"I'm not you," I murmur. "I'm not disappearing into him. I'm standing next to him."
"Well," she says after a long pause, her voice a little smaller. "I suppose that's nice, too. As long as his bank account stays full."
A dry laugh escapes my throat. She’ll never get it. And honestly? That’s okay.
I don't need her to understand.
I spent years terrified of becoming her. Terrified that if I let a man take care of me, I’d lose myself. I fought so hard to be independent, to be the "strong one," that I almost missed the fact that you can be strong and still be held.
Gabriel doesn't want me weak. He wants me strong enough to stand beside him.
"I have to go, Mom," I say. "I have things to do."
“But—"
I hang up, and then I look at the phone in my hand.
I didn't do this for the money. I didn't do it for the status.
I did it because when I’m with him, the static in my head stops. I did it because he makes me feel like I’m the most powerful thing in the room.
I did it because the way he looks at me, straight down into my soul like it answers only to him, is everything.
I stand up and walk back to the mirror.
The white dress makes me look like an angel in the dim room, ethereal and a little bit magic.
Powerful.
My mother is wrong about a lot of things. But she’s right about one thing.
I won.
But I didn't win a lottery.
I won a life of happiness and love and obsession I wouldn’t trade for anything.
I unzip the dress, wincing slightly as I twist to reach the pull. The silk pools at my feet.
Zipping it back into the garment bag feels like holstering a gun.
I’m not nervous about what’s to come. I’m not scared.
I’mexcited.
I walk out of the closet and back into the bedroom, picking up the copy of Gatsby from the nightstand and running my thumb over the gold lettering before settling in at the chair by the window to read while the snow falls.
Ryder thinks he’s walking into just another holiday gala on Christmas Eve like so many before it.
He has no idea he’s walking into his own funeral.
And I’m going to look damn good standing over the grave.
I’ve spentdecades building a legacy, and I’m about to spend one night correcting the biggest mistake I ever made.
Cohen sits across from me, a leather folder open in his lap and a glass of bourbon dangling from his fingers. The house is quiet around us, but the energy in my office is intense as we finalize our plans.
Spread across the surface of my desk are the instruments of a public execution: financial reports, sworn affidavits, and high-resolution photographs that detail every one of Ryder’s sins.
