Copyright © 2026 Nuno R.F.C.R. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher or author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles, reviews, and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by applicable copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), actual events, or real locales is entirely coincidental.
"Kill-Switch"
(Five Years Later)
"Are you comfortable?" a voice asked.
Liam glanced to his left, toward where the interviewer sat, off-axis from the main camera. The light was flattering. Someone had thought about the geometry of his face, the way shadows could make him look softer, less like a man who'd been in a war and more like a man who'd survived one. He adjusted the cuff of his shirt. A simple movement. A delay. A habit.
"I'm fine," Liam said.
He let the words land with ease, like he wasn't aware of the camera staring through him. Like he hadn't spent most of his life being watched.
The interviewer smiled. "We can take a minute if you want."
"No." Liam's answer came too fast, and he heard it. So did everyone else. He exhaled and tried again, with a hint of humor. “No, I’m good. If we take a minute, I'll talk myself out of it."
A soft chuckle from somewhere behind the camera, someone on crew, caught off guard by the honesty. Liam pretended not to notice. He kept his eyes on the interviewer.
"Okay," the interviewer said gently. "Then...hi."
Liam's mouth quirked. "Hi."
"How's your day been?" the interviewer asked, in a conversational tone.
Liam leaned back, trying for relaxed. His knee bounced once, then stilled. "Long."
"Long how?"
Liam's eyes flicked toward the lens. He smiled as if he and the camera shared a private joke. "You know when you have one of those days where you talk to twelve people, and somehow none of them ask how you are?"
The interviewer's smile softened. "I'm asking."
"Yeah." Liam's voice lowered slightly as the guardrails slid into place. He gave the answer he'd given a thousand times in press junkets, an answer polished to a mirror shine. "I'm okay."
A pause.
"Do you want some water?" the interviewer asked.
"I have water," Liam said, nodding toward the glass on the side table.
"You haven't touched it."
Liam blinked, then laughed softly, caught. "You're pretty good at this."
"That's the plan," the interviewer said, and there was a warmth there, but also a steadiness, like a hand on a shoulder without the squeeze. "But we can keep it light for a bit. Talk about anything. Your hair looks...very responsible today."
Liam snorted, genuinely this time. "My hair is trying to convince the world I'm stable."
"Is it working?"
Liam opened his mouth, then closed it. His smile lingered, then faded into something more complicated. "Depends who you ask."
The interviewer nodded, allowing the shift without forcing it. "We can stop whenever you want," they said. "You're in control here."
Liam's throat worked. Control. He'd spent years pretending he had it. "Right," Liam murmured. His fingers tapped once on his thigh. Then stopped.
The interviewer glanced down at their notes, then back up. "Okay. I'm going to ask you something simple. Not the hard stuff yet."
Liam's eyebrows lifted slightly, wary. "That's generous of you."
The interviewer smiled. "Why now?"
The question landed softly, but it hit deep.
Liam's gaze drifted toward the window behind the camera, where daylight bled through sheer curtains. For a second, he looked far away, like he was seeing a different room, a different time.
Then he looked back.
His expression didn't perform.
It didn't charm.
It didn't sell.
It simply told the truth.
"Because it's time," Liam said.
The interviewer waited.
Liam inhaled slowly. His voice stayed level, but something in it trembled, just at the edges. "I've spent my whole life," he said, "watching people tell my story for me."
The interviewer's voice softened. "And you're tired."
Liam's eyes narrowed slightly, surprised by how accurately it was phrased. He nodded once. "Yeah."
He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees now, no longer lounging. Present. Grounded. A man stepping onto his own ground.
"I'm not looking for anyone's sympathy," Liam said. "I'm not trying to clean up some image. God knows I've done enough of that."
The room seemed to quiet around him.
"I just..." He hesitated, then smiled faintly, as if the sentence itself felt rebellious. "I want to say in my own voice."
The interviewer's eyes stayed on him. "Your own terms."
Liam nodded. "My own terms."
He glanced toward the camera, just once, acknowledging it the way you acknowledged a witness in a courtroom.
A beat.
Then, almost under his breath, more vulnerable than he probably meant to be, he said, "I'd like to be the one holding the pen this time."
The interviewer let the silence sit, honoring it.
Then they said quietly, "Okay."
Liam exhaled. His shoulders dropped a fraction, like he'd been holding the weight of the first word and had finally let it go.
"Okay," he echoed, softer.
Somewhere behind the lens, someone murmured, "Sound speed."
The interviewer gave Liam one last look, steady, encouraging.
"We're rolling," they said. "Whenever you're ready."
Liam looked back at them, a nervous smile tugging at his mouth.
"Yeah," he said. "I'm ready."
*
(Present Time)
Los Angeles smelled like exhaust, heat, and punishment.
By the time Liam stepped into the conference room, the sun had turned the glass towers into mirrors, reflecting a city that looked clean from a distance and cruel up close.
Hudson walked beside Liam, backpack strap tight in his fist. He'd kept his head down in the elevator. But now, inside the conference room, there was nowhere to hide.
At the far end of a long table that could seat twelve, three people stood.
A woman in her late fifties, with red hair cut bluntly at her jaw, wearing a tailored suit. Evelyn Park, lead counsel, litigator, eyes that missed nothing and forgave less.
A younger man with a neat beard and wireframe glasses, Raj Patel, corporate partner, calm voice, sharp mind.
And a third, slightly older man with tired eyes and a tablet in his hand, Martin Kline, finance counsel, banking-side.
Folders lay open across the table. A thick binder with tabs. A printed flowchart that looked like a circulatory system.
