Her eyes are tired now. Too old for her face, but the way she looks at me—quiet, wounded, unbearably familiar—rips something loose that I didn’t even know was still holding.
Christ.I shouldn’t have come in like this. Should’ve given her time, space, something that resembles mercy. But I can’t move. I just stand there, the door still open behind me, watching the sun set around her like it’s trying to remember us too.
And for the first time since this began, I’m not thinking about deals or optics or ownership. I’m thinking about the girl who trusted me, and the man I was before I broke her.
“We have a gala to attend.”
The words sound wrong in my mouth the second they’re out. She doesn’t turn around at first, just keeps staring out the window like the city might answer for her. Then she exhales slowly and nods once, to herself.
“I know which one,” she says. Quiet, tired. “The Valentine’s peace gala.”
Of course she does.Every year, two nights before Valentine’s Day. Neutral ground dressed up in silk and champagne. Old enemies shaking hands for the cameras. Blood debts paused just long enough to pretend we’re civilised.
“It’s meant for peace,” she adds flatly. “Always is.”
I step further into the room. “It matters,” I say. “Tonight more than most.”
She finally turns then, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion dragging at her bones. “It always ‘matters,’ Finn. That’s the problem.”
I don’t argue, I lift the dress instead. It's dark, elegant, cut to command attention without begging for it.
“Put it on,” I say. Not a command, not a request, something in between. “Come with me.”
Her gaze drops—to the ring still heavy on her finger, to the necklace resting at her throat, my family’s mark cold against her skin. Proof that she’s already been claimed in every way that counts.
She looks back up at me, eyes blazing and wounded all at once. “No,” she says.
I don’t move, I don’t raise my voice. I just hold the dress out between us like an offering I don’t deserve to make.
“We go together.” I say quietly.
The sun finishes setting behind her, the last of the light draining from the room, leaving us suspended in shadow and history and things we never finished saying.
She doesn’t argue. She steps forward and takes the dress from my hands in one smooth motion, fingers brushing mine just long enough to be intentional. Then she turns away—not to hide, not to retreat. To face me.
She undoes her clothes slowly. Methodically, no hurry, no shame. Every movement measured, like she’s daring me to look away.
I don’t.
She never breaks eye contact. Silk slides from her shoulders. Fabric pools at her feet. She stands there with my ring on herfinger and my family’s necklace at her throat, bare everywhere else, utterly unafraid. Not offering, not performing, claiming the moment back.
My jaw tightens, my hands curl uselessly at my sides.Christ.
She steps into the dress and pulls it up herself, smooths it into place with the same care she’s used all day to keep herself intact. The fabric settles against her like it belongs there—like it was always meant to be worn by her and only her.
Then she reaches up and pulls the pins from her hair. It falls loose around her shoulders, dark and soft and devastating. The girl from the window seat is gone. In her place stands the woman who has ruined me twice over.
She turns without a word and crosses to the closet. I watch her choose the shoes. Sharp heels, enough to make a point. She carries them back to the bed and sits, graceful and infuriatingly calm, setting them neatly at her feet.
She doesn’t put them on, just looks up at me then, expression unreadable, waiting. The room feels too small for the things I’m not saying.
I cross the room slowly, deliberately, like she might bolt if I move too fast—or stab me if I don’t. She watches me the whole time, chin tipped up, spine straight, fury banked behind her eyes like she’s daring me to make a mistake.
I crouch in front of her. The shift in power is immediate. Her breath catches—not loudly, not dramatically, but I feel it all the same. She doesn’t move her feet, doesn’t offer them, doesn’t pull away.
Good.
I take one heel from where she’s set it beside her, fingers closing around the narrow arch. My knuckles brush her ankle as I guide her foot into it, slow enough that it feels intentional. Possessive and earned.
