My muscles protest as I gather fresh clothes from the dresser. Every movement reminds me of the fight—the impact of fists, the strain of running, the rush of adrenaline. The shower calls to me like a siren song.
I lock the bathroom door, though I doubt it’ll stop Remy if he decides to intervene. The marble counter holds an array of expensive toiletries, all new, all carefully selected.
The shower controls are complicated enough to require an engineering degree. After some fumbling, hot water cascades from the oversized rainfall showerhead. Steam rises, filling the space with warmth that seeps into my aching muscles.
I step under the spray, letting the water sluice over my shoulders. The temperature soothes my frayed nerves, an invisible evidence of tonight’s close call. My hair plasters against my neck as I breathe in the steam, allowing myself this moment of vulnerability—but only a moment.
The marble tiles feel cool against my palm as I lean forward, watching the water swirl down the drain. My mind races through contingency plans. Remy’s surveillance likely extends here, too, though I haven’t spotted the cameras yet. I need to assume every move is watched, every reaction analyzed.
I reach for the shampoo, wincing as I raise my arms. My fingers work through my hair mechanically. The shower’s white noise might mask conversation, but I can’t risk assuminganything in this gilded cage. Remy’s security measures will be thorough, especially with me as his “guest.”
When I finally step out, my skin is pink from the heat. The oversized towel feels impossibly soft—another luxury that screams Remy. I dress quickly in clean clothes, not wanting to remain vulnerable longer than necessary. The mirror reveals fresh bruises blooming along my collarbone, stark against my skin.
I gather my dirty clothes, noting the tears that tell the story of tonight’s encounter. These will need to be washed before Remy sees them. The less he knows about what really happened, the better.
After drying off, I pull on clean jeans and a simple black top from my bag. My wet hair hangs loose around my shoulders, and I resist the urge to style it. Let him see me casual, slightly vulnerable. It fits the narrative. Before I forget, I use my brand-new phone to call the police. The exchange is short, and a meeting is set at my place tomorrow morning.
The kitchen smells of garlic and spices when I emerge. Remy stands at the island, methodically unpacking takeout containers. The sight of him in shirtsleeves, forearms exposed as he works, sends an unwanted spark through my body.
“I’m wounded.” I slide onto a barstool, keeping my voice light. “Here I thought you’d cook for me. Maybe break out the fine China.”
His hands still over a container of what looks like pasta. “If you’re expecting the royal treatment, you’re in the wrong penthouse.”
“No tablecloth? No candles?” I prop my elbows on the marble counter. “Your hosting skills have really declined.”
He practically slams a plate in front of me, his jaw tight. “Eat.”
“So hospitable.”
“Would you prefer I let you starve?”
“Now there’s the Remy I remember. Always so concerned with my well-being.”
His dark eyes lock onto mine as he pushes a fork across the counter. “Eat your dinner, Eve. Before I decide to make you.”
The threat in his voice sends heat coursing through me that has nothing to do with fear. I pick up the fork, maintaining eye contact as I take a deliberate bite. “Happy?”
His only response is a low growl that makes my stomach flip.
The pasta sits heavy in my stomach as silence stretches between us. Remy’s phone buzzes twice. His fingers move across the screen with practiced efficiency, but his expression reveals nothing. I focus on my plate, fighting the urge to break the quiet with questions I know he won’t answer.
“Send me a list.” His voice cuts through the silence. “Whatever you need to work. I’ll have it brought here.”
I set down my fork. “About that. I called the police earlier. They want me at the apartment tomorrow morning to file a report.” I keep my tone casual and matter-of-fact. “I figured I’d stop by my editing studio after, pick up what I need.”
His expression shifts—surprise, calculation, irritation—before settling into clear annoyance. The muscle in his jaw ticks as he processes my words, no doubt searching for flaws in my logic.
“The police report needs to be filed. I already told you that,” I add, knowing he can’t argue with that point.
He pulls out his phone again, his fingers moving across the screen with sharp, decisive movements. “Marcus. Move the Emerson meeting. Have the car ready at eight.” He ends the call without waiting for a response.
“Get some rest.” His voice carries that familiar, commanding tone. “We leave at eight sharp.”
Without another word, he rises and strides down the hallway, presumably toward his bedroom. I watch him disappear around the corner, noting how his shoulders remain rigid.
Exhaustion hits me like a physical wave. My muscles ache from the earlier fight, and my mind feels stretched thin from maintaining this careful dance with Remy. I lean against the counter, doubt creeping in for the first time since I made that desperate call.
The truth settles cold and heavy in my chest—I’m trapped between two deadly forces. Behind me, unknown enemies who violated my home and want me silenced. Ahead, a man whose protection comes with invisible chains, whose very presence threatens to unravel years of carefully maintained defenses.