Liam stopped at the doorway. His sunglasses were off now, revealing the hollowed fatigue under his eyes.
Evelyn's tone was brisk but not unkind. "Mr. Hart."
Liam didn't correct the formality. He rarely did in rooms like this. "Tell me the worst first."
Raj gestured toward the chairs. "Sit. Both of you."
Hudson hesitated, instinctively scanning for a corner, a safe position, something that wouldn't put his body in the center of anything. Liam's hand briefly brushed the back of Hudson's wrist. Hudson sat.
Liam took the chair beside him, posture controlled, face blank. The mask was back. Only Hudson could see the cracks: the way Liam's fingers tapped once, twice, then stopped, like he'd ordered his own nerves into silence.
Raj opened the binder. "Okay. Here's the landscape. You have a loan-out company, Hart Entertainment, LLC, through which the studios pay your acting fees. That LLC is the contractual party, not you personally. That's standard."
Liam nodded once.
He knew this.
He'd been taught this before he was old enough to drive.
Raj continued. "That LLC is owned by your estate planning structure. A trust. Again, standard for someone with your earnings level."
Hudson's gaze flicked to Liam. Estate planning. Trust. Words that sounded like safety. Like adulthood.
Evelyn leaned forward. "The problem is not the structure. The problem is control."
Martin slid the flowchart across the table. Hudson's eyes followed the lines: arrows from Studio Payments, to Loan-Out LLC, to Management Company, to Trust Distributions, all the way to Personal Accounts. Boxes labeled with names that meant nothing to him until he saw it, bold, centered like a stain.
Marina Velluto Management, Inc.
Hudson's stomach tightened.
Liam stared at the name without blinking.
Evelyn's voice stayed even. "At some point, likely years ago, Marina positioned her company as the administrator between your loan-out and your personal accounts. That means disbursements go through her pipeline."
Liam's jaw flexed. "She's always handled my accounting."
"Handled," Evelyn repeated, a lawyer's way of dissecting a word. "Or controlled."
Raj flipped a page. "There's more. Hart Entertainment has a revolving credit facility, basically a line of credit, secured against future earnings and certain assets. That facility has covenants. Behavioral, financial, reporting covenants."
Hudson frowned. "Like...rules?"
Martin nodded. "Rules that keep the bank comfortable. Reporting deadlines. Minimum liquidity levels. Restrictions on unusual spending. Restrictions on changes in management and control. If a covenant is breached, the bank can call the line. Meaning: they can demand repayment immediately, or impose penalties, or restrict access."
Hudson's throat went dry. "And...if you can't repay..."
Martin's expression didn't soften. "Then the bank exercises remedies."
Hudson looked at Liam's face. He had gone still in a way that didn't read as calm. It read as containment, like a man holding a door shut against something enormous.
Raj continued, "Two weeks ago, Marina did three things in rapid sequence."
Evelyn held up one finger. "One: She halted disbursements from the loan-out. Even if the studios paid, the money didn't reach your personal operating accounts."
A second finger. Raj's. "Two: She triggered, or I should assume engineered, what looks like a covenant issue with the credit facility. That got the bank's attention. Once they start calling, they don't stop."
Third finger. Evelyn's. "Three: She used your own authorizations against you."
Hudson's pulse spiked. "How can she do that?"
Evelyn looked at Hudson for the first time, assessing not his value, but his place in the room. Then she spoke more plainly, for his sake. "Because Liam gave her the keys," she said. "Over time. Piece by piece. Probably in the name of convenience. Efficiency. Trust. And because he was young when this started."
Liam's lips parted slightly, as if he might argue. The sound that came out was almost nothing. "I was twelve."
The room went quiet for a beat.
Raj's voice softened, just a fraction. "This pattern is common with child actors. Parents are inconsistent. Industry adults become authority figures. Papers get signed. Access gets granted. People assume it's normal."
Evelyn slid a document toward Liam. "You have a durable power of attorney on file with at least one institution. And you have authorized signatory arrangements that, frankly, should have been unwound years ago. There's also trustee influence, someone in your trust's administration is either aligned with her, afraid of her, or simply following the paperwork."
Hudson watched Liam's face change in microscopic increments, like someone watching a building realize it had been built on sand.
Liam's voice was controlled. "She's freezing me out of my own money."
"Temporarily," Raj said. "She can create enough friction that you are functionally immobilized until you act."
Evelyn nodded. "Exactly."
Hudson's hands clenched in his lap. "So this is...a leash."
Evelyn's gaze stayed on Liam. "It's a system of dependency. And she's testing your boundaries."
Liam's mouth twitched without humor. "She's punishing me."
Martin added, "And she's protecting her position. If you leave the machine, you stop being a predictable asset. Banks don't like unpredictability. Studios don't like unpredictability. Ms. Velutto's entire value proposition has been that she makes you predictable."
Hudson looked at Liam. "But he's not a fucking product."
No one laughed.
No one even shifted.
Liam's voice came out rougher than before. "What does she get out of this?"
Raj didn't hesitate. "Control. Fees. Leverage."
Evelyn leaned in, ruthless clarity. "If she controls the disbursement path, she controls your liquidity. If she can frighten the bank, she can frighten you. If she can make you believe you'll lose assets, houses, vehicles, investments, she can force compliance."
Liam exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw tight. "She'll say she's protecting me."
Evelyn's eyes stayed flat. "She's protecting the machine she built. You happen to be the engine."
The words sat in the room like smoke.
Hudson watched Liam's face. It didn't crumple. Liam didn't break down. He did something colder: he absorbed it. He stored it. He filed it away with the kind of discipline that could only come from a lifetime of surviving adults.
