Lex had Eli exactly where he wanted him—
leaning back, guarded smile cracking at the edges, the veneer of control starting to peel like cheap paint in the sun.
Then the waiter appeared.
A young woman, no older than twenty-two, carrying a fresh glass of water on a polished tray. Her posture stiff, her eyes darting not at Lex… but at Kade.
Kade read her instantly.
Fear.
Urgency.
A message.
"Water for you, sir," she said, voice tight.
Lex frowned. "I didn't order—"
The glass wasn't what mattered.
It was the folded napkin beneath it.
Thin. White. Crisp.
And sticking out from just under its edge…
A sliver of pale green ink.
Lex's breath hitched.
Rose's ink.
Rose's handwriting.
Before Lex could reach for it, Kade moved with a speed that shouldn't have been possible for a man that calm. His hand swept the napkin up in a single fluid motion, folding it into his palm without ever drawing attention.
The waiter stepped back, trembling, and Eli barely glanced at her.
"Clumsy," Eli murmured disdainfully. "They hire anyone these days."
Kade didn't correct him.
He stepped behind Lex's chair, body angled perfectly to block Eli's line of sight.
Lex kept his smile steady.
"Where were we?" he asked lightly.
Eli studied him again, sensing something had shifted, but not knowing what.
"We were discussing enemies," Eli said. "Yours and mine."
"Yes," Lex said. "A fascinating topic."
But inside?
Inside he was burning.
Because Rose didn't just leave notes.
She had a code.
A code only four people on earth knew:
Her mother.
Her childhood friend.
Lex.
And Rose herself.
Kade's hand lowered to Lex's shoulder. A subtle squeeze.
We need to read this.
Now.
Lex rose from his chair smoothly, as though stretching from a long flight.
"Excuse me," he said. "I need a moment."
Eli raised an eyebrow, amused.
"Nerves?"
"No," Lex said.
"Hydration."
He nodded politely and walked toward the entrance. Kade followed two beats later, moving like a wall that had learned to walk.
They stepped into the shaded breezeway between the patio and the bathrooms — quiet, empty, perfect for a secret.
Kade unfolded the napkin with practiced care.
Inside, written in Rose's unmistakable looping cursive and green pen:
"Blue nights taste bitter.
But the moon is always watching."
Lex swore under his breath. "God—she used the poem."
Kade frowned. "Translation?"
Lex exhaled shakily.
"It's one of her stupid metaphors," he said. "From a poem she wrote at sixteen. She only uses it when she's in danger but can't name the threat."
"What does it mean?" Kade pressed.
Lex traced the words with his thumb.
"'Blue nights taste bitter' means she's somewhere cold. Industrial. Metal. Under artificial lighting."
Kade nodded. "Warehouse or basement."
"'But the moon is always watching'…"
Lex swallowed.
"That means cameras.
Someone is filming her. Someone is monitoring her constantly."
Kade's jaw tightened. "Harrow?"
Lex shook his head instantly.
"No. If it were Harrow, she wouldn't risk writing this. She'd assume he'd read it."
"So this was slipped out behind his back."
"Exactly."
Lex reread the second line, voice dropping to a whisper:
"She's telling me she's alive."
Kade looked at him.
"And the waiter?"
"Rose must've gotten a message to her," Lex said. "Or she bribed her. Or begged."
Kade's eyes narrowed.
Lex didn't breathe for a moment.
"Where would Harrow's enemies take someone they want me to blame him for?" Lex murmured.
Kade's face hardened.
"Somewhere he controls on paper—but not in practice."
Lex froze.
He knew exactly what that meant.
"Old studios," Lex said. "The abandoned sets they lease out to small productions. Harrow owns a few, but he doesn't run them himself."
Kade nodded.
"Subsidiaries. Fall guys."
Lex's pulse kicked into overdrive.
Rose was somewhere cold.
Somewhere industrial.
Under blue lights.
Under surveillance.
And worst of all—
She wasn't alone.
Because Rose would never use the moon metaphor unless someone was forcing her into performative danger.
Someone watching her like an audience.
Lex folded the note back into Kade's hand.
"We go now," he said.
Kade nodded.
A shadow crossed the breezeway.
Not heavy.
Not loud.
Just present—
the way silk moves across skin or a knife glides across glass.
Lex didn't turn.
Kade did.
His hand drifted—casual, subtle—toward the inside of his jacket, where men like him kept things that ended conversations.
Eli Harrow stepped into the narrow strip of shade, framed by sunlight behind him like a figure stepping out of a stage spotlight. His posture relaxed, hands clasped behind his back, expression composed.
Too composed.
"Leaving already, Mr. Latham?" he asked in a voice that pretended softness but carried the steel of command. "We were just beginning to understand each other."
Lex slipped the napkin behind his palm, folding it against his wrist with movements so economical they were invisible unless you were trained to see them.
Eli didn't notice.
Kade made sure of that—shifting just enough to block Eli's line of sight, shoulders angled as if adjusting position when really he was shielding Rose's message.
Lex offered a polite, nearly bored expression.
"I don't linger over salads," Lex said. "I prefer action."
Eli smiled faintly.
"A boy in a hurry."
"I don't have the luxury of time," Lex replied.
Eli stepped closer—not enough to breach Kade's perimeter, but enough to invade the air. His gaze flicked between them, reading tension, drawing conclusions.
"You found something," Eli said.
It wasn't a question.
It wasn't an accusation.
It was confirmation.
Lex didn't blink. "And you're fishing."
Eli's smile sharpened.
"You're very quick."
"And you're stalling," Lex countered. "Which tells me you're nervous."
Kade snorted softly, approving.
Eli's eyes narrowed a fraction—barely enough for most men to notice, but Lex had survived men who communicated whole sentences through microexpressions.
Harrow was irritated.
Good.
Lex took a step forward and lowered his voice.
"You wanted a conversation, Mr. Harrow. Now you've seen enough to know I don't dance to your cues."
Eli tilted his head. "Careful. Confidence becomes arrogance quickly."
Lex smiled—a thin, dangerous thing he'd perfected in his first life, the smile he used right before dismantling someone's portfolio or reputation.
"Only if the person I'm speaking to deserves my fear," Lex said.
"And you don't."
Kade murmured, "Nice."
Eli's gaze flickered to Kade, assessing, calculating, then returned to Lex.
"You speak as if you understand the game," Eli said quietly.
Lex slipped his hands into his pockets, posture loose, unconcerned.
"Oh, I do," he murmured. "But here's the thing about games—"
He leaned in just a hair.
"Only one of us is playing blind."
For the first time, Eli's mask cracked—
a fraction.
A hairline fracture.
Lex stepped back as if the conversation were over.
"I have another meeting," he said calmly.
"We'll talk again."
Eli's voice dropped to a dangerous purr.
"You can't keep running from this."
Lex turned his back to him—
a move so disrespectful it could've been lethal in the wrong context.
"I'm not running," Lex said as he walked away.
"I'm just choosing not to waste daylight."
Kade followed, never turning his back fully, eyes on Eli until the last possible second.
When they reached the door, Kade muttered:
"Well… that went better than expected."
Lex exhaled sharply, pulse thrumming with adrenaline he refused to show.
"He didn't see the note," Lex said.
"No," Kade replied, "but he knows something changed."
Lex nodded once.
"Good," he said. "Let him chase the wrong thing."
Because while Eli Harrow lingered in The Ivy's shade, nursing whatever theory he was spinning—
Lex and Kade were already moving.
Already armed with Rose's message.
Already hunting the real enemy.
Blue nights.
Bitter air.
The moon watching.
Rose had left her first breadcrumb.
And Lex was done being hunted.