I stared.
She smiled wider.
“The subpoenas. The press. The investigation. The fallout,” she said.
One finger drifted along the edge of the desk.
Deliberate. Light.
“I can bury it.”
I blinked once.
“And what does that cost?”
She tilted her head. Unhooked the belt of the trench slowly. Let it hang open.
“You forgive me.”
She waited. Then added:
“Publicly.”
“You take me back. The way I was. Not as penance. As proof.”
I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. She kept going.
Part of me wanted her to. Another part wanted her to never leave again. And that part? That’s the one I’ve spent years trying to bury beneath bourbon and control.
“We rebuild the brand. The couple. The control.”
“You hold my hand at charity events and let the papers spin their fairytales.”
“And in return?” I asked, voice sharp as glass.
She leaned in. The lace visible now.
“You keep the empire.”
A pause. Then quieter. Not soft. Not kind. Sharper.
“Do you want it?”
I looked at her. At the room. At what was left of everything I’d built—now held together with silence and pride.
I lifted the glass.
Drank.
And said nothing.
Answering her meant acknowledging the ache. And I wasn't ready to admit that some part of me still wanted her. Just not enough to bleed for her again.
The door clicked shut behind her. She didn’t wait for an answer. Selene never did. She never needed permission to believe she’d already won.
I didn’t finish the Scotch. Didn’t pour another. Left the glass like everything else I couldn’t fix—half-finished and reeking of what I used to need.
The elevator ride down was its own kind of hell.