Liam's voice dropped. "So what can we do?"
Raj straightened the binder with neat hands. "Immediate steps: emergency injunction to stop her from acting as an intermediary. Motion for temporary restraining order. Demand letters to banks and studios clarifying authorized signatories. We file to revoke POA where possible. We put the banks on notice that any further action is being contested."
Evelyn added, "And we'll need you to stay put. Courts move faster when the principal is present. Banks listen more when the celebrity they're calling is sitting across from them with counsel."
Martin tapped his tablet. "We also need to stabilize liquidity. We need a bridge fund, personal, private, whatever you have not tied into the existing structure, because litigation is slow and expensive, and banks don't wait."
Liam's gaze drifted toward the window for a beat, as if searching for air. Hudson waited, heart hammering, watching Liam try to keep his mask intact.
Liam finally spoke, very softly. "She raised me."
Evelyn didn't flinch. "She groomed you, Liam."
The word struck like a slap.
Hudson felt Liam go rigid beside him. A tremor traveled down Liam's arm, then stilled. His eyes narrowed, not in anger at the lawyers, but in an internal confrontation, memory recontextualized, decades snapping into place like a cruel puzzle.
He'd always known Marina was controlling.
He hadn't fully known she was structural.
That she wasn't just in his life.
She was woven into it.
Hudson saw the realization land: the person Liam had entrusted with his adulthood, his money, his decisions, his privacy, didn't love him. Didn't even see him as someone to love. She saw him as a portfolio.
Liam's breath shook once. He swallowed it down. The mask returned, but different now. He lifted his eyes to Evelyn. "If I fight her..."
Evelyn met his gaze without blinking. "She'll leak. She'll threaten. She'll try to isolate you from anyone she can't control. She'll frame you as unstable. She'll make it look like you're spiraling."
"And the house?" Liam asked quietly.
Martin exhaled. "If the bank accelerates, you risk losing it. If she has any influence on the payment stream, she can starve the accounts and trigger default. That's why we move fast."
Liam nodded once, sharp, decisive. "Do it."
*
The filings went out like arrows.
By noon, Evelyn's office had become a war room, with three laptops open and two assistants coming and going with fresh printouts. Liam sat at the head of it, posture immaculate. Hudson sat two chairs down, hands folded so tightly that his knuckles looked pale.
Evelyn didn't waste words. "So, we're filing an emergency TRO and a request for an expedited hearing. We're also sending notice letters to the bank, the studios, the guild, and any party paying into the loan-out. The goal is to freeze Velutto's ability to act as intermediary while the court decides."
Raj slid a page to Liam. "Revocation of authority language. You sign, we serve it."
Liam took the pen like. Hudson watched him sign, fast, clean strokes, as if every letter was an act of self-rescue. There was something almost beautiful about it, the way Liam's hands stopped being ornamental and became functional, decisive.
"Good," Evelyn said, collecting the pages. "Once served, any institution that continues to honor her instructions risks liability."
Liam's mouth twitched. "So she's..."
Evelyn's expression didn't change. "Delayed. Not done."
Liam lifted his chin slightly. "You said this is illegal."
"It is," Evelyn replied. "Illegality doesn't equal immediate consequences. Not in civil court. Not with money."
Liam exhaled through his nose, impatient. "But a TRO..."
"Can be granted quickly," Evelyn interrupted. "Or not. Depends on the judge's calendar, the evidentiary showing, and whether Marina's counsel convinces the court there's no 'irreparable harm.'"
Hudson blinked. "But he's...he can't access..."
Evelyn looked at Hudson then. "Irreparable harm isn't 'this feels catastrophic.' It's 'this cannot be fixed later with money.'"
Liam's fingers tapped once on the table, then stopped. "Serve it," he said. "Now."
Evelyn nodded to her assistant. "Run it."
The assistant moved like she'd done this a hundred times: binder under one arm, phone in the other, already coordinating a process server.
For a few minutes, the room hummed. The law was a machine too, slower, but still a machine. If Marina had used paper to trap Liam, paper could also cut her loose.
Then Liam's phone buzzed. Once. He ignored it. It buzzed again, a second line. His assistant's number.
Liam frowned and answered. "What"? A pause. Liam's face remained still, but his eyes shifted, going narrow. "Who said that?" he asked.
Hudson watched Liam's mask flicker, just a crack.
Liam stood up slowly, as if moving too quickly would make something worse. "Text me," he ordered, then ended the call.
Evelyn looked up. "What is it?"
Liam didn't answer. His thumb moved over the screen, opening messages, then a link.
Hudson watched the color drain from Liam's cheeks in stages, like a sunrise reversed.
"What?" Hudson asked quietly.
Liam turned the screen toward Evelyn.
A headline. Big, hungry, gleaming with insinuation.
LIAM HART "MISSING" AGAIN? SOURCES SAY ACTOR HAS BEEN "OFF THE GRID" AND "NOT HIMSELF"
Below it, grainy photos: Liam in a cap, yes. Liam in a hoodie, maybe. A blurred figure beside him: tall, dark hair, turquoise eyes caught mid-glance toward the camera.
Hudson felt his stomach fall through the floor.
"Fuck," he whispered, voice too small.
Evelyn's face stayed professional, but something hardened behind her eyes. "This is fast."
Raj leaned in, scanning. "They're moving."
Martin's tablet pinged. "Variety just pushed something too."
Liam's phone buzzed again, like a swarm waking up. Hudson watched him stand there, frozen in the center of the room, holding the screen. Liam's mouth opened slightly, then closed. His jaw worked once.
The mask wasn't gone. It was recalibrating.
