Every moment with her is stolen. Every smile she gives me is based on a carefully constructed illusion. And when that illusion shatters—not if, but when—I'll lose her.
The thought is a black hole threatening to swallow me whole.
"I love you," I say suddenly, the words pulled from somewhere deep and desperate.
Eve blinks, surprised by the intensity. Then her expression softens, and she squeezes my hand. "I love you too."
But you don't know what you're loving, I think. You don't know the monster hiding behind the protector's mask.
She deserves better than this. Better than me. Better than a life built on manipulation and lies.
But I can't let her go. The thought of losing her is worse than death, worse than any torture I can imagine.
So I smile and kiss her fingers and pretend that everything is perfect. That we're just two people in love, sharing a beautiful dinner in a beautiful life.
I pretend that the foundation beneath us isn't crumbling. That the walls I've built aren't showing cracks. That her love for me isn't based on the biggest lie I've ever told.
And I pray—to a God I stopped believing in years ago—that she never discovers the truth.
Because if she does, I'll lose her.
And losing her would destroy me more completely than anything else ever could.
Chapter 25 - Eve
The rooftop garden at Sinclair Designs has become my sanctuary. I stand among the carefully tended plants, sketching the next piece in the new collection, and feel something I haven't felt in years.
Joy.
Not the desperate, fragile contentment of someone who's given up fighting. This is deeper. Quieter. The peace of someone who's found their place in the world, even if that place isn't what they expected.
My pencil moves across the page, and I lose myself in the flow of lines and curves. This—this creating—is what I was meant to do. Not the board meetings or the financial decisions or the endless pressure of running a company. Just this.
Lucy appears with a tablet, her expression professionally neutral. We've rebuilt our relationship slowly, painfully, one careful interaction at a time. It's not what it was. It may never be what it was. But it's something.
"The fabric samples arrived. And the photographer wants to schedule the lookbook shoot for next month."
"Perfect," I say, making a note in my sketchbook. My hand is steady. No trembling anymore. No constant anxiety. "Can you have the samples sent to my studio at the penthouse?"
"Of course." She turns to go, then hesitates. "Eve? The designs are beautiful. Really beautiful."
It's the first genuine compliment she's given me in weeks, and it makes my throat tight with emotion. "Thank you, Lucy."
She nods, and I see something soften in her expression. Not forgiveness, exactly. But maybe understanding. Maybeacceptance that I've made my choice, and it's not the one she would have made for me.
She leaves, and I'm alone again with my sketches and the distant hum of the city.
I've lost my best friend. But I've gained something too—a creative freedom I'd forgotten existed. Nathan handles all the business concerns, leaving me to focus solely on the art.
This is the bargain I made. My independence for my passion. My freedom for my craft.
And standing here, looking at the collection taking shape before me, I can almost convince myself it was worth it.
Almost.
***
The loft looks strange now that it’s empty. Nathan has moved all of my stuff out, save for some last remnants of my old life. He insisted on keeping the lease for another month, letting me pack the last things at my own pace.
