Dennis lunges forward, grabbing my arm and yanking me between them. I stumble, my back pressed against his chest as he reaches around me to press the gun to Connor’s temple.
“You see how perfect we are together?” Dennis whispers in my hair. “Once he’s gone, there will be nothing between us.”
His free hand slides possessively down my waist, and I suppress a shudder of revulsion. Facing me, Connor’s expression hardens with outrage.
Inhaling deeply, I focus on the air filling my lungs. There’s a way through this. There’s always a way through. We just need to stay alive long enough to find it.
“You’re right,” I say, forcing my voice to remain serene. “We belong together.”
Dennis’s grip loosens. “You’re choosing me?”
I nod, maintaining eye contact with Connor, willing him to understand my plan. “But first, you need to lower the gun. How will we be together if you’re in prison for his murder?”
“I don’t believe you,” Dennis says.
“It’s true,” I insist. My palm is sweating as I step back slowly to place it against his chest, fighting the urge to recoil. “That kiss in Vegas was unlike anything I’ve experienced. I’ve been fighting my feelings ever since.”
Dennis’s full attention is on me now. “I knew it,” Dennis breathes. “I knew you felt it too.”
“How could I not?” I continue, touching his face while I internally cringe. “You’ve shown me what passion really means. What devotion looks like.”
As Dennis drinks in my words, completely captivated, Connor lunges forward, grabbing Dennis’s wrist and forcing it upward. The gun discharges into the ceiling, and plaster dust rains down like snow.
I stumble backward as Connor slams Dennis against the wall. The impact is violent. His fist connects with Dennis’s face several times before Dennis crumples to the floor unconscious.
Connor kicks the gun away, breathing heavily. “You okay?” he asks, eyes searching mine while his hands immediately check me for injuries.
I nod shakily, sinking to my knees as adrenaline drains from my body. “I’m sorry.”
“I’ve got you, ma belle,” Connor retrieves the gun and checks the safety. He pulls out his phone, dialing 911. Wrapping his free arm around me, he repeats, “I’ve got you.”
The police response is swift and overwhelming. Two patrol cars, an ambulance, and a detective arrive within minutes of Connor’s call. The paramedics secure Dennis to a stretcher, placing restraints on his wrists and ankles even while he remains unconscious.
The officers separate us for initial statements, a standard procedure that still feels wrong after everything we’ve been through. I watch as Connor explains the situation to a serious-faced officer across the room, his hands gesturing toward the ceiling where the bullet is embedded.
“Ms. Williams?” The detective—Detective Creel according to her badge—redirects my attention. “I know this is difficult, but I need you to walk me through what happened.”
I explain everything—the kiss in Vegas, the texts, Dennis’s appearance at Kamal’s party, the stalking, the confrontation.
“You showed remarkable presence of mind,” Detective Creel says. “That was a dangerous but effective strategy.”
When the initial statements are complete, the officers collect the gun, photograph the bullet holes, and dust for fingerprints. They bag Dennis’s phone as evidence after Detective Creel mentions they’ll need to check for stalking evidence—photos, location tracking apps, search histories.
“We’ll need both of you to come to the station tomorrow for formal statements,” she explains as the ambulance leaves with Dennis still unconscious. “We’ll be charging him with breaking and entering, aggravated assault, attempted murder, and stalking.”
We’re given case numbers, victim services contact information, and temporary restraining order paperwork.
Once they’re gone, Connor takes my hands in his. “Ça va, ma belle?”
“I’m okay. Shaken, but okay.” I smile, though my hands still tremble.
He pulls me against his chest, arms wrapping tightly around me. I cling to him, breathing in his scent.
“Tabarnac, I don’t know what I would’ve done if—” He breaks off, his arms tightening around me so fiercely it almost hurts, but I welcome the pressure.
“We’re okay,” I whisper against his shirt, feeling the dampness of my tears soaking through the fabric.
He draws a long, shaky breath. “Je t’aime tellement, Meesha.” His voice breaks on my name.