Evelyn held her hand out. "Give me the link." Liam handed it over without looking away from the screen. Evelyn scrolled quickly. "They're quoting 'sources close to production.' They're using your set meltdown. They're dragging in 'concern' language. That's intentional."
Raj's brows drew together. "Look at the phrasing. 'Mysterious man.' 'Concerns.' 'Not himself.' That's a narrative. Not reporting."
Liam's lips parted.
Evelyn didn't confirm or deny. She didn't need to. "This is her arena."
Hudson swallowed. His throat felt raw. "But we just filed..."
"We filed," Evelyn agreed. "And she answered."
Liam's eyes went distant, calculating. "She didn't even wait for service."
"She didn't have to," Raj said. "The press doesn't need service. It needs a story."
Hudson's hands began to shake. He pressed them between his knees to stop it.
Liam's phone buzzed again, another text, another link. Then a call from an unknown number. He declined it.
The room woke up: pings, alerts, vibrations, the digital heartbeat of a narrative being born.
Evelyn's assistant rushed back in, breathless. "Process server's en route. But...the lobby says there are cameras outside."
Hudson's blood turned to ice. "Outside here?"
The assistant nodded. "Building security says they're 'media.'"
Evelyn was already on her phone. "Tell them no one leaves through the front if they don't have to."
Hudson stood abruptly. "I shouldn't...I can't be seen."
Liam's head snapped toward him. "Hudson..."
"I'm serious," Hudson whispered, panic pinching his voice. "I can't..."
Evelyn nodded once, sharply. "He's right. They're baiting you. They want a clean shot. If they get your face, this becomes two people, not one headline. It'll double the oxygen."
Hudson felt Liam's gaze on him like a hand. Heavy. Protective. Guilty.
Liam's voice came quietly. "I don't want him touched."
Evelyn's eyes flicked to Liam. "Then we move intelligently."
She gestured toward the door. "We have a service corridor."
They moved quickly.
At the elevator bank, Liam stopped and turned to Hudson. Hudson's eyes were wide, terrified of what his existence was about to do to Liam's life.
"I'm sorry," Hudson said, and the words came out before he could stop them.
Liam's expression softened for one second, one raw, human second. "Don't," Liam said.
Then the elevator opened.
They descended into the underground parking level. A black SUV waited, engine already running. But even there, even below ground, the machine found them.
As Hudson reached the back seat, he heard it: footsteps from the garage ramp. A camera shutter. A voice calling Liam's name.
"Liam! Liam, over here!"
Hudson froze.
Liam's hand clamped around Hudson's wrist and pulled him down behind the open car door, shielding him with his own body in an instinctive reflex.
The shutter clicked again.
Hudson caught a glimpse of a man in a baseball cap, no network logo, no mic flag, just a lens and hunger. Another stringer.
Evelyn's assistant hissed, "Get in. Now."
Hudson slid into the back seat. Liam followed, blocking the door with his shoulder until Hudson was fully inside, then shutting it hard.
The SUV rolled forward.
In the rear window, Hudson saw a flash of movement, someone raising a phone, someone calling out again.
Inside the car, the silence was violent. Hudson stared at his hands in his lap. His fingers shook.
The paper had been filed.
Orders had been drafted.
Service had been arranged.
And still, the first blow Marina landed had nothing to do with court.
It was a story.
And the story was already running faster than the truth.
*
Liam and Hudson were led into a conference room with a wall of glass overlooking downtown.
The view was a flex.
Evelyn Park sat on Liam's right, legal pad open. Raj sat opposite, binder on his lap. Across from them waited the bank's representatives: a relationship manager named Cynthia Reed, mid-forties, blonde, in a beige suit, smile trained within an inch of its life. And a man in a navy suit with no smile at all, Tom Alvarez, credit risk, his job, Hudson realized immediately, was to say no.
Cynthia stood and extended a hand. "Mr. Hart. Thank you for coming in."
Liam shook it. "Let's make this quick."
Cynthia's smile didn't change, but something shifted behind it, an acknowledgment that Liam was trying to dictate the pace in a room where he didn't own the clock anymore.
"Of course," Cynthia said. "We appreciate your time."
Hudson sat at the far end of the table, trying not to look like a prop. He could feel the bank people glance at him, just once, the way you glance at an unknown variable. Liam didn't introduce him. Evelyn didn't offer. No one asked. Hudson was, for now, an unfiled fact.
Cynthia folded her hands on the table. "First, we want to say that we value our long relationship with you and your team."
Liam's jaw tightened.
Tom slid a folder forward. "We need assurance."
Liam's head tilted slightly. "Assurance of what"?
"Of stability," Cynthia said. "Of continuity in management and cash flow. Of compliance with your facility covenants."
Evelyn's pen moved. "There is no covenant breach," she said calmly. "You have been provided documents that suggest the opposite..."
Tom lifted a hand. "We've received reporting that indicates a potential event of default."
Liam's breath sharpened. "From her."
Cynthia's smile softened in a way meant to look compassionate. "From your business manager."
"She's not..." Liam said, voice clipped. "She's my..." He stopped, as if the label itself had become contaminated. "She's no longer authorized to speak for me."
Tom's gaze remained unmoved. "Our records show her firm has been acting in that capacity for years."
The sentence was neutral. The bank reading Liam back to himself.
Hudson watched Liam's posture. The royal ease tightened into something else. Liam's fingers curled against the edge of the table.
Evelyn stayed composed. "We have filed for emergency injunctive relief. We have served revocation documents. Any action based on Ms. Velutto's unilateral instructions is contested."
Cynthia nodded sympathetically. "We understand there's conflict."
