Why aren't I moving? Why aren't I fighting?
It's already gone. I knew it the moment Nathan showed me those financial reports, the moment I saw the triumph in his green eyes. He didn't just reveal the collapse—he orchestrated it, piece by piece, move by move.
Bastard. He's a complete and utter bastard.
The phone buzzes again. I silence it without looking and stare at the ceiling, tears sliding down my temples into my hair.
I hate this. I hate him. I hate myself for even considering—
But I already know the answer. I've known it since the masked ball, since I felt his hand on my waist and recognized something in him that called to something in me.
I'm going to choose the fire. Even if it destroys me. Even if I hate myself for it.
***
The cafe is quiet, tucked away on a side street where no one I know would ever find me. I sit by the window with a cup of coffee I haven't touched, my hands shaking against the table.
A woman my age rushes by outside, phone pressed to her ear. She's probably dealing with her own crisis—a difficult client, a demanding boss. Normal problems. Fixable problems.
What I wouldn't give for normal problems right now.
I've never had it easy. Even before Nathan, my life has been a series of battles. Fighting to be taken seriously in the fashion industry. Fighting the grief that threatened to swallow me whole.
And now I'm so tired. But is that real? Or is it just what he's made me feel? Has he broken me down so completely that I can't tell the difference anymore?
Nathan saw the exhaustion beneath my carefully maintained facade, and he offered me something I haven't had in sixteen years: the chance to let someone else carry the weight.
The price is just my freedom. My autonomy. My self. Everything I've fought for. Everything I am.
I look at my reflection in the window. Red hair falling loose. Green eyes that look defeated.
Maybe that's just what I'm telling myself to justify surrendering to a man who's terrorized me for weeks.
I don't even know anymore. I don't know what's real and what's manipulation.
I stand up, leaving the full cup of coffee on the table. I'm going to him. Not because I'm weak, but because all the other choices lead to the same place anyway.
Or at least that's what I'm telling myself.
The car is waiting outside the cafe. Sleek, black, expensive—unmistakably his. The driver opens the door without a word.
Of course he knew. Of course he's been watching, waiting for me to make the choice he knew I'd make.
Rage flickers through me—hot and sharp. I want to scream. I want to walk away and let Nathan's perfect plan crumble.
But my feet carry me forward anyway.
The door closes with a soft click, sealing me in. The city slides past the tinted windows, familiar streets suddenly feeling like a foreign country I'm leaving behind.
What am I doing? What the hell am I doing?
My hands are shaking. Tears burn my eyes, and I blink them back furiously. I won't cry. I won't give him that satisfaction.
But I'm already crying, hot tears sliding down my cheeks that I angrily wipe away.
I catch the driver's eyes in the rearview mirror, and for a moment I think about asking him to stop. To let me out. To give me one more chance to run.
But he looks away immediately. Just another cog in Nathan's well-oiled machine.
