"I don't know." Tears are streaming down my face, but I'm smiling. "I think I just disowned myself from my family."
"We can go back," he says urgently. "You can fix this—"
"Fixing isn’t the point." My hands fist in his jacket, anchoring myself. "Choosing is. And I choose this. You. A life that’s finally mine.”
He kisses me then, deep and desperate, and I kiss back with everything I have.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"What now?" he asks.
I think about the mansion I'll never go back to. The money I saved from sculpture sales. The cottage that's not really ours. The future that's suddenly terrifying and wide open.
"Now," I say, "we figure it out. I don’t know our long-term plan, but Lucky’s at the vet overnight.” I breathe deeply and straighten my shoulders. “I’m not stepping foot back on that property. Let’s get a hotel.”
Draco nods, already reaching for my hand. “Yes, my brave one. We’ll get a hotel. First? We’ll have to swing by the cottage and grab some essentials. Quick raid. In and out.”
We walk out into the Manhattan evening, hand in hand, free and terrified and choosing each other anyway.
Behind us, the Pembroke empire stands tall and untouchable.
Ahead of us, the whole world waits.
Chapter Nineteen
Draco
My phone vibrates at six in the morning.
Charity’s curled against me in the narrow bed of our dog-friendly midtown hotel room, finally asleep after hours of crying and planning and trying to stitch herself back together. Somewhere across the city, Lucky’s still at the emergency clinic recovering from surgery. If everything goes well, we’ll be able to pick him up today.
And my phone will not shut up.
I ease out from under the blankets, careful not to bump her, and slip into the hall so the light and noise don’t wake her. Cheap carpet. Humming ice machine. Dim bulbs that make everything look like it’s been here forever. Anonymous, neutral ground.
No mansion. No cottage.
Just us.
Fifteen missed calls. Forty-two texts. Three voicemails. All from the last hour.
The first text is from Rurik:
Brother, you're everywhere. The ACTUAL news. Call when you can.
Then Alaric:
Fame found you. Your woman is WEALTHY. Good hunting, brother.
Then Flavius:
Reporters asking about you. I handled them with my usual charm and gave them exactly zero useful answers. Stay strong, brother. You're living the kind of story people only dream about.
I huff out something that’s almost a laugh. That’s Flavius—could charm a stone into dancing and still convince it the idea was its own.
I’m not laughing, though, when I pull up Google News.
The headlines explode across the screen:
