🌁 chapter three: wheel's up [let me be your ghost]

“He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.”

“He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.”

-Friedrich Nietzsche

My life had been all travel, all the time. Jet-setting to meet clients, joining them on trips as I tried to capture chapters that seemed to slip through their attention as they popped bottles on private jets.

Distracted. That’s how they all were. Important, rich men who finally got a taste of the finer things and then gorged themselves on it. They built gilded leaning towers of Pisa that I toppled with a gentle kick. Their worlds were so chaotic they didn’t see the way their bills were stuffed into the pockets of those working for them behind their backs. They didn’t see the full extent of their wastefulness until it was too late, until I led the Bureau to their door.

That was not how Eze’s world was run, as I was just about to find out.

I had just enough time to speed back to my desert loft, where I threw shades of black into my suitcase—I found that it was easier to focus on writing if my clothes didn’t have to match—and upturned everything to find my ancient manual tape recorder. I packed it into a leather laptop bag, much too large for my slim laptop, but I liked how masculine it looked. Away everything went, along with a digital legal pad.

That’s all I got to pack before headlights rolled through the dust and lit up my panoramic windows in the night.

“I’m coming!” I yelled, and took one last look at the home I rarely inhabited before locking up and heading toward the towering Escalade.

Leaving for a new project was always something beautiful. I felt the tickle of nervous excitement, and in my mind’s eye saw a neat, locked treasure chest of a human mind I was about to crack open.

Some people become writers because they are trying to uncover a truth within themselves. Not me. I became a writer because there was a bigger truth I needed to unlock—but to do so, I had to rummage around the hearts and dreams of others.

I was driven to the Scottsdale airport, where a private jet waited on the dark runway.

Private jet, as it turned out, was an understatement. I walked into what felt like a Swiss hotel. Dimmed mood lights, white leather seats, granite countertops in the galley, and lighting calibrated to the passenger’s natural circadian rhythm to combat jet lag.

A flight attendant greeted me on the tarmac, taking my suitcase. She wore a tight smile—a practiced guard against any pesky microexpressions that might betray her true feelings in her line of work.

“Welcome aboard, Lola Whitman. I’m Claire, your air hostess tonight.”

“Thanks, Claire,” I said. I had come across my fair share of female staff supporting these men, and almost all of them had grown hardened skin to contend with the hunter-prey energy that proliferated in these spaces. There was no immediate rule of law on a private island or a jet over international waters—and who were you to go up against Goliath in any case less than murder? The margin for error goes to zero if you dare reach for a slingshot.

It was part of the reason I did what I did. I knew what it felt like to be helpless, and I would never be in that position again—and I would slay the beasts that went after the gazelles, one drop of ink at a time.

As I settled into my seat—a plush, soft leather that once belonged to a quivering animal’s flesh—Claire handed me a glass tablet that lit up with the words Welcome, Lola in script font.

“Please fill out this survey so the Crane household staff can be up-to-date on your accommodation preferences before you land,” she said, the phrase robotic and oft-repeated.

Like footsteps in mud that had been walked through so many times they’d stiffened into concrete.

“Thanks,” I said, accepting the glass of champagne she offered alongside it, drinking it too fast but not caring. I flipped through the questions as the plane took off.

What temperature do you prefer your bedroom to be at?

What dietary restrictions do you have? Check all that apply.

What is your dress size?

I rolled my eyes and skipped the last question. I wasn’t here to play dress-up. If Eze thought he could win me over with gifts, he was in for a rude awakening.

I finished the survey and stood up, wandering the cabin, getting my first real glimpse of Eze’s world—or, the world his father had left for him. Pristine, tech-forward, not a hair out of place.

“Can I help you with anything, Ms. Whitman?” Claire asked, appearing out of nowhere.

“Yeah. How long have you worked for the Crane family?”

“A few years.”

“When’s the last time you saw Eze behaving badly?”

Claire blinked, caught off-guard. “I—I don’t know what you mean. Mr. Crane is a wonderful boss.”

I nodded. “Sure he is. Has he seemed different lately, though since stepping into the role of CEO? Anything I might need to know going into all of this? Woman to woman?”

Claire looked around, as if checking to see whether anyone else might materialize in the empty jet, and her uptight expression slipped.

She leaned in close. I smelled her deep vanilla perfume as her lips parted near my ear and she whispered, “Don’t lie here. He’ll know.”

Before I could react, her professional mask snapped back into place. She straightened up. “Anything else I can get you, Ms. Whitman? Coffee? Sparkling water? Anything to eat?”

I shook my head. “I’m good.”

The jet rumbled as it hit a wave of turbulence.

***

Time moved too fast. The jet touched down and I was being ushered into another dark Escalade before I could process everything happening in the clockwork world of Eze’s.

Moonlight dripped through the tunnel of trees as the black car climbed up, up, up narrow streets, crawling toward La Honda. Tech billionaires could hide in the hills with estates that crept deep into the woods, away from prying eyes.

It was close to midnight, and I was clutching an acidic energy drink that tasted like burnt lemons as my stomach turned.

Don’t lie here. He’ll know.

Claire’s words echoed in my mind as the car wove down winding roads.

This is the last one. Then I’ll have my freedom.

The same mantra I had repeated at the beginning of the last job, I remembered while my nerve endings danced, the butterflies having a full disco in my stomach. This is the last one, and then I’ll go build myself a proper home. Maybe in the desert, maybe elsewhere. And I’ll write whatever I want, whenever I want, and drink tea and tend to a spice garden and make sourdough bread from scratch and gossip with friends about who’s sleeping with who. Maybe I’ll go shoot targets in the desert with Tabur and his friends if I get bored of gossip.

Despite the nerves, despite the dread, there was excitement. Adrenaline. A desire for a worthy opponent. Maybe Eze would be that for me. Or maybe I’d be disappointed by him the way I had been by Brett Wolf and his fake smile.

Either way, I was here for the kill. And I was ready to topple Eze from his empire if that meant earning my freedom.

The car slipped around a final bend before turning abruptly off the main road and pausing at a huge wrought iron gate with the letter “C” emblazoned in gold. The driver rolled down his window—and I was hit with a breath of fresh sea air that tasted of salt and pine needles. The driver flashed his ID to one of several cameras at the entry gate. After a moment, the wrought iron gate creaked open.

The Crane estate was not an estate. It was a compound. A sprawling, modern mansion made of slabs of cement and glass that sprang out of rolling grassy hills, a lighthouse watching over the buildings below as they sank into the deep forest beyond the main circular driveway.

The driver passed the circle drive of the mansion and headed toward the lighthouse. The car slowed to a stop at the foot of the tall building, and I opened the door and jumped out.

As I surveyed the landscape, my eyes moved to the cliffs that dropped straight down to the ocean and a small beach below.

And then my gaze stopped on a masculine figure, bathed in moonlight, completely naked and standing at the edge of the cliff above the water.

My breath caught in my throat. Even from a distance I recognized the towering figure, his bronze skin glinting like a midnight Adonis.

What is he doing? I thought, watching the figure hold perfectly still at the edge of the cliff.

Then he turned, as if feeling my eyes on him—and in a second—

—dove off the cliff.

“STOP!” I yelled, an instinct pulling the scream from my lungs before I could fully think.

The driver, holding my suitcase, walked over to me.

“Don’t worry about him, miss,” he said. “Shall I bring your bag upstairs?”

I stared at where Eze had just stood. “He—he just—”

“Mr. Crane prefers not to be watched during his cold exposure therapy,” the driver said, turning toward the modern wooden barnhouse door at the base of the lighthouse.

After one more glance at the horizon, I followed. Cliff diving at midnight. Not a wellness trend I was familiar with.

The tiny elevator of the lighthouse rose to the top floor and opened with a ding into a circular penthouse with panoramic windows that took my breath away.

Even the bed was shaped like a large circle, no sharp edges anywhere in the room. Everything was warm and plush—thick rugs and blankets on every surface—except for the cold mosaic tile that led into a small bathroom with a claw-foot tub overlooking the ocean, the horizon stretching on to infinity.

The driver set down my suitcase as I stepped into the space.

“There’s a remote on the side table to close the window shades, which I recommend at night so the lighthouse’s beam doesn’t keep you up. There’s a meal schedule on your desk, and everything is served in the main house. If you’d like anything brought here, just ring the head of staff or follow the ordering instructions on your room’s touchpad. Any questions?”

I watched the lighthouse beam sweep the darkness in slow circles. It was hypnotic.

“No, I’m good.”

“Glad to hear it. My name is Xavier, one of the drivers here, so you’ll see me around. Goodnight, Ms. Whitman.”

“Just call me Lola.”

He blinked, and then nodded. “Sure thing, Lola,” he said, and stepped back into the waiting elevator.

As soon as the elevator doors closed, I went to the window.

Outside, climbing up the path from the beach, was Eze. Stark naked, his skin glowing under the moonlight, all strong lithe lines of a man who must have spent summers soaking in the Mediterranean and somehow felt just as at ease in this foggy forge.

As if on cue, he stopped—and looked up at the lighthouse. Looked directly at me.

I stepped back from the window, my breath caught in my throat. In that moment, I knew one truth deep in the core of my bones.

I needed to be careful around Eze.