Accommodating.
Disappearing by degrees.
And the worst part?
No one had forced her.
She’d handed over the pieces herself, believing that was the price of being chosen.
That realization shattered something in her. Because if she stayed, if she let it continue, one day there would be nothing left to reclaim.
So she walked away.
No explanation.
No drama.
A door closing behind her and a vow never to let anyone get that close again.
No one else got in.
Not until now.
She wasn’t sure when it had happened—when Gideon Blackwell had slipped past her defenses.
Maybe it was the way he listened. The way he didn’t press. The way he saw without demanding.
Now, as his gaze held hers across the empty club, her throat tightened, breath snagging on something that was fear. Recognition maybe.
Of something deeper.
Something that scared her more than control ever had.
Hope.
Her hand tightened around the bar rail, grounding herself in its cool solidity.
She wasn’t that girl anymore. She refused to be.
But trust was a fragile thing.
And no matter how far she’d come, she wasn’t sure she remembered how to hold it without breaking it in the process.
The Blackwell Room felt different tonight.
The air heavier.
The silence deeper.
And somewhere, knotted in the charged air between her and Gideon, was a question she couldn’t afford to answer.
Because trust wasn’t a gift.
It was a risk.
Even after everything… the voice in her head whispered.
Careful. Careful. Careful.
