I move toward the hallway, every step deliberate. Controlled.
In the bathroom, I grip the sink and stare at my reflection.
Get it together.
I will not let the past ambush me. Not now. Not because of her.
I splash water on my face and breathe until the pressure eases. Emotions are a liability. Attachment is a burden. Love is a flaw.
When I come back, Iris is still at the table, scrolling through her phone—already imagining herself as part of this. Part of my life. Part of me.
I slide back into my chair.
“So,” I say smoothly, “let’s start with vendor outreach. I’ll forward you the files.”
Her smile blooms again—bright, earnest.
“Thank you,” she says. “I won’t let you down.”
I believe that she believes it. And that’s what makes her dangerous.
As I send the email, I think: I’ll manage this. I always do.
I just have to make sure Iris never forgets who’s in control—and make damn sure my past doesn’t decide otherwise.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Shae
The text comes while Harper’s standing in my kitchen—barefoot, hair in a messy bun, holding a mug of hot cocoa like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to Earth. The thought of burning her with her own steaming chocolate sparks a flicker of a smile. I don’t want to hurt Harper. I just want the world to stop handing her things I had to steal.
I know it’s the text because her face changes. Not in the dramatic, movie way where someone drops their wineglass and it shatters. It’s subtler. Her mouth tightens. Her eyes go glassy for a millisecond before she blinks it away—like she’s physically shoving the words back inside her head where they can’t touch me.
Her fingers twitch against the mug.
“Everything okay?” I ask, sweet as poisoned honey.
She jams the phone into her pocket. “Yeah. Fine. Just—work stuff.”
Which is hilarious, because Harper’s only “work” right now is planning the wedding of her Pinterest dreams and co-organizing a crime-survivor retreat in Costa Rica with me. Unless The Watcher has joined the bridal party, I doubt her stress is floral-arrangement–related.
But I let her have her lie. I’m generous like that.
She forces a smile. “Anyway, where were we? Oh—yeah, the retreat. I think if we position you as a resilience keynote, it’ll really bring in the donors. You’ve been through so much, and your perspective?—”
“My perspective sells,” I cut in.
She laughs nervously and nods. “Yeah.”
Her phone buzzes again. She glances down like it’s a snake about to strike.
“Do you need to get that?” I ask.
“No,” she says quickly. Too quickly.
“Are you okay?” I feign sympathy.
“I… I think I’m being followed.”
