"Hit me again," I say.
"Mr. Hale—"
"That's an order, Bryan. Hit me."
He studies me for a long moment. Then, carefully: "No, sir."
The refusal shocks me more than any punch could. "Excuse me?"
"I'm not going to beat up a client who's clearly punishing himself for something." He starts unwrapping his hands."Whatever you did, whatever you're planning—hurting yourself won't fix it."
"You don't know what I'm planning."
"No," he agrees. He collects his gear and heads for the door, pausing at the threshold. "But I know what guilt looks like. And I know the difference between a man training and a man trying to bleed out his demons."
Then he's gone, leaving me alone in the empty gym, bleeding and breathless and no closer to absolution.
I shower in the gym's private facilities, watching blood swirl down the drain. My face is already swelling—there'll be a bruise by tomorrow. Good. Maybe external pain will distract from the internal kind.
Bjorn is waiting when I emerge, his expression carefully neutral, even though I know he sees the damage.
"Home?" he asks.
"Yes."
The drive back is silent. I close my eyes and see Chen's face. See the two hundred and thirty-seven employees who'll lose their jobs if he doesn't accept my offer. See the ripple effects of my actions spreading outward like cracks in ice.
This is what I am. This is what I've become.
A man who destroys lives to build his empire. Who manipulates and controls and justifies it all with pretty words about protection.
Eve deserves better than this.
But I can't stop. Won't stop. She's mine, and I will have her, regardless of the cost.
Even if the cost is my own humanity.
***
The penthouse is dark when I return. I don't turn on the lights. Just pour myself a whiskey I won't drink and move to the observation room.
The monitors glow softly in the darkness, twelve screens showing different angles of her life. I sink into my chair and pull up the bedroom feed.
She's already asleep, curled on her side, one hand tucked under her pillow. The sight of her—peaceful, safe, unaware of the monster watching from the shadows—makes my chest tight.
I zoom in carefully, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest. The moonlight catches the curve of her shoulder, the soft fullness of her breast visible above the sheet. Her usual braid dark across the white pillowcase.
My knuckles are split and swelling from the fight. I flex my fingers, feeling the sting. The pain grounds me, reminds me I'm real, that this is real.
That I'm choosing this.
Every day, I choose this. Choose the obsession over sanity. Choose possession over freedom—hers and mine. Choose to be the monster rather than walk away.
On the screen, Eve shifts in her sleep, her lips parting slightly. She's dreaming. I wonder what she dreams about. If I appear in those dreams as a shadow at the edge, a presence she can't quite name.
Soon, I think. Soon I won't be a shadow anymore.
Soon, she'll know exactly who I am. What I am. What I've done.
