“Remy—”
“No.” I cut her off, asserting control over this unexpected reunion. “You don’t get to dictate terms.”
The scotch burns, grounding me in the present as memories of her threaten to surface. Eight years of calculated moves, of rebuilding my influence brick by brick, yet here she is, throwing chaos into my carefully ordered world again.
“If you want my help,” I say, “you’ll come to my office. Now.”
“That’s not—”
“The Georges Tower. Fortieth floor. Now.” I pause, savoring the moment. “Unless you’re not quite as desperate as you sound.”
Silence stretches between us. I imagine her weighing her options and calculating risks. The thought brings a bitter smile to my lips.
“Tick tock, Eve. My curiosity has a short shelf life.” I move back to the window, watching the streets below. “Whatever’s hunting you won’t wait for you to find a better option. And we both know if you had one, you wouldn’t have called me.”
“You’re enjoying this,” she accuses.
“Immensely.” I don’t bother hiding my satisfaction. “Consider it a down payment on eight years of debt. The choice is yours—face whatever’s out there alone, or face me. At least with me, you know what you’re walking into.”
“Do I?”
“More than most.” I check my watch. “Twenty minutes, Eve. After that, lose my number.”
I hang up before she can respond, preventing her from gaining any semblance of control over the conversation. The scotch burns in my throat as I down the remaining liquid, my reflection fractured in the crystal tumbler.
Setting the glass down, I move to my desk and press the intercom. “Marcus, up the security in the building. I’m waiting for a woman, maybe being followed.” A pause. “And have someone sweep the perimeter, just in case.”
“Yes, sir.”
Eight years. Eight years of methodically erasing every trace of Liv Consoli from my life, from my thoughts. I pull up the security feeds on my monitors, watching the emptying hallways, the lobby, and the parking garage.
The elevator indicator blinks, catching my attention. Someone’s ascending. My pulse quickens, but I force it steady, moving to stand behind my desk.
The security feed shows her in the elevator. Even through the grainy footage, I can see the tension in her shoulders and the way her eyes dart to corners and shadows. She’s scared—genuinely scared. Whatever’s hunting her must be significant to drive her back to me.
The elevator chimes.
The elevator doors slide open, and time freezes. Liv steps into my domain, a ghost made flesh. Her black clothing is wrinkled, her dark hair falling loose around her shoulders—a far cry from the polished journalist who once dismantled my life. But those green eyes remain unchanged, already mapping exits even as she tries to maintain her composure.
I stay by the windows, letting the city lights cast my shadow across Italian marble floors. Power lies in stillness, in forcing others to come to you. She takes three measured steps inside, her boots silent on the polished stone.
“Welcome to my domain.” I move toward her, each step deliberate, watching how she shifts her weight, ready to run. The scent of her perfume hits me—jasmine with an undertone of something darker, more primal—and memories surge forward. Nights of wine and half-truths, mornings of betrayal.
She clutches her bag closer, knuckles white against the leather strap. Even disheveled, even afraid, she maintains that steel core I remember too well. Her chin lifts, a queen in exile refusing to bow.
“I see you’ve upgraded your cage, Remy.” The words aim for steady, but I catch the tremor underneath. The slight shake in her fingers. The darkness under her eyes speaks of sleepless nights.
I circle her slowly, cataloging details. Mud on her boots. A small tear in her jacket sleeve. Hair tangled from running. Each imperfection tells a story and builds a picture of her desperation. But I keep my observations to myself, another card held close to my chest.
She tracks my movement, turning to keep me in view. The tension crackles between us, eight years of unspoken accusations electrifying the air. I stop directly in front of her, close enough to see the pulse jumping in her throat.
“Cages,” I say softly, “keep things out as effectively as they keep things in.” I gesture to the sprawling penthouse with its museum-worthy art and cutting-edge security. “Some of us learn from our mistakes.”
Her eyes flash—that familiar defiance that still sets my blood burning after all these years. But beneath it, I see something new. Something I’ve waited eight years to witness.
Fear.
I study her reflection in the window, savoring the moment as I pour myself another measure of scotch. The crystal decanter catches the city lights, casting amber shadows across my hands. Eight years of waiting, of rebuilding, and now she stands in my sanctuary—cornered, desperate.
