Silvia stiffens. "Della, is that...?"
"Dorian's guy," I confirm. "I spotted him back in Utah."
Silvia frowns, her protective instinct flaring.
"And you didn't say anything? Does that... does that piss you off? That he had you followed?"
I look at the man again. Before, I would’ve been furious, felt controlled, as if Dorian were trying to own me. But now?
"No," I say honestly. "It doesn't."
Knowing he was there let me sleep a little deeper in those motels. Dorian didn't interfere. He just... watched over me.
"He kept his distance," I tell Silvia. "He respected the boundary. He just wanted to make sure I was safe. And honestly, Chiquita? It felt... good."
Our Uber pulls up. As I slide into the backseat, a wave of nausea hits me again, stronger this time. The smell of the driver’s pine air freshener is suddenly overwhelming. I squeeze my eyes shut, swallowing hard against the bile rising in my throat.I thought the triggers wouldn't hit me this hard anymore.
"You, okay?" Silvia asks, her hand on my knee. "You look pale."
"It’s the landing," I whisper, leaning my head back against the seat. "Mixed with old ghosts. It'll pass."
But as the car merges onto the highway, the queasiness doesn't fade.
I close my eyes, and I see Dorian’s face. I hold the sapphire between my fingers, and I just want to be in his arms. I pull out the phone and, although he probably already knows, I text him:
We’re back in San Diego. We’ll talk. Soon.
I open my eyes, and I see a future I'm finally brave enough to ask for.
* * *
Dorian
The text comes through while I’m standing in my office, staring out at the grid of Chicago lights.
We’re back in San Diego. We’ll talk. Soon.
I stare at the words until they blur.Soon.
It’s a single word, but it hits me with the force of a promise. A month ago, I would have been on the jet five minutes after receiving this, tearing through the sky to get to her.
But now, I just feel a cold, clawing restlessness.
I can't go to her. Not yet.
Because "Soon" isn't just a promise; it's a countdown. And I am not bringing her back to a world where she still has to look over her shoulder. I am not bringing her back if there is even a one percent chance that a ghost from the past can find us.
"Dorian."
David walks in, a tablet in his hand. He looks tired. We both are.
I turn to face him. "What's the status on the trap?"
"We're setting it up. The intermediary spoke to Morozov's people. They're interested in the evidence. They agreed to the terms—we deliver Andy, we get an hour, they handle the cleanup. But they want to vet the intel first. They’re asking for a meet in two days."
"No," I say, the word hard and flat.
David frowns.
