“I want it,” I said, barely above a whisper.
Sin stopped mid-step. Turned slowly, eyebrows lifting. “You sure?”
I nodded, more certain than I had been about anything in weeks—apart from him. “Yeah. I don’t want anything from that house. Not the furniture. Not the art. Not even the cutlery.”
His brow arched. “You mean metaphorically or…?”
“Both.”
We signed the papers that afternoon. Corryn looked like she wanted to squeal with glee, but I calmly slid her an NDA and made her sign it before she even uncapped her pen. If word got back to my father too soon, he’d unleash hell—and I wasn’t ready to fight him. Not yet. Not while the cement on this new foundation was still wet.
By the time we stepped back out onto the street, the city had slipped into dusk. Sin turned to me, fingers curling into the lapels of my coat, and kissed me in the middle of the sidewalk like the world owed us this one small victory. And maybe it did.
This was us finally claiming something it never intended to give us. We were thieves of our own freedom. And this time… we weren’t giving it back.
My house felt like a museum when we walked back in after the viewing. Cold, echoing, and filled with things that meant nothing to me anymore. The silence here wasn’t peace—it was pressure. Heavy and constant.
Sin stood in the doorway of my bedroom, arms crossed, gaze slowly scanning the space. “It’s weird,” he said finally. “I always thought this place would be more.”
I huffed a quiet laugh, crouching beside the shelves. “That’s because it should have been. It’s less alive and more… embalmed. Picture perfect doesn’t make a home.”
One by one, I slid books into a small pull-along case. Only the ones I loved. The ones that had gotten me through sleepless nights and long lectures on legacy and performance. I skipped all the hardcovers that were chosen by decorators. The ones with untouched spines and titles that tried too hard.
Sin walked over and helped fold my clothes into the suitcase on my bed. We didn’t speak for a while, the quiet between us gentle this time.
“This it?” he asked eventually, zipping up the case.
I nodded. “That’s all I want.”
He didn’t argue. He just nodded once and looked around. “Right. So that just leaves?—”
A loudthumpand a guttural, annoyedmrrrowrcut him off. We both turned. Winston—the smokey gray, overfed demon I called a cat—had just launched himself on the top shelf of the wardrobe in my walk-in closet, and was glaring down at us like a dragon guarding its hoard.
“Oh no,” I muttered. “He knows.”
Sin blinked at him. “You didn’t tell me we were dealing with a war criminal.”
I sighed and grabbed the cat carrier. “Last time I tried to move him, I had scratches on my arm for a week.”
Winston’s tail swished like he was winding up for violence.
Sin took the carrier from me, setting it down quietly before rolling his shoulders like he was about to enter a boxing ring. “You get the front. I’ll take the flank.”
“What the hell is the flank of a cat?”
But before I could argue further, Sin darted forward. Winston made a break for the dresser, but I intercepted, throwing a towel over him like a net. There was a brief scuffle—a yowl, a hiss, some claws in unfortunate places—but after an ungraceful wrestling match that involved me swearing and Sin laughing way too hard, we got him in.
Winston settled into the carrier with a dramatic sigh of betrayal.
“You good?” Sin asked, brushing cat hair off his hoodie.
“I think I lost the respect of my only dependent.”
“He’ll forgive you. Eventually.”
I looked around the room one last time. Everything else—my suits, the crystal chandelier, the inherited oil paintings—they could all rot. I had what I needed: the books that mattered, a few items of clothing, and Winston, still grumbling quietly in his box like he knew he’d just been evicted from the monarchy.
Sin touched my elbow gently. “Ready?”
