Maybe it was to step further in.
My body didn’t want to go home.
It didn’t want the illusion of control that came from familiar walls and familiar routines.
It didn’t want to sit on my bed and tell myself that if Micah wanted me, he’d come back on his own.
It wanted answers.
And maybe—if I was being honest—it wanted proof that I wasn’t wrong for trusting what I felt.
I curled my fingers tighter around the keys, took one last look down the street that led home, and then turned my back on it.
Because whatever waited ahead—Dominion Hall, truths I wasn’t ready for, men with histories that cut deeper than mine—I already knew this much:
Staying still wasn’t safer anymore.
And I wasn’t the kind of woman who could pretend otherwise.
When I arrived, Dominion Hall loomed the way money always did—quiet, confident, unconcerned with whether you were ready to face it or not. The gates opened after my name was called in, the gravel crunching under the tires like a warning I chose to ignore.
Inside, everything was too composed. Too still. As if chaos were something that happened elsewhere, to other people.
I was shown into a sitting room that felt curated to disarm—soft lighting, neutral tones, furniture arranged for conversation rather than confrontation.
Portia Dane was already there.
She rose when she saw me, her posture elegant, her expression unreadable in that way people cultivated when they were used to power.
“Joy,” she said. “I wondered when you’d come.”
“I didn’t know I was expected,” I replied, surprised at how calm I sounded.
She studied me for a moment. Then gestured for me to sit. “You’re braver than most.”
“I don’t feel brave,” I said honestly. “I feel … responsible.”
Her mouth curved slightly. “Okay.”
I folded my hands in my lap, mirroring her earlier posture without meaning to. “Where is Micah?”
Portia’s gaze sharpened—not hostile, but alert. “You care.”
“Yes.”
No hesitation. No apology.
She nodded once. “Then I’ll tell you what I can.”
She explained in fragments. Carefully. Enough to give shape without betraying whatever lines she lived by. That Micah had been summoned. That something long buried had resurfaced. That the man Micah believed had abandoned him—had been dead—was very much alive.
My chest tightened. “His father.”
“Yes.”
The word landed with weight.
Before I could ask more, the door opened.
