I let the comment hang in the air. What could I say? He’s right, and I don’t care.
When we reach the penthouse, the city is sliding toward dawn, lights going out one window at a time. I pace the length of the living room, unable to settle, unable to rest. Theskyline shimmers in the distance, a reminder of everything I’m supposed to be—a man who gets what he wants, who closes the deal and never looks back.
The justifications—business, leverage, keeping my enemies close—fall flat. None of them explain why my hands shake when I remember the heat in Suzy’s eyes, or why my chest aches with the memory of her voice.
I’ve crossed a line. Maybe I crossed it the night I first dragged her into my world. Maybe it was when I saw her fight, bared her teeth for me, made me bleed, and bled beside me. She’s not a piece on a board anymore. She’s not a problem to be solved or a threat to be neutralized. She’s become the axis I turn around—an obsession, a hunger, a promise I can’t let go.
The thought of her out there, living on her own terms, answering to no one—not me, not Marcus—gnaws at me. I want her in my world, yes, but not as a trophy. I want her beside me, matching me for every risk, every rough edge. I want her beneath me, fiery and unbroken, giving back everything I give her. No exchange, no contract, no ransom can guarantee that kind of possession.
What I want and what I can have are two different things. I’m gambling everything on a move I can’t justify, not to my men, not to Nikola, not even to myself. The message to Marcus won’t be business, not really. It’ll be a declaration—a warning and an invitation both.
As the city settles, my thoughts grow sharper. I remember the heat of Suzy’s skin, the crackle of her laugh, the challenge in her eyes. I think about the way she turned from me tonight, chin high, as if to say I could chase her all my life and never catch her.
Maybe that’s exactly what I want.
Chapter Eleven - Suzy
Every other weekend, the ritual is the same: I pull up to my father’s estate with a carefully rehearsed smile, a neutral dress, and a list of acceptable topics spinning through my mind. There’s always the strained civility of the dining room—polite laughter like brittle glass, my brothers squabbling over business deals or family grudges, Dad presiding at the head of the table with the cold, steady weight of authority.
It’s never warm, never easy, but at least it’s familiar. I know how to perform the part of dutiful daughter, how to nod at the right moments, how to make my father’s pride flicker in the corners of his eyes, even if it never fully catches.
But today, the air feels wrong before I even set foot inside. My cab rolls up the long, graveled drive just as another car—a sleek black thing with impossible tint and a rumble like a distant storm—glides past in the opposite direction. For a split second, as we draw parallel, my breath stops.
I see him: Leon. His hand on the wheel, face caught in a slant of afternoon light, mouth set in that line I know better than I should.
For a single, heart-stopping instant, our eyes almost meet through glass.
The moment is gone as quickly as it comes; my cab lurches forward, Leon’s car slips away, and all I’m left with is a rush of cold panic, the kind that coils around my spine and refuses to let go.
I stumble out, barely thanking the driver, pulse fluttering in my throat. The front steps stretch ahead like a judgment, the columns too white, the silence too heavy.
I expect shouting, maybe the tail end of an argument, something dramatic to fit the adrenaline in my veins. Except when I push open the door, the quiet inside is worse than any storm.
The dining room is set, everything in its place, but nothing touched. Dad sits at the head, posture perfect, hands folded over the tablecloth. My brothers flank him—one to his left, one to his right—both staring at plates gone cold, fingers drumming silent, anxious rhythms. No one looks up.
Cutlery gleams, crystal winks, but the scene is frozen, a tableau of statues rather than a family.
For a moment, I just stand there, heart thudding so loudly I’m sure they can hear it. My heels click too sharply on the marble. I clear my throat, force my voice to work.
“What was Leon doing here?” It comes out harsher than I meant, sharp and accusing. I expect an explosion, Dad’s infamous temper, my brothers’ sniping, maybe even a lie. Instead, my father doesn’t even glance my way. He simply gestures to the empty chair at his right, the command in the line of his hand absolute. “Sit.”
The word lands like a slap. My brothers keep their heads down, lips pressed tight, hands twisted together in their laps.
Something has happened here—something big enough to suck all the oxygen from the room. My anger bubbles up, hot and helpless, but the dread is worse. I move to my chair, every muscle tight, senses straining for any hint of what I’m about to face.
The meal continues in silence, a torture of fork scrapes and glass chimes, the food cooling untouched between us. Dad doesn’t speak, not even to offer one of his usual dry remarks.
My brothers don’t risk a single glance in my direction. I barely taste anything, my hands resting in my lap, knuckles white. I can feel the heat of my own frustration, my need to shatter the hush and force someone—anyone—to explain.
Finally, Dad sets down his glass, flicks his gaze to my brothers. “Leave us.”
They rise as one, scraping chairs, heads bowed. The door closes behind them with a hush that feels like the shutting of a tomb, sealing me in with all my fear and my questions. The silence that follows is heavier than any punishment I remember.
My father stares at me across the table, face carved from stone. The moment drags, stretching so thin I can barely breathe. I want to demand answers, to rage and cry and slam my fists on the linen.
Something in his eyes stops me—something I haven’t seen in years, or maybe ever.
I steel myself, jaw clenched, fingers curled to fists under the table. I try to hold his gaze, to be braver than I feel.
