He’d made love to me with a kind of desperation I didn’t know how to name. A kind of stillness that made me ache more than any command he’d ever whispered.
And now he was gone. I padded barefoot across the wood floor. Let the cold ground bite.
My limbs still moved like memory—like submission wasn’t just a position, it was a rhythm my body had learned to breathe in.
The bathroom mirror was fogged at the corners. I wiped a strip with the back of my wrist. Looked at myself. My eyes were hollow. Not tired. Just too wide.
My mouth was swollen from sleep—or from him. A faint shadow still ghosted along my collarbone. Proof. Not that he hurt me. That he stayed. That he touched without destroying.
I brushed my teeth. Washed my face. My reflection didn’t change.
I walked back into the bedroom. Stared at the leash again. Still there. Still coiled. I remembered the way his voice sounded when he asked:
“Will you join me?”
Not a command. Not a test. An invitation. And I had. Now it was my turn.
I dressed slowly. Deliberately. Not soft. Not pretty. No silk. No heels. No ribbons.
I wore black slacks. A fitted turtleneck. Boots that hit my ankle and laced tight. No makeup. No perfume. Only a fresh wound I didn’t cover. When I tied my hair back, my fingers trembled once. Only once.
I opened the closet. Saw the empty hangers. The shirts Wolfe no longer wore. The scarf Camille left here once that none ofthem ever threw out. I stared at it. Didn’t touch. There was a note on the floor, from days ago. One of Barron’s. Folded into perfect thirds.
I stepped over it. I didn't need words. Not anymore.
I picked up my bag. Slid my phone inside. Checked the screen. Two texts from Loyal. One from Royal. Nothing from Wolfe. Good. If this was a test, I wouldn’t fail it by asking permission to breathe.
At the door, I paused. Looked back one last time. The leash was still there. Waiting. Not for obedience. For choice.
I walked out. And chose to stay. Not here. But with them. And whatever came next. The Tower loomed in the distance. It didn’t shine the way it used to.
The morning light made the glass look grimy, almost bruised. Like the building itself was holding its breath. Like the weight of everything bleeding behind those windows was too much even for steel and stone to hold.
The city moved around it. Taxis honking. People hurrying past with coffee cups and clipped conversations.
But here? Here, time bent. The Lawlor name was still on the plaque by the door. But it looked smaller now. Less like a crown. More like a gravestone.
I adjusted the strap of my bag on my shoulder. My boots clicked against the curb as I crossed to the entrance. Every step felt heavier. Like the sidewalk could feel what I was carrying. Inside, the lobby was colder. Colder and emptier.
The chandelier overhead still glittered. But half the lights were dead. The marble floor—once buzzing with the scuff of heels and the low hum of power—was nearly silent.
The reception desk was manned by a temp. A young guy. His tie crooked. His eyes wide with the kind of fear that didn’t come from incompetence.
No one looked up when I passed. No one whispered. Security stood stiffer now. Their jackets bulkier. Guns not just allowed. Expected.
The air smelled faintly of ammonia and anxiety. A woman hurried across the lobby, heels sharp against the marble, clutching a cardboard box stacked with personal belongings. She didn’t meet my eyes. Didn’t look at anyone.
Another casualty. Another defector. I stepped toward the elevator. Pressed the button. I stepped inside. Pressed the button for the executive floor. The doors started to slide shut. Then a hand caught them. Barron.
He stepped inside. The air tightened. He didn’t glance at me. Didn’t acknowledge me. He didn’t have to.
His suit was sharp. Dark gray. Impeccable. The cuffs crisp, but his tie hung loose, undone in a way that felt almost violent.
He smelled like smoke.
Leather.
Ashes.
