11:00 PM. Stella's Apartment.
"I'm home."
Hunter pushed open the door to find the lights still on. Stella was sitting on the living room sofa, still wearing her office attire—a sharp pencil skirt and blouse that usually signaled her "boss mode." But tonight, she looked deflated.
She was holding a glass of red wine, staring blankly into the ruby liquid.
At the sound of his voice, she jumped, nearly spilling the wine. Panic flashed across her face before she forced a smile.
"You're back."
"Yeah."
Hunter read her instantly. Stella was a brilliant safecracker, but a terrible liar. Her anxiety was radiating off her in waves.
He didn't press her. Instead, he walked calmly to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of Merlot, and returned to the living room. He sat down next to her, close enough that their thighs touched.
"You look like you've had a long day," Hunter said softly. "Want to drink with me?"
Clink.
He touched his glass to hers and downed half the contents in one go. He wasn't a connoisseur. To him, wine was just flavored alcohol—a prop for the scene.
Stella watched him, her knuckles white on the stem of her glass.
Earlier that afternoon, the police had come to her office.
They were polite—Stella Bridger was a respected business owner who often consulted for the LAPD—but their questions were sharp.
They told her Charlie Croker was dead. Executed in his hospital bed.
They told her Handsome Rob and Left Ear were dead too.
And then they dropped the bomb: Hunter Sun was a suspect.
An anonymous tip (likely Lyle) claimed Hunter had a grudge against Charlie over her. The police grilled her for hours. Where was he last night? How did you meet? What does he do for a living?
Stella had defended him. Passionately. She swore he was with her all night. She vouched for his character.
But now, sitting in the silence of her apartment, the doubt was creeping in like a cold fog.
A few days ago, Hunter had casually "prepped" her. He had told her, If anyone asks, we met at a gallery. I'm a painter. Keep it simple.
At the time, she thought it was a romantic game—a secret backstory for their whirlwind romance. She had laughed and played along.
But today, under the glare of the police interrogation, those playful instructions felt chillingly prescient.
He knew. He had prepared an alibi before the bodies even dropped.
"Hunter..." Stella started, her voice trembling. She looked at him, trying to find the monster the police described.
But all she saw was the handsome young man who had avenged her father. The man who cooked her dinner, who made her laugh, who took her to heights of pleasure she didn't know existed.
Stella was conflicted. She came from a family of thieves, yes. Her father was John Bridger. But her mother had raised her to be straight. Stella ran a legitimate business. She walked the line.
Hunter lived in the shadows. She knew he was a thief—he had stolen the gold back from Steve. She knew he was dangerous.
But a triple homicide? An execution?
Was the man sleeping in her bed a hero... or a psychopath?
She looked at his hands—strong, gentle hands that had caressed her just hours ago. Hands that might have pulled a trigger three times into a defenseless man's chest.
Fear warred with love. She had fallen hard for him. She had even caught herself looking up marriage laws, wondering if they could elope despite his age. She wanted him to be the one.
But if she asked him the truth... what if he confirmed it? Or worse, what if he lied, and she knew it?
The words stuck in her throat.
Hunter watched the internal struggle play out on her face. He remained silent, sipping his wine, waiting for her to make her move.
He wasn't worried. He knew Stella. She loved her father more than the law. And Hunter was the man who had killed her father's murderer. That bond was stronger than any police badge.
She just needed to accept it.
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