Undressed By His Arrogance

Joey sighed and walked past Winn. "You know, there isn’t much difference between you and Tom. You are both assholes, he just happens to pair his with evil." Joey strode through the living room to the bar and poured himself a drink.

Joey took a long swallow, grimacing as the burn hit his throat. "You manipulate," he continued, not turning around. "You tell yourself it’s for the greater good, like you are doing others a favour." He finally glanced back, eyes tired.

"Joey..." Winn sighed.

"You manipulated me." Joey accused him.

He turned slowly, bottle still in his hand, eyes sharp and wounded. The anger was controlled. Joey had always trusted Winn’s mind even when he questioned his morals.

"For good reason."

Winn met Joey’s gaze head-on, shoulders squared, accepting the weight of the accusation.

"You lied to me."

Joey set the bottle down harder than necessary, the glass clunking against the bar.

"Again, for good reason." Winn answered.

"Why?"

"You have a god daughter."

Joey raised a brow, dropping the glass on the bar counter. "What?"

His confusion was genuine, disbelief flashing across his face. "That’s not funny, Winn."

"I didn’t officially ask you but it will always be you, Joey. You are Elizabeth’s god father. So if something ever happens to myself and her mother, you’re it, dude."

"Back up, one more minute." Joey moved closer. "The baby, Ivy’s baby?"

"She’s alive."

Joey gasped heavily, a big smile breaking across his face, then bursting into happy laughter. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing once. "I’m still mad at you but God, I need a hug."

"Bring it in." Winn opened his arms and Joey wrapped his arms around him.

"Where is she?"

Joey pulled back slightly, hands still gripping Winn’s shoulders, urgency flooding back in.

"I wish I could tell you but she was taken away to keep her safe after it became evident how far Tom would go to get his hands on the Orchard fortune."

"She’s protected. Hidden. Loved. That’s all that matters right now."

Joey nodded slowly, absorbing it all.

"I wish the Orchard fortune is all he wants. I would have just asked you to throw it all at him so you can finally have some peace." Joey sighed, heading back to the bar again.

Joey poured generously again.

"That’s why I had to give you half the truth, Joey because I needed Tom to believe he can use you."

"You should have told me. What you needed to confirm is if you can trust me. We have been friends since high school, you arrogant bastard. At least, I wouldn’t feel so offended with the kinds of questions those dumb detectives were asking me."

Joey turned, pointing his glass accusingly. "You know how ridiculous it was? Sitting there while they ask me if I wanted my wife out of the picture because I wanted to get back with my ex girlfriend.’" He scoffed.

"I’m sorry. I need to make Tom afraid. I need him to make mistakes trying to cover his tracks." Winn explained.

"Tom won’t slip when he’s comfortable," Winn continued. "He will when he thinks the walls are closing in. Fear will make him careless."

"Yeah. The investigation scares him. He wants it closed." Joey nodded.

"Tom made sure Sylvia would take the fall for Diane’s death. If he is afraid, it means he made a mistake somewhere."

"Or he just doesn’t want the scrutiny." Joey suggested.

"Then lets give him the spotlight. Let him feel seen. Let him start wondering who’s watching him when he sleeps."

"You speak my mind."

Joey lifted his glass in mock salute.

"I missed you man." Winn said smiling.

He meant it—not just Joey’s usefulness, but his presence.

"You are still an asshole." Joey rolled his eyes and concentrated on his drink.

But there was no real bite in it this time.

*****

Sharona had been tortured within an inch of her life.

The room she was kept in had no windows, no sense of time. Her wrists were bound behind her back with restraints that bit into raw skin, every shift of her weight sending fresh waves of pain through her arms.

Her hair hung wet and heavy against her face, water dripping steadily onto the floor. They had dunked her head so many times she had lost count—down into cold, choking darkness, then hauled back up just long enough to gasp before it happened again. Her body was a roadmap of agony: stabbed, shocked, prodded.

But she knew information was the only thing keeping her alive.

That truth burned brighter than the pain. As long as she was useful, she was breathing. The moment she gave them what they wanted—her value would drop to zero. She was already imagining the end: the bath of disintegrating chemicals.

So far, she had lost two teeth, one finger and her pinky toe.

Pain blurred into numbness and back again in sickening cycles. Her mouth throbbed constantly. Her hand trembled uncontrollably, nerves misfiring in frantic protest.

Her eyes were already going blind and her lungs could barely function properly.

Every blink left behind floating shadows, dark spots that refused to fade.

She would prefer anything to this, even prison.

The thought came to her with startling clarity, cutting through the fog of pain. Prison had rules. Prison had walls, schedules, even a twisted sense of fairness. This place had none of that. She swallowed thickly, throat raw, jaw aching, and let her head loll forward. Chains rattled softly at the movement, a cruel reminder that even the smallest choice had consequences.

She heard the distant sound of a car outside and moments later, footsteps descending the stairs to where she was followed by the sound of a tapping cane.

She lifted her head with effort, blinking through the haze, forcing her failing eyes to focus on the shadow forming at the top of the stairwell.

Sam Everest. The man who had her here. Ivy’s grandfather.

Looking back now, Sharona thought how she could have just quit while she was ahead. Before everything went too far.

There had been moments—clear, obvious moments—where she could have walked away.

But the money clouded her reasoning, it was money that would keep her settled for life.

"Sharona..." Sam said as he stood in front of her. "I should have known you would be a tough nut to crack."

He studied her openly, eyes cataloguing damage. The corner of his mouth twitched in satisfaction.

"How long has it been?" she asked.

"A month and a few days."

"It took you a month to respond to my call to see you?"

"I was busy. Besides I needed you all done and ready for me." Sam said.

He gestured vaguely at her injuries.

"I was ready weeks ago. I said I would speak to only you." Her chin lifted a fraction, defiance flickering stubbornly to life.

"Then, let’s see if you still have something worth saying."

"I know everything but I will not tell you because once I do, you will kill me." Sharona said.

Her heart hammered violently, each beat echoing in her ears, but she forced herself to meet his gaze. Fear was expected here—welcomed, even—but she refused to let it be the only thing he saw. Knowledge was her last currency, and she clutched it tightly.

"And I told you, it will eventually happen."

The certainty in his tone was absolute, heavy. He adjusted his grip on the cane, eyes never leaving her face.

"I will make a deal with you."

Sam tapped his cane once on the ground and turned to leave.

He pivoted slowly, back straight, already withdrawing his attention.

"Wait! Please." Sharona called.

"There is no deal to be made. Whether you speak or not, your life is going to end tragically, Sharona."

"I am not asking you to let me go. I am saying hand me over to the police instead. Let me serve my sentence. I will give you a name to show you how much I truly know."

She rushed the words, afraid he would disappear up the stairs if she paused. Prison. Concrete walls. Bars. Uniforms. She would take all of it—chains that were legal, pain that had an end date. Anything but this endless erasure. Her eyes burned as she spoke.

"So you want the lesser evil in exchange for a name?" Sam asked.

This time, he did turn. Slowly. Thoughtfully. His gaze sharpened, interest flickering.

"Yes."

"I’ll get back to you on that. In the meantime, have fun with your daily routine." Sam laughed and walked away, taking the stairs carefully with the help of his cane.

Sharona slumped back against the pole she was chained to. She didn’t know if she’d bought herself time or simply entertained him for a moment longer.

But hope flickered anyway.

And if she ever got away from this hell hole, She vowed to God she would become a religious woman. She would spend the rest of her days praying to the good lord. She would give everything she had to charity. But first, she had to live. She had to make sure she lived, she survived.