Conflict. Like it was a disagreement about dinner reservations.
Tom opened the folder and slid out a page, turning it toward them. "This is your credit facility. This is your covenant language. It's tied to ongoing earnings and certain assets. Your line is predicated on predictable inflows and stable management."
Liam stared at the paper, then looked up. "I'm still working."
Tom's eyes did not warm. "Your production disruptions have been noted."
Hudson's stomach dropped.
Liam's head snapped slightly. "What?"
Cynthia spoke quickly, smoothing the moment. "We've seen press. We've seen reports. We've seen chatter about...unpredictability."
Evelyn's voice stayed razor calm. "Press is not evidence."
"It's risk," Tom replied.
There it was.
Not personhood. Not truth. Not loyalty. Not the nuance of a life.
Risk.
Liam leaned forward, the first heat breaking through his control. "I am the asset. I'm the income stream. You have made more money off my name than..."
Tom didn't flinch. "You are not an asset to us, Mr. Hart." Liam froze. Tom continued, measured. "You are collateral."
The room went silent.
Collateral.
Not a man.
Not a boy who waited alone on sets.
Collateral.
Cynthia's smile returned like a bandage. "What Tom means is..."
"I know what he means," Liam said, voice low, suddenly very steady.
Evelyn's pen stopped. She looked at Liam, not intervening yet, letting him decide how he wanted to be seen in this room: star, client, or fighter.
Liam took a breath. "So what do you want?"
Tom clasped his hands. "Assurance that management will stabilize. Assurance that disbursements and reporting will be reliable. Assurance that you won't do something that triggers further instability."
Hudson heard it then, the subtext beneath their clean language: assurance you'll return to the woman who makes you easy to control.
Cynthia added softly. "And given the media narrative...we need to ensure reputational risk doesn't translate into financial risk."
Evelyn's voice cut in, polite but deadly. "Reputational risk? Are we discussing a line of credit or a morality clause?"
Tom's gaze flicked to Evelyn. "We're discussing public confidence."
Hudson watched Liam's face go blank again. The mask. The survival. But now, under it, he could see something shifting. Disillusionment turning into clarity.
Liam nodded once, slowly. "So you're telling me that a manager with a conflict of interest can walk into my life, tell you I'm unstable, and you'll believe her over the person sitting in front of you."
Cynthia's smile held. "We respond to risk indicators, Mr. Hart."
Liam let out a quiet laugh that had no humor. "Risk indicators."
Tom slid another sheet forward. "We can offer temporary forbearance. A short pause on any acceleration. But we need written assurances."
"What kind"? Liam asked, voice clipped.
Tom's eyes stayed flat. "A letter from your management confirming a stabilization plan. A clear chain of signatory authority. Possibly a third-party administrator acceptable to the bank."
Evelyn's eyes narrowed.
Liam sat back, the chair barely moving. Hudson watched him with a kind of horror, because Liam looked, briefly, like a man watching the walls close in and realizing he'd been inside a maze the whole time.
Liam's voice came quietly. "If I don't give you what you want."
Tom's answer was calm. "Then the bank has options."
Options.
Another sterile word.
Another knife.
Hudson couldn't stop himself. His voice came out sharp. "So you don't give a flying fuck if you destroy him."
Both bank reps looked at Hudson then, fully, for the first time.
Cynthia's smile tightened. "Sir, we are here to discuss financial arrangements."
Hudson's skin went hot. "He's a person."
Tom's gaze flicked away, uninterested. "We deal in structures."
Hudson looked at Liam, furious on his behalf, and what he saw there wasn't just anger. It was humiliation. The kind you couldn't pose your way out of. The type that stripped celebrity off like makeup under harsh light.
Evelyn placed a hand on Hudson's arm. Then she looked at Cynthia and Tom and spoke with dangerous politeness.
"Thank you," Evelyn said. "We have what we need."
Cynthia's smile brightened automatically, relieved to return to script. "We're here to support a resolution..."
Liam stood.
The chair scraped. Softly.
He didn't look at them as he nodded once, a man closing a door. Evelyn stood too. Raj followed. Hudson rose last. As they walked out, he felt the bank reps' eyes on Liam's back.
Outside, the elevator doors closed, and the silence inside was immediate. Liam stared at the numbers as they descended. His hand trembled faintly near his thigh, so faint that Hudson might have missed it if he didn't know Liam's body now.
When the elevator opened into the lobby, Liam walked fast, head down. They didn't stop until they hit the street and the sun slapped them awake.
The moment the bank doors shut behind them, Liam's control faltered. He turned sharply toward a side alley between buildings, away from pedestrians. He leaned a hand against the wall, head bowed, shoulders rigid. For a second, he looked like he might throw up. Or fall.
Hudson froze, helpless, watching the strongest man he'd ever met tremble like his skeleton had been rearranged.
Evelyn and Raj stayed a few steps back, giving them space.
Liam's voice came out rough, barely above a whisper. "Fuck."
Hudson swallowed. "Hey." Liam didn't answer. Hudson took a careful step closer. "Liam."
Liam's voice came out hoarse, cracked along the edges. "Collateral." The word hung there, ugly and plain. Liam laughed once, short, bitter, startled, as if he couldn't believe the sound came from him. "They said it like...like I'm nothing."
Hudson's mouth tightened.
Liam turned his head slightly. "And you know what the craziest part is?" he said, too calm, too flat. "Part of me...expected it. Like my body knew before my brain caught up."
Hudson's throat burned. He could feel his own fear rising, fear for Liam, fear of what this meant, fear of the machine that had already begun to chew. Liam straightened slowly, still facing the wall.
