The observation room suddenly feels like a prison.
***
Sinclair Designs headquarters buzzes with creative energy as I step through the door. I've been funding theoperation from the shadows, ensuring Eve has every resource she needs while maintaining the illusion that she still runs her empire.
I find her in her office, standing at her design table with fabric samples spread before her. Lucy sits nearby, taking notes, but the easy friendship that once existed between them is gone. In its place is a wary professionalism that speaks volumes.
Eve doesn't notice me at first. She's too absorbed in her work, draping silk over a dress form, tilting her head to study the fall of the fabric.
"This collection needs to feel both structured and fluid," she says, her voice confident and clear. "I want the pieces to move like water but hold their shape like architecture."
Lucy makes a note. "I'll contact the fabric suppliers and request samples in the jewel tones you specified."
I lean against the doorframe, watching Eve command the room. This is the woman I fell in love with—not the broken creature I created in my obsession, but the brilliant artist who turns vision into reality.
She's thriving. Not despite my control, but because of it. I've removed all the obstacles, all the business concerns, leaving only her pure creative genius to flourish.
The thought fills me with pride and possession in equal measure.
She looks up then, catching sight of me, and her face transforms. That smile—God, that smile could bring me to my knees.
"Nathan," she says, crossing to me. "I didn't know you were coming by."
I pull her close, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Wanted to see my queen at work."
Lucy's expression tightens, but she says nothing. She knows better now.
***
Dinner at the Elysian Club's private dining room should be perfect. The food is exquisite, the wine perfectly paired, the ambiance designed for intimacy.
But I can't taste any of it.
Eve sits across from me, radiant in emerald silk, talking about her new collection with infectious enthusiasm. Every word she speaks, every gesture she makes, only deepens the terror coiling in my gut.
Because she's happy. Genuinely, completely happy.
And it's all based on lies.
"Nathan?" Her voice pulls me from my thoughts. "Are you listening?"
"Always," I say, reaching across the table to take her hand. "You were talking about your inspiration for the new collection."
She smiles, but there's concern in her eyes. "You seem distracted tonight."
"Just thinking."
"About what?"
About how you'd look at me if you knew the truth. About the boy I was—drunk, reckless, too scared to admit I was driving. About how I've built our entire relationship on the foundation of that lie.
"About how beautiful you are," I say instead.
She blushes, and the sight of it makes my chest ache. She still blushes for me. Still trusts me. Still looks at me like I'm worthy of her love.
What happens when she learns I'm not?
The question haunts me through the rest of the meal. I watch her eat, laugh, reach for my hand across the table, and all I can think is that I'm living on borrowed time.
