It’s both a warning and promise, sealed in the growing darkness of our shared shadows. My fingers tangle in her hair, drawing her closer as the last light fades from the room.
I can’t stand the distance between us anymore. Even these few feet feel like miles, stretching my already frayed control to its limits. Without a word, I shift painfully on the bed, each movement sending fire through my ribs. The space I create beside me is an unspoken invitation.
“Come here.” My voice is rough, more command than request.
Eve’s eyes narrow slightly. “Your ribs—”
“I don’t care about my ribs.” The words come out sharp, edged with the desperation I can’t quite hide. “I need you closer.”
She studies me for a moment, that calculating gaze I’ve come to know so well. Then she moves with careful grace, settling beside me on the bed. The mattress dips slightly, and I have to bite back a groan as the movement jars my injuries.
“Stubborn bastard,” she mutters, but there’s warmth beneath the exasperation.
“You knew that when you fell for me.” I wrap my arm around her, drawing her closer despite the protest of broken ribs. Her head comes to rest on my shoulder, and something inside me finally settles.
“We’re going to fight,” she says after a moment, her fingers tracing patterns on my chest. “You know that, right? Your need to control everything, my refusal to be controlled—”
“I’m counting on it.” I press my lips to her temple, breathing in her scent. “You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t challenge me at every turn.”
She shifts to look up at me, eyes glinting in the dim light. “And you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t try to orchestrate every detail of my life.”
“Not every detail.” My hand slides into her hair, cradling the back of her head. “Just the ones that keep you alive and in my bed.”
“Remy.” There’s warning in her tone but also amusement.
“We’ll make our own rules, Eve.” I tighten my grip on her hair, feeling her slight shiver at the darkness in my voice. “And we’ll make the world bend to them.”
She presses closer, our bruises aligning like a map of everything we’ve survived. “Your world or mine?”
“Ours.” The word falls between us like a promise written in shadow and blood. “Whatever we build together.”
Her breath catches, and I feel the moment she accepts this truth—that we’re beyond the point of no return, bound together by something darker and deeper than either of us anticipated.
Epilogue
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Remy’s penthouse, Chicago stretches before me like a metal and glass kingdom. Papers scatter across the kitchen table—research for a possible investigation into corporate exploitation of refugee workers. My muscles protest as I shift in the chair, a reminder that my body still needs some time to heal.
I trace a fading scar on my forearm, remembering the violence of that final confrontation with my father. Three months since his arrest, I still catch myself checking dark corners, expecting his men to emerge from the shadows. Old habits die hard.
The late afternoon sun throws long shadows across the marble countertops, turning the pristine white kitchen into a canvas of light and dark. It suits the duality of my new life—the comfort of Remy’s wealth wrapped around the sharp edges of who we really are. I’ve traded one form of danger for another, more intimate variety.
My laptop screen dims, and I rub my tired eyes. Hours of cross-referencing testimonies and financial records have left me drained. The story is there, buried in patterns of shell companies and missing wage records. It’s not human trafficking, but corporate greed leaves its own trail of broken lives. Should I dive into it?
Rising from the chair, I stretch my stiff muscles and move to the windows. My reflection stares back—sharp-eyed, harder than before.
The penthouse feels emptier without Remy’s commanding presence, though evidence of him surrounds me—the precise arrangement of kitchen tools, the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air. Our relationship defies conventional labels and is built on a foundation of mutual darkness and understanding.
I press my forehead against the cool glass, watching the city shift from afternoon to evening.
Three months since my father’s arrest, and I’m still trying to figure out what normal looks like—or if that’s even possible anymore. The exposé did its job too well; Montoni’s empire collapsed like a house of cards under public scrutiny and federal investigation. The FBI has more than enough evidence now—evidence I spent years collecting—but they still call me in for updates.
Agent Rivera insists on discretion when we meet. Always somewhere unremarkable: a diner on the edge of town or an empty park bench at dawn. She updates me on progress—arrests made, loose ends tied—and always asks if I’m ready to give up my anonymity yet. Every time, my answer stays the same: no.
It should feel like a victory, but it doesn’t—not entirely. My body has healed; the bruises have faded into faint shadows on my skin, scars sealed into pale lines barely visible against flesh that still remembers too much. But inside… Inside is different.
Hypervigilance, Rivera called it during one of our quieter conversations—when she thought she was being helpful by giving me labels for what’s wrong with me now. Hypervigilance makes sense when your father sent men after you in your sleep or kept you caged beneath his thumb for most of your life.
I try not to think about him too much—the way his study smelled like cigars and leather, how his voice could cut sharper than any knife when he wanted it to—but some nights are worse than others. The nightmares don’t always make sense: fragments stitched together wrong until they’re something monstrous but familiar all at once. His hand gripping my arm too tightly, Remy’s face flashing between love and fury, my mother’s laughter bleeding out into silence.