Hudson shook his head. "You were twelve."
Liam's head dipped, and Hudson could hear the breath he tried to swallow down. "I was sixteen. Eighteen. Twenty-two. Twenty-five." His voice sharpened. "I kept letting it happen."
Hudson stepped in close enough now that his shoulder nearly brushed Liam's back. "You're shaking," he said.
Liam looked away, annoyed at his own body. "I'm not."
Hudson raised an eyebrow. "Okay."
Liam exhaled sharply, then let his shoulders sag in surrender. "Fine," he muttered. "I'm shaking."
Hudson's smile flickered. "Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Collateral."
Liam huffed a laugh despite himself. A real sound, brief and astonished. It cracked the air open.
Hudson pointed his thumb toward the street. "Now, can we please be human for a minute?" he asked. "Like, can we get food? Or sleep? Or both?"
Liam's expression shifted, his instinctive resistance to rest, to softness, to any moment not managed. "We can't rest."
Hudson's gaze sharpened. "Yes, we can," he said. "We're not doing anything useful if you collapse."
Liam's jaw worked. "I don't collapse."
Hudson leaned in slightly, voice low and firm. "Liam," he said. "Just for an hour. You're allowed to be a person."
Liam stared at him like the permission itself hurt.
Hudson softened, and his hand lifted, slow, careful, to the edge of Liam's sleeve. Not gripping. An anchor. "We can't fix this today," Hudson whispered. "Let's get some sleep. And then we keep going."
Liam's breath shuddered. His head dipped once. It was the closest thing to agreement Hudson had gotten from him all day.
Evelyn appeared, phone in hand. Her eyes scanned Liam first, then Hudson, taking in the scene without comment. Raj lingered behind her, already texting someone.
"We have media outside the bank. We need to move," she said. Liam straightened immediately. Evelyn watched him do it without flinching. "I'm sending my driver around the corner," she continued. "He'll take you to a secure location."
Liam's voice was cool again. "We're going to my house."
Evelyn's eyes narrowed slightly, a warning. "Are you sure that's wise?" Liam's jaw flexed. Evelyn held his gaze for a beat, then gave a single, curt nod. "Fine. But if it's compromised, you don't push. You leave. Understood?"
Liam didn't answer.
Hudson did, softly. "Understood."
Evelyn's gaze flicked to Hudson then, brief, assessing, and something softened in it, so faint Hudson almost missed it. "Good," she said. Then, to Liam, "Don't be stubborn. Be strategic."
Liam's mouth twitched. "That's rich coming from you."
Evelyn's lips curved into the ghost of a smile. "You hired me for a reason, Mr. Hart."
She stepped back out of the alley and lifted her phone. "Car's arriving in thirty seconds."
Like clockwork, the black SUV rolled silently to the curb.
They rode back to Liam's house. He sat rigid in the back seat, jaw locked. Hudson sat beside him, close enough to feel the tension radiating off Liam's body. They didn't hold hands in the car.
The driver, an older man with a kind face and a silent professionalism, glanced at them in the mirror once, then kept his eyes on the road.
The car turned into Liam's neighborhood, with its gates and hedges, and security cameras tucked into the landscaping. Hudson remembered arriving here the first time, heart racing, Liam in sweatpants and a grin. Now it looked different. Not because it had changed, but because Hudson knew what it cost.
They reached the main gate.
The car idled.
Nothing happened.
The keypad light blinked. No mechanical whir. No sliding metal. No gracious opening. The driver tried again, tapping the code. Still nothing.
Liam's hand rose and pressed against the glass, as if his palm could command the gate to recognize him. "Try it again."
The driver obeyed. A second. A third.
Finally, the intercom crackled.
A voice, guard shift voice, professional, unfamiliar. "Can I help you?"
Liam's head lifted slightly. "This is Liam Hart," he said. "Open the gate."
A pause. Static. The faint sound of someone covering the mic with a hand. Then. "I'm sorry, sir. I have instructions."
Liam's jaw flexed. "From who?"
"From management," the guard replied, and Hudson could hear the subtle discomfort in the man's tone, like he'd been warned not to deviate. "We've been told not to allow entry without confirmation."
Liam's voice sharpened. "Confirmation from her."
Silence.
Hudson watched Liam's throat work as he swallowed down something bitter.
Liam let out a single, quiet laugh with no humor. "Open the gate."
"Mr. Hart," the guard said carefully, "I'm not trying to disrespect you. I'm just..."
"Doing your job," Liam finished, voice suddenly cold.
He leaned back in the seat. For a second, he looked almost calm, and Hudson knew that calm: the freeze response dressed up as composure. Liam stared ahead, eyes hidden, as if he were watching his own life become someone else's.
Hudson felt heat rise behind his eyes. "This is bullshit," he whispered.
Liam didn't answer.
Evelyn's driver made a quick call. Low voice. Minimal words. Hudson caught only fragments. "Denied entry...she changed instructions...yes, I'll wait."
After a beat, the driver turned slightly. "Ms. Park says to proceed to the side access and attempt entry through service," he said.
Liam's mouth tightened. "Do it."
They drove around, following the perimeter of Liam's property. The side gate, service entrance, was smaller, less glamorous, meant for deliveries and staff.
It was chained. A literal chain, looped through the bars with a padlock.
Hudson's breath caught.
"That's…" Hudson started.
Liam stared at the chain, and Hudson watched something inside him fracture, not explosively, but with the quiet devastation of a person realizing that even their home had been turned into a prop. The driver parked and got out, approached the gate as if perhaps the chain was symbolic and could be negotiated. He returned, shaking his head slightly, face apologetic.
