Page 80 of The Final Cut

“Isabel intends to bring Delia out publicly,” Nash says. “A foundation luncheon at Sainte Aurelia. Old convent property. Donors, board members, some press. She has to make Delia visible after the gala or rumors start taking shape.”

“Rumors that Delia helped me.”

“Yes.”

My throat tightens. “So Isabel dresses her up and parades her around to prove she’s still obedient.”

Deacon’s eyes stay on the paper. “That is the public purpose.”

“And the private one?”

Nash’s jaw shifts. “To show Delia she’s still Mother Superior’s puppet, I would imagine. That she can still be put on display and made to do whatever Isabel wishes, even after she’s corrected her behavior.”

The word corrected hits wrong.

It is too tidy. Too soft. The kind of word people use when they want cruelty to look like parenting or discipline or faith. It belongs in Isabel’s mouth. That alone makes it vile.

“What does that mean, corrected?”

Deacon answers, shifting restlessly. His eyes refuse to meet mine. “I’ve seen it before, but not with Delia. It depends on who is watching.”

“I’m watching now.”

His gray eyes lift to mine. “It will mean pain. Humiliation. Sometimes ritual. Isabel likes to make a punishment feel earned.”

The room tilts for half a second.

I put a hand on the back of the chair. “And you were going to wait for this luncheon?”

“We were going to use the movement,” Nash says. “Not the punishment.”

“She’s being punished right now.”

“Likely not yet. I think Isabel is saving it.”

“Likely.” My voice rises, and I force it lower because yelling will not move Delia one inch closer to me. “You said there is a way to get her.”

“There is.” Nash taps the schedule. “House extraction is a losing move. Isabel’s property is too controlled, and if we hit it blind, Delia becomes collateral before we reach the room. The luncheon gives us vehicles, timing, witnesses, staff movement, and a route Isabel will hesitate to turn into a bloodbath.”

“Isabel did not hesitate to turn a masquerade into one.”

“She controlled the terrace and meant to control the chapel. Different conditions.”

“I don’t care about conditions.”

“I know.” His voice holds, steady and maddening. “You still need to hear them.”

I stare at him.

The command under the words reaches me before my anger decides whether to fight it. That is Nash’s gift and curse. He can put structure around panic without making it feel like pleading. I hate needing that. I hate how my body responds to the part of him that says stay with me, listen, breathe, survive.

“You may hate the plan,” he says. “But you need to hear it before you fight it.”

My fingers tighten on the chair, and Ever’s gaze flicks between us. Deacon goes very still.

Nash holds out his hand. “Come here.”

The room changes.