I nod. “Together.”
She presses her forehead into mine. The barrier between our pain dissolves. The city hums around us—unimportant now.
I guideher to the bedroom. No masks. No protocol. Under the moonlight filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows, I seeevery contour of her silhouette—the curve of her spine, arcs of bruises still fading, skin alive.
My hands slide down her arms, across her waist. She lets me undress her, and I fold each article of clothing away. I trace the lines of her body, memory and respect shaping my touch. No rush. No desperation. Just reverence.
Her fingertips wander over my chest—scars, bone spurs, sinew. She studies them like lit runes. “These... these are you,” she whispers.
“Yes,” I reply, breath soft. “Every one.”
We come together slowly, bodies aligning—two pieces fitting into something vulnerable and fierce. No fear now—only fire, only mutual devotion.
Each movement is deliberate. Each breath shared. We make love not to heal wounds—but to acknowledge them. Flesh pressed to flesh, breath to breath, pulse to pulse.
Time is dimensionless. Just us. We clutch each other like defiance made flesh.
When we collapse into the duvet, limbs tangled, chests rising in rhyme, it’s quiet but resonant. No shadows lurk here—only the echo of solace, of mutual respect.
I brush my fingertips through her hair. She turns and kisses my shoulder. “Thank you,” she murmurs.
“Thank you,” I whisper back. “For staying.”
We drift into the night, body temp warming the room, hearts beating a single promise.
Above us, Goldwin spreads silent and bright, unaware of the fragile summit reached in this penthouse loft.
Here, beneath no masks, we survive. And maybe, just maybe, we begin to live.
CHAPTER 24
ARIA DAWSON
Istand in the high-rise conference lounge overlooking Goldwin’s neon tapestry—400 meters above the indulgent chaos. The window’s shimmering reflection mirrors my own calm terror. I’m no longer wearing a courtroom suit; instead, tailored charcoal separates that somehow feel sharper than any legal gown. I didn’t survive the fall of my badge and the rise of this position to shrink, but to sharpen.
Across the sleek glass table sit three faction leaders. Their presence is subtle but dangerous: Kessa Trinh, arms folded and calculating; Jorn Beck, heavy-eyed and simmering; and Vira Zhol, poised like an arthropod with curves and claws. None have broken bread with a prosecutor turned mafia consigliere until tonight.
They wait. I breathe in the whir of passing hovercraft and the faint tang of sea salt drifting through the ventilation. I allow my pulse to steady before I begin.
“Thank you for coming,” I say, voice somber and edged. “I understand this isn’t typical Centauri hospitality—but neither am I.”
They exchange glances. The moment of tension stretches like taut taffy.
Jorn leans forward, voice gravelly. “This better not be another one of Aebon’s tricks. The Sect’s bottom line is respect.”
I smile—cold. “Respect is earned. I’m here to propose a new pact. Leverage, not litigation. Cooperation, not coercion.”
I slide a polished holo-pad across the table. Its screen glows, loaded with details: debt balances, resource routes, arbitration protocols. It’s not law—it’s power calculus.
Vira snatches it. “So you’re offering stability—for a price.”
I nod. “Security in exchange for influence. I negotiate—it’s what I do.” I tap the pad: their outfits’ symbols flicker—incentives, losses, mutual benefits.
Kessa leans in, brow furrowing. “You’re not hiding behind statutes tonight.”
“I left statutes behind,” I reply in a hush. “Now I enforce outcomes.”
Beck snorts. “And whose authority do you represent? Aebon’s? Yours?”