"I'm sorry," he said to Liam.
Liam pulled out his phone, thumb moving fast. He dialed someone. It went to voicemail.
He dialed again.
Another number.
Hudson heard the ring. Heard it be rejected. Over and over. Like the house itself was refusing him.
Then a text came through.
No greeting.
No pleasantry.
Per instruction, house staff has been reassigned. Access to the property is temporarily restricted. Please contact Marina Velluto Management.
Hudson felt his stomach twist into rage. "That's not even...how can she..."
The driver's phone buzzed. He glanced down, then looked up at Liam. He handed him the phone. A message from Evelyn.
I've reached your trustee administrator. There is a spending cap on your personal account.
Liam blinked once before typing.
How much?
Five thousand a week.
Hudson stared. Five thousand a week was still more than Hudson had ever held at once in his life, but the way Liam stared at it made Hudson understand it wasn't about the number. It was about what it meant.
Liam's lips parted as if he might laugh. He didn't. "She put me on a fucking allowance."
Hudson's throat tightened. "Liam..."
Liam stared at the chained gate, and the smallest shake went through him. His hands, his shoulders. He forced himself upright, voice steady. "Take us out of here. Now."
The driver hesitated. "Where, sir?"
Liam's mouth opened. No answer came.
Hudson looked at him and understood: Liam didn't have a place that was his anymore. His voice went quiet, decisive. "My place."
Liam turned toward him, a flicker of protest. "No."
"Yes," Hudson said. The word didn't tremble. "Just for tonight."
Liam exhaled, slowly. A single nod. "Fine," he said quietly.
The driver pulled away from the chained gate, tires crunching, the house receding in the rear window like a life Liam had paid for but could no longer enter. Hudson watched Liam's face, waiting for the explosion.
None came.
Thirty minutes later, they were climbing the stairs to Hudson's apartment. They climbed the stairs because Liam didn't trust the elevator. Or maybe he did, but he needed to move, to do something normal with his body.
Hudson unlocked the door.
The apartment greeted them with the messy intimacy of real life: shoes kicked off near the couch, a half-empty bottle of sparkling water on the counter, a throw blanket thrown like someone had collapsed under it and lived to tell the tale.
From the bedroom came a voice.
Mateo, half-asleep. "Hud? If that's you, I'm nude and emotionally unavailable."
Hudson closed his eyes for a second. "We have company."
There was a pause. Then the sound of frantic movement.
Mateo appeared in the hallway wearing shorts that looked like they'd been stolen from an eighties gym teacher and a tank top that had lost a war with laundry detergent. His hair stood up. He looked annoyed until his gaze landed on Liam.
Then he blinked. Slowly.
"Oh," Mateo mouthed.
Hudson shot him a warning look. "Please don't."
Mateo nodded rapidly, eyes huge. He glanced at Liam. Then, unable to help himself, added in a stage whisper. "Hi."
Liam's mouth twitched. "Hi."
Hudson stepped in front of Mateo, voice firm. "We need to stay here for a bit."
Mateo's eyebrows lifted. "Like...a bit-bit?"
Hudson nodded.
Mateo's eyes flicked to Liam, then back to Hudson, as if trying to compute the shape of the apocalypse. "Okay," he said, suddenly serious. Then, softly. "Okay. Yeah. We've got you."
Hudson's throat tightened at the simple loyalty.
Liam glanced around the apartment, taking in the cramped kitchen, the thrift-store art on the walls, the couch that had definitely seen some suffering. Liam sat on the edge of the sofa with his elbows on his knees, staring at nothing, phone facedown on the coffee table. Mateo hovered near the doorway to his room, pretending he wasn't hovering, pretending he wasn't watching the way Liam's body held itself, coiled and contained, as if any breath might trigger something.
But by now, Hudson had learned to read Liam's silences.
This one was dangerous.
Liam's foot tapped once. Then stopped. His shoulders lifted on an inhale so slow it looked deliberate.
Hudson turned slightly. "You okay?"
Liam didn't answer.
Hudson crossed the room and stopped a few feet away, close enough to offer presence without cornering.
Liam's voice finally came out, low and flat. "She changed the locks."
Hudson nodded once, quietly. He already knew. It was the way Liam said it now, like he was tasting the words, realizing they were real.
"Reassigned staff," Liam continued. "She put me on an allowance." His mouth twisted. "An allowance."
Mateo shifted, arms crossing over his chest, face suddenly stripped of its usual bravado. He looked younger like that, like a kid overhearing something he wasn't meant to.
Liam stopped, and for a second Hudson thought he might cry.
Then the anger surged up instead, hot and sudden, changing the oxygen in the room.
Liam stood so fast the coffee table rattled. He started pacing. Three steps. Four. Then back. Like a caged animal with a human face. Hudson followed him with his eyes, steady, silent. Not afraid. Not flinching. Mateo's gaze flicked between them, pulse visible in his throat.
Liam's voice rose. "My whole life...my whole fucking life...I did what she wanted. I hit my marks. I made their money. I made her money. I let her in rooms that were supposed to be mine. I..."
His voice cracked on the last word, and he swallowed it down like poison.
Hudson took one step closer. "Liam."
Liam turned, eyes wild. "Don't."
The word wasn't aimed at Hudson.
It was aimed at whatever was trying to break through.
Liam's hands flexed at his sides, fingers opening and closing like he couldn't decide what to do with the rage. He looked at the wall, white paint, cheap apartment drywall. Not the thick, perfect walls of his house. Just a thin barrier between him and other people's lives. And something in him snapped, with the terrifying quiet of a dam deciding it was done holding.
