The kind of scent you don’t survive. The kind of scent you drown in willingly.
Barron Lawlor had always carried his authority like a blade. Today, it hung heavier. Deeper. Blunter.
He stood a step away. Hands loose at his sides. Chest rising slow and heavy like breathing cost him something.
The elevator rose. Soft hum. Soft breath. Soft ache.
I watched the numbers tick higher. Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Somewhere between thirty-three and thirty-four, I moved. Slow. Deliberate.
I reached out. Brushed my fingertips along the inside of his forearm. Just once. Barely a touch. Not even a graze. A question without a word.
He didn’t flinch. He didn’t pull away. He just—froze. For a breath. A heartbeat. A lifetime. Then the doors slid open.
Barron stepped out. His shoulders stiff. His fists clenched. He didn’t look back. But his pulse thundered in the silence he left behind. And I knew. I still mattered. Even to him. Especially to him.
The executive floor wasn’t empty. Not quite. But it had been stripped down to the bones.
No assistants lined the hallway. No interns scurried with coffees and files. No heels clattered across the polished marble. Just silence.
And war. The air was cold. Metallic.
The smell of old wealth and fresh blood.
I walked past Royal’s office. Empty. A half-drunk whiskey glass tilted on its side. Past Loyal’s door. Shut. Sharp. Uninviting.
My boots clicked too loud against the marble. Every step sounded like a vow. To stay. To breathe. To belong.
Wolfe’s door was open. The room inside was a battlefield. Not of bodies. Not of blood. Of silence. Of choices.
Wolfe stood by the far windows. Hands tucked into his pockets.
The skyline blurred behind him in the morning haze. Royal sat half-slouched in a chair, staring at nothing. Loyal leaned against the desk, jaw tight, arms folded. Barron stood farther back. Near the bookshelves. Backlit. Dark.
When I stepped inside, no one spoke.
They looked at me.
Not with anger.
Not with pity.
Just—waiting.
I moved to the side. My legs didn’t shake. My hands didn’t tremble.
I picked up a manila folder. Opened it. Client lists. Damage reports. Threat analyses. Everything bleeding. Everything salvageable—if someone stayed to hold it together.
I pulled the laptop closer. Typed in the password. Opened the spreadsheet. Started working. Because that’s what survival looked like now. Not kneeling. Not begging. Staying. Choosing. Fighting.
With bare hands and broken ribs and breath borrowed from the men who still stood. Minutes passed. The silence shifted. Not heavy. Not suffocating. Solid.
When Wolfe finally spoke, it wasn’t to command. It was quieter. Almost proud.
“Good.”
And for the first time since the leash fell silent, I breathed like I belonged.
26
