She blinks. “Corrine?”
“Yeah,” I say. “She was there.”
Eve stills. That carefully composed mask of hers cracks for just a second.
“She was there?” It’s a whisper from her lips.
“She lived with them,” I add. “For a year.”
The silence that falls between us is sharp. Cutting.
Eve doesn’t look at me. She stares into her untouched wine like she’s trying to read the bottom of the glass. Like maybe theanswers are floating there, waiting to be scooped out and pieced together.
Her face gives nothing away—but I know that look.
She’s reassembling the puzzle now.
Eve stands. “I’m going to hit the little girl’s room,” she says, voice unreadable.
I hear her voice in the hallway—low, clipped, controlled.
“Jax? Remember my new toxic bestie?”
The office is quiet—too quiet. Just the hum of the AC and the dull echo of the city below.
I sit at my desk, jacket off, sleeves rolled, tie loosened like a noose I can’t quite get rid of. My fingers drift to my mouth without thinking—just a brush, a memory.
Of Dante, the elevator and that goddamn kiss.
I can still feel it—still taste the blood he left behind.
I lean back in the chair and exhale, but it doesn't ease the pressure. Everything is pressing in on me. The board. The vote. The dark shadow that follows me. The truth I’ve spent five years burying deeper than any grave.
And now it’s all clawing its way back to the surface.
The door opens.
I don't need to look up. Her heels are too familiar. Too precise.
“Still here?” Corrine’s voice is soft. Honeyed. Dangerous.
She glides in without invitation, setting a bottle of my favorite whiskey on the desk. Two crystal tumblers beside it like it’s a peace offering.
“Thought you might need a drink,” she says, already uncorking it.
I don’t respond. Just watch her, wary.
She pours slowly. Controlled. Like always.
“I just came from visiting Mom,” she adds after a beat, almost like an afterthought. “She didn’t move. Obviously. Same as always.”
She looks up at me with a brittle smile. “I didn’t want to be alone tonight.”
My fingers brush the rim of the glass she poured me, but I don’t drink. I keep my eyes on her instead while she toys with her necklace.
“I should’ve told you what I was going to say today,” she says, sliding one glass toward me. “I’m sorry for that.”
I arch a brow. “That’s what you’re apologizing for?”