He swung his fist.
The sound was sharp, ugly, bone against plaster. The wall buckled inward with a hollow crack. Liam froze for half a second, like he hadn't expected the wall to give. Then the pain hit, and he sucked in a breath through his teeth. A streak of red appeared on his knuckles.
Hudson's heart lurched. "Jesus..."
Mateo made a strangled sound. He didn't move.
Liam looked at his hand, then at the wall, then back at his hand again, as if the violence had startled him too.
His voice came out raw. "That's what she does." He laughed, but it was shattered. "She does this to people. She..." He turned toward the room, eyes blazing. "She raised me like a fucking racehorse." His breathing was hard now, chest rising and falling like he'd run miles.
Hudson watched the blood drip slowly from Liam's knuckles. Watched Liam's shoulders shake with contained fury.
Liam's voice dropped. "How could I let this..."
Mateo's face tightened. His mouth opened as if to speak, then closed again. He swallowed.
Hudson stepped forward, calm like instinct, like survival. He didn't grab Liam. He didn't tell him to stop. He just reached out slowly, palm open. Liam looked at Hudson's hand as if it were an object he didn't understand.
"Liam," Hudson said softly. "Look at me."
Liam's eyes flicked up, reluctant, furious.
Hudson held his gaze.
And then something happened. Something quieter than rage, stronger than logic. Hudson didn't try to win the argument. He didn't try to fix the system. He didn't say it'll be okay like a lie.
He just stayed.
His eyes, steady, turquoise, catching the light like water catching a moon.
Liam's breathing faltered.
Hudson took another step closer until he was within reach. He lifted his hand, not to force Liam to do anything, but to gently catch Liam's injured fist before Liam could hide it.
The moment Hudson's fingers wrapped around Liam's wrist, Liam's shoulders dropped half an inch. Pain anchored him back into his body. Hudson's touch anchored him back into the room. Hudson brought Liam's hand down, lowered it like you lowered a weapon.
Liam's eyes flickered with something like shame. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."
Hudson shook his head once. Small. Firm. He guided Liam toward the couch with nothing but his eyes and that gentle pressure, like leading a frightened animal away from the edge. Liam let himself be led.
That was the miracle.
Not that Liam had punched the wall.
But that he let Hudson bring him back.
Mateo stayed quiet, watching like he was witnessing a language he'd never learned. His eyes glistened slightly, and he looked away quickly, wiping at his face as if dust had gotten in it.
Hudson sat Liam down.
He went to the kitchenette, grabbed a clean cloth, a bottle of water, and the tiny first-aid kit Mateo kept mostly for hangovers. He returned and knelt in front of Liam. Liam's fist trembled as Hudson poured water over it. Blood diluted, ran pink down Hudson's fingers. Liam winced. His jaw tightened. Hudson's hands were careful, reverent. He dabbed gently with the cloth. Wrapped the knuckles with gauze like he was wrapping something precious, not broken.
The anger in Liam didn't vanish. But it began to drain, slower, like a tide receding after it had done its damage. Liam's breathing eased.
Hudson finally spoke, voice low. "It's not your fault."
Liam swallowed. "Then why does it feel like it is?"
Hudson looked up. Their eyes locked.
Hudson's gaze softened. "You're just...hurt," he said.
Liam stared at him like he didn't know what to do with the kindness. Like it made him ache in places anger couldn't reach.
Mateo shifted near the doorway. His face had gone unusually gentle.
Hudson tied off the gauze, then held Liam's hand carefully between both of his. He pressed his forehead against Liam's knuckles, light, barely there, a quiet apology to the body for what the world had done to it.
Liam's eyes closed.
His shoulders sagged.
For a moment, the room held its breath.
And then Liam's mouth twitched. A tiny, reluctant smile appeared, fragile as glass. Hudson blinked, surprised by his own relief. His lips curved, too.
Mateo saw the smile and, as if the universe demanded balance, his sense of comedy returned like a weapon. He cleared his throat loudly.
Both men turned toward him.
Mateo pointed at the hole in the wall. Then he looked at Liam's gauze-wrapped hand and raised an eyebrow. "So," Mateo said, deadpan. "Do we Venmo Marina for the drywall, or...are we billing this as method acting?"
Hudson snorted, an ugly, involuntary sound that made him cover his mouth. Liam blinked once through the fog of rage, then let out a laugh that startled even him. It came out rough at first, then fuller, as if laughter had been trapped behind his ribs.
Mateo nodded like he'd solved it. "Cool. Because I'm not trying to get evicted for having a famous man remodel my home with his bare hands."
Hudson laughed harder now, wiping at his eyes with the back of his wrist. Liam leaned back against the couch, still breathing hard, still bleeding under gauze, but smiling, actually smiling. Hudson sat beside him, shoulder brushing Liam's. Their hands found each other on the cushion, fingers lacing without discussion.
Mateo looked at them, and his expression softened again, pride and tenderness flickering across his face before he tried to hide it with a dramatic sigh. "Fine," he muttered. "This is cute. Disgusting. But cute."
Hudson shook his head, laughing through lingering tears. Liam's smile stayed, too, tired and real.
That night, their laughter didn't erase the hole in the wall.
It didn't cauterize the blood under Liam's gauze, or the poison Marina had poured into their lives.
But it did something quieter, more dangerous to the machine that had owned him.
It made Liam human in a room that didn't ask him to be anything else.
His empire might have been taken from him, but something far rarer and more precious had arrived in its place.
A life he actually got to live.
(To be continued...)
Hudson and Liam’s story doesn’t end here. If you’re reading along, I’d love to hear from you.
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