We pull up at a side entrance to the Conrad. The lobby is deserted, too early for the real crowd, only a skeletal staff behind the marble desk. The driver opens the door for us, gestures us inside.
We walk in, hand in hand, leaving a trail of damp footprints across the tile.
The girl at the front desk stares, not at our faces but at the blood on my shirt, at the muddy hem of Amara’s ruined dress. She looks like she might call security, but then she looks at the black card in my hand and decides to let someone else die on that hill.
“Mr. Roth,” she says, voice quivering, “we have your suite ready. Would you like assistance with—”
“No.” I stare at her until her eyes skitter away. “Just the keys.”
She slides two plastic cards across the desk. “Penthouse is on the top floor. The elevator requires access.”
I nod, take the keys, and pull Amara toward the elevator bay.
She walks like she’s dreaming, each step an afterthought. In the elevator, she leans against the wall, head back, eyes on the ceiling as I swipe my card.
The doors close, and for the first time, we are alone.
I watch her.
She stares at the red stains on her skin, at the places where blood has dried in the lines of her palms. I think she might be crying, but when I look closer her eyes are dry.
I want to say something clever. Something that will cauterize the wound. Instead, I just watch her fall apart, slow and elegant, the way a perfect building collapses under its own weight.
The elevator dings. The doors open onto a hallway that smells like money and bleach. The carpet is white. The walls are white. Everything is white except for us.
I guide her to the suite. The key clicks, the door swings open, and we step inside.
The room is made for people who have never seen dirt. Every surface gleams, polished to a shine so perfect it hurts the eyes. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the skyline. There is a terrace, a hot tub, a bed big enough to drown in.
Amara stops in the center of the room. She stands there, dripping, leaving a stain on the pale carpet.
I shut the door.
We are safe. For the first time, we are safe.
And she has no fucking idea what to do with it.
I set the go-bag on the table and dig out a clean towel, then cross to her, slow and deliberate. When I reach her, I press the towel to the mess on her hands and say, “We should get you cleaned up.”
She blinks, lashes spiking together, and for a second she looks like she might refuse. But she doesn’t. She lifts her hands and lets me wipe them, lets me blot the blood from her knuckles and the undersides of her fingers, lets me touch her skin like it’s mine to fix.
Her voice is a splinter. “Shouldn’t we—shouldn’t we check on Isolde?”
I let the towel fall to the floor, streaked red. “She’ll be fine. Rhett will call when there’s news. They’re all together.”
She looks at me, and the fear is back, pale and naked. “What if she’s not?”
I step closer, trapping her against the window. The glass is cold on her back, but my hands are not.
“She’s not our problem anymore, Amara.” I keep my voice soft. “Let them have their happy ending. We have ours.”
She lets out a shuddering breath. I want to eat it, swallow the doubt and replace it with something permanent.
The city spreads below us, a grid of movement and color, entirely unaware of the carnage we left behind. I cup her cheek, thumb tracing the edge of her jaw, and tilt her face up so she has to see me, has to see exactly what she’s chosen.
I watch her eyes. They’re still blue, but the shade has changed.
“Take off your dress,” I say.
