loser.
Travis broke into a run, the sense of urgency too great to ignore. Her scornful words that morning—about MaryJo being to blame. "Maybe we should run her down." Travis had thought her word choice odd. Patrice's mocking smile—unusually calm for the situation. Distracted, he'd said he would call her—bring her in. Instead, Patrice had laughed
. "Not what I meant, Travis."
Would her hatred for him overtake logic? A practical person would be satisfied with setting someone else up to take the rap, confident she'd covered her tracks well enough to avoid being caught. She and Chuck had made sure all fingers pointed to MaryJo. They stood to gain a fortune on their release shares—more if they could force him to sell out. For any practical person, that victory would be satisfaction enough. But no one would ever accuse Patrice of being practical.
Run her down. Travis flashed back to the night she'd lost Jack. The car . . . that had nearly jumped the curb. Dread whispered across the back of his neck. "The truck-" That had nearly run her off the road-
Instinct gnawing his brain, he sprinted across the parking lot. Unable to resist a vengeful score, Patrice's death blow would be to destroy something he valued. The single thing he valued most. Which meant MaryJo might be in danger. Patrice would treat her like any other pressing issue. She'd get rid of the problem—by any means possible.
Chapter 15
"Saint Simeon, I need you." Again. MaryJo muttered the prayer into the impenetrable darkness of the truck that had become her prison. Despite all her dad's training, she'd walked straight into a trap. "I can beat myself up later." She braced herself as the truck jostled over a pothole. If you survive this.
MaryJo groped the walls of the darkened panel truck, desperate for a finger hold. Each time the driver rounded a curve, she was sent careening across the floor. Replaying it in her mind, she realized the driver had been waiting for her—to leave Tiberius. He'd waited . . . for the perfect, secluded spot to get rid of her. In under two hours, she'd lost—the love of her life, his company, her father's trust. "You totaled your car." Surely, her own job—once the news hit of her participation in hacking a software company. Followed by a prison sentence for corporate espionage.
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