“I’ll call you when I know.”
A short laugh. “Thought you’d say that. We’ll be in touch.” He hangs up.
I remain standing there, staring at the phone in my hand. This is the line. The point of no return. The truth I could never speak to Briar. Iwantto protect her legally. But Iwillprotect her by any means necessary. If the system fails her, I won’t. Her safety isn’t negotiable.
I move to the bar, pour whisky into a crystal glass, and down half of it in a single swallow. Fire burns down my throat, but it doesn’t take the edge off. Nothing will. I see her face in my mind—eyes full of fear, confusion, disappointment. I’d rather take a bullet than see that expression again. I’d face a firing squad. I’d burn the world to ashes.
Love is weakness. That’s what I was raised to believe. But maybe love is the only thing that makes the war worth fighting. I sink into the chair behind my desk, turning the glass slowly between my hands.
A storm is coming. And when it breaks, one way or another, Matteo Romero will drown. Because Briar Daniels deserves peace. And I’ll tear the world apart before I let anyone take it from her. Even if she hates me for it.
EIGHTEEN
BRIAR
A week passes,and for the first time in longer than I want to admit, I feel like I can breathe again.
The security Lucien put in place has been everywhere—quiet, unobtrusive shadows, rotating shifts of men who blend into the background like they’re part of the architecture. At first I resented it, resented the feeling that I was being watched, followed, controlled. And all because of an ex who wouldn’t let me live the only life gifted to me. But after the first few days, when the tension in my shoulders finally eased and I realized I could walk to the nearby shops for lunch with Stacy, go shopping for food or have a drink at a local bar after work without looking over my shoulder every two seconds, that resentment changed.
Now I feel…safe.
Even saying the word in my own head feels foreign. I’m not used to safety. I’m used to bracing for the next blow, swallowing the next lie, learning the rhythm of danger. I’m used to surviving, not living.
And for the first time in forever, I’m living.
Moretti Global is buzzing with energy this week, preparing for the massive black-tie charity event Lucien’s company ishosting at The Metropolitan Museum of Art. It’s all anyone can talk about—donor lists, displays, lighting rigs, celebrity appearances, the logistics of catering and security, and which wing of the museum will host the dinner versus the auction. It’s an event that’ll draw every powerful name in New York, and somehow, unbelievably, I’m a part of it.
The week feels like adrenaline wrapped in silk. I’m drowning in work, but in the best way. I’m exhausted, but fulfilled. I’m tired, but smiling.
And part of that—maybe most of that—is Lucien.
Every time I see him, something inside me tightens and loosens at the same time. Every glance across a boardroom table feels like a secret. Every brush of his hand feels dangerous and addictive. Every night we’ve spent tangled in his soft sheets feels like discovering something new I never knew I could want.
I shouldn’t fall for him. I know better. I know how dangerous it is to rely on someone. But I can’t help it. I want him. God help me, I need him.
When Stacy walks into my office Friday afternoon, waving her handbag in the air like she’s signaling a lifeboat, I’m already halfway to the edge of collapse. The weekend cannot come soon enough.
“Shopping,” she declares. “You need dresses. Shoes. Lipstick. Sparkles. Immediately.”
I laugh, shutting down my laptop. “Is that the professional term for it?”
“It’s the mental health term,” she says, looping her arm through mine. “Lucien Moretti isn’t the only one who knows how to spend money. I’m pretty good at it these days myself, although perhaps on a smaller budget.”
I laugh as two security guys fall into step behind us the moment we exit the building. It would have felt insane a month ago. Now it’s just protocol. Expected. Assuring.
We walk through SoHo, the air crisp, the breeze cool enough for jackets but bright with late-autumn sunshine. We pop into boutique after boutique, trying on dress after dress. Sequins. Velvet. Silk. Deep reds and emerald greens and silver that sparkles like stars. Stacy emerges from a dressing room in a gold gown and twirls, nearly knocking over a mannequin.
“I look like a disco ball someone wished on,” she groans.
“You look incredible,” I say, meaning every word. My cousin, no matter how much she may oppose, is absolutely stunning.
Our shopping bags multiply. Champagne appears in our hands, courtesy of a glamorous saleswoman who clearly smells money. The kind of day we never would’ve dared dream about back home. The kind of day where the world feels full of possibility instead of survival.
By the time we drop into a small café with white marble tables and strings of fairy lights woven along the ceiling, my feet ache but my heart feels light.
Stacy drops into the seat across from me, eyes glittering with mischief. “Okay. Spill. You look like a woman who hasn’t slept because she’s been getting thoroughly ruined in bed. Tell me everything.”
Heat flashes up my neck. “Stace?—”
