After I step into a pair of his sweats and roll up the ankles, a knock breaks the quiet.
Two of Kingston’s men stand in the doorway, expressionless in black suits, hands folded in front of them like they’re posing for a police lineup.
“The boss asked us to escort you,” one of them says, voice flat and professional.
“To my execution?” I mutter under my breath.
“To your place,” the taller one adds after a beat.
I frown. “He’s letting me leave?”
The shorter of the two glances at his watch, then meets my eyes with the kind of expression that says don’t make this harder than it needs to be.
“Our instruction is to accompany you while you collect your personal belongings and escort you back here.”
I force a laugh.
“So I’m allowed to pack abag. How generous. What if I decide to stay?” I press, arms crossing over my chest. “What will you do? Call your big, bad boss and tell him his wife’s misbehaving?”
A ghost of a smile dances over the taller guy’s mouth. “We’d advise against that, ma’am. Our job is to keep you safe.”
“And obedient?” I add.
The shorter one shakes his head once. “Just alive. How you choose to behave is up to you and how we make sure you get back safely is up to us.”
I hold their stare for a moment, then exhale through my nose in a gust.
“Fine,” I mutter. “Let’s get this over with. I need to get out of these clothes anyway.”
I gesture to the oversized clothes hanging off my frame. “Being this close to that man is making my skin break out in a rash.”
As they lead me though the penthouse, I look about, wondering if Kingston has left too. Then I make a conscious decision not to give a fuck where he is. The more space there is between us, the better.
The elevator descends to the basement with a low hum, and when the doors slide open, the two men flank me again—silent, professional shadows. They guide me through the underground garage to a sleek black car waiting in a pool of low light, engine already running.
They don’t talk to me and I don’t acknowledge them either. We just sit there quietly as the driver takes us across the city through unfamiliar streets.
When we finally pull up to my building, I don’t wait for them to open the door. I slide out on my own and dartbarefoot over the pavement, jog up the stoop, and punch in the code to open the main door.
Finally, I’m home.
Inside my apartment, I move through the space like a stranger, each step echoing with the hollow truth that it’s no longer mine. My things are still where I left them. Discarded jewelry sits on trays atop the vanity, silk robes hang on hooks, and my violin rests in its open case, right where I left it after playing Chopin’s Funeral March the night before the wedding.
A private requiem.
My own twisted send-off before I left my dreams behind.
The sight of it hits hard, a hard punch to the ribs that leaves me breathless. God, how I’ve missed playing it.
All this was supposed to be my future.
Music. Solitude. Freedom.
Not him.
Looking left and right, everything seems… paused. Like someone hit the brakes on my life.
I move to my bedroom and hunt through the closet, packing my Louis Vuitton suitcase. It fills fast and I wheel it into the lounge, heading for my violin. I kneel beside it, fingertips brushing the strings before I lower the lid and snap the latches shut. The final click sounds like a closing chapter.
