I can't breathe.
Eve is curled beside me on the library sofa, her warmth seeping into my side, her breathing soft and even. The photo album lies forgotten on the coffee table, its pages still open to images of a boy I barely recognize anymore.
A boy who had a best friend. A boy who laughed without calculation. A boy who didn't yet know what it felt like to destroy everything he loved.
She forgave me.
The words echo in my mind like a prayer, like a curse. Three simple words that have shattered every carefully constructed wall I've spent sixteen years building.
I forgive you.
My hands are shaking. Actually shaking. I press them against my thighs, willing them to stop, but my body refuses to obey. The control I've wielded like a weapon for so long is gone, dissolved by her unexpected grace.
For years, my guilt was my anchor. It gave me purpose, direction, a reason to wake up every morning and continue the elaborate penance I'd constructed. I could quantify it—every dollar spent protecting her, every threat eliminated, every choice I made for her benefit.
But now there's only her. Her forgiveness. Her warmth. Her impossible, terrifying acceptance.
And I don't know who I am without the weight of my sin.
"Nathan?" Her voice is soft, concerned. She shifts to look at me, green eyes searching my face. "You're so tense."
I try to smile, to reassure her, but my face feels frozen. "I'm fine."
"Liar." She sits up, taking my hand in both of hers. Her fingers are warm, grounding. "Talk to me."
But I can't find the words. How do I explain that her forgiveness has left me more terrified than I've ever been? That loving her—really loving her, not as penance but as choice—means she has the power to destroy me completely?
I pull away gently and stand, needing space, needing air. I move to the window, staring out at the city lights without really seeing them.
Behind me, I hear her rise, feel her approach. But she doesn't touch me. Just waits.
My brilliant, patient Eve.
***
The decision comes suddenly, born of desperation and the overwhelming need to put us somewhere else. Anywhere else.
"Pack a bag," I say, turning to face her. "We're leaving."
She blinks, surprised. "Leaving? Where?"
"The villa. The one by the ocean." I'm already moving, pulling out my phone. "I need—we need to get away from here. From all of this."
From the ghosts in this penthouse. From the guilt that clings to every corner. From the person I've been.
Eve watches me with those knowing eyes. "For how long?"
"As long as it takes."
She nods slowly, and I see understanding dawn on her face. She doesn't question it, doesn't resist. Just moves toward the bedroom to pack.
I make the calls—short, efficient. The pilot is to have the jet ready within the hour. The villa staff is to prepare for our arrival. Bjorn is to handle everything in my absence.
He asks no questions. He rarely does.
An hour later, we're in the car heading to the private airfield. Eve sits beside me, her hand in mine, and says nothing. She just holds me, steady and calm, while I come apart at the seams.
The jet is waiting, sleek and silent in the dark. We board quickly, and as the engines roar to life, I feel something loosen in my chest.
