Relief cuts through me first, swift and merciless, like fresh air hitting lungs that had been starved too long.We caught him.He’s grounded.He’s cornered.For once, I’m not the one chasing ghosts or imagining Cleo’s face every time I close my eyes.
But right behind the relief comes the rot.The truth of what Arthur is really saying.That justice, here, isn’t about trials or verdicts.It’s about fear, leverage, blood.If Thoreau doesn’t crumble under the system, his own people will erase him.They’ll strangle the words out of his throat before he has the chance to speak.Not for morality, not for her, not for me—but to protect themselves.
I sink into the nearest chair, the handset pressed so hard against my ear it might fuse with my skin.My breath is uneven, breaking in shallow bursts I can’t control.I should be grateful.This is what I wanted: Thoreau in custody, stripped of power.Instead, my stomach twists because none of it feels clean.None of it feels like enough.
Cleo deserves better than this ugly compromise.She deserves a justice that isn’t stained, whispered, or smuggled through back channels.But that’s not the world we live in, and the sickest part is how easily I accept it—how much I want it if it means he’ll never get near her again.
She comes in with a worried crease between her brows.“Are you okay?”she asks.Her smile falters.In that exact moment I remember I have to take what I can get.
She needs to be free, and I don’t know what that freedom looks like.Unless he’s finished—ended—she can’t step back into the life she had before.I can’t live with that.Could I get her a new identity?Yes.Immediately.But it would be unfair to make her vanish for the rest of her life, to ask her to trade one kind of prison for another.The choice shouldn’t rest entirely on her shoulders, and yet I’m the one who has to try to fix a world that refuses to be clean.
I tell Arthur to keep me updated and not to move on the girl’s ID yet—no paperwork, no names in a file.“Keep her a Jane Doe for now,” I say, forcing the words into something like calm.“Don’t let anyone leak it’s fake or release that it’s Cleo.Not unless we have to and then ...fuck, we’ll have to plan.”
He agrees, voice clipped.“Understood.We’ll hold everything.”
We say goodbye and I lower the handset.The room hushes around me like an audience waiting for the next act.Officially that body—which is fake—is still a Jane Doe, even if we made sure the whispers carried Cleo’s name and the Wilder family released a statement to respect their privacy.Let them talk.Let them think—that’s how we need it so that Dorian keeps panicking.
I pull Cleo onto my lap.She comes without hesitation, her brow still creased.I wrap my arms around her, holding her close, needing to convince myself that all of this—the lies, the danger, the compromises—is worth it.
I press my face into her hair, breathing her in, grounding myself in the reality of her here, alive, within reach.My lips brush her temple, and the words tear out of me before I can stop them.“I love you,” I whisper, desperate, unguarded.
I tilt her face toward mine and kiss her like it’s both confession and surrender—slow at first, tender, then deepening until I’m pouring every fractured piece of myself into her mouth.It feels endless, breathless, like if I let go, I’ll lose her to the shadows that still try to claim her.The world outside ceases to exist; there is only this moment, this woman, this fragile miracle pressed against me.
When I finally pull back, just enough to breathe, my voice cracks against her lips.“Thank you for loving me back.You’ve given me something I didn’t think I’d ever deserve.”
And that’s when the guilt rushes in.Because part of me knows I don’t deserve it.Not after the blood I’ve wished for, not after the rage I’ve nursed in the dark corners of my mind.Loving her feels like salvation, but it also feels like punishment—because every time I touch her, I’m reminded of the pain she’s survived, of the way her scars have been carved into both of us.
She strokes my cheek as if she can erase the turmoil; her touch gentler than I deserve.Her eyes, wet and fierce, tell me she isn’t giving up on me—even when I’ve thought about giving up on myself.
I kiss her again, softer this time, a promise against her lips.I don’t know if I can give her the life she deserves, but I know I’ll tear the world apart before I let it take her from me again.
Her hand cups my jaw, her thumb brushing over the stubble as though she’s memorizing me.When she finally speaks, her voice is quiet but certain, each word sinking straight into the hollow places inside me.
“You don’t have to deserve me, Eddie.You just have to stay.That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
The breath leaves me in a shudder, my forehead dropping to hers.Her words cut through everything—my guilt, my fear, the endless what-ifs that gnaw at me.She isn’t asking for justice or vengeance or impossible absolution.She’s asking for me.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I murmur, and this time the kiss I give her isn’t desperate but sure, sealing the promise I’ve been too afraid to make until now.The future doesn’t look like a battlefield.It looks like her and him.
Then a hand settles on my shoulder, firm and sure.I look up, and Barret’s voice cuts through the quiet.
“You’re not doing this alone, Eddie.”His gaze holds mine, fierce and unwavering.“I’m here—for you.Not just for her.I love you too.”
The words hit harder than I expect, something hot and relentless tearing through my chest.Cleo shifts in my arms, reaching for him, but my eyes stay on Barret, searching, needing to believe him.
Cleo’s hand finds his, binding us together in a way words never could.“Both of you,” she whispers, her voice breaking with a hope that feels like salvation.“That’s all I need.Just ...both of you.”
Barret bends, brushing a kiss to her hair before leaning closer to me, his forehead almost touching mine.The three of us caught in the same fragile moment, the same impossible promise, and today I let myself believe it’s real.
ChapterForty
Cleo
“It’s been a month,” my therapist says gently, her pen poised above the open notebook.“Do you want to talk about where you are now?”
A month.Thirty days since Dorian’s life ended inside a jail cell.They said it was an accident—that a loose cable from the overhead lights snapped during a power surge, striking the metal frame of his bunk.By the time anyone reached him, the current had already finished what no jury ever would.The headlines called it a tragedy.I call it something else.
I shift in the chair, the leather creaking softly beneath me, and fold my hands in my lap.“I don’t know if I’ll ever feel safe again,” I admit, though the truth is I’ve felt safer these few months than I had in years.“But I’m trying.Every day.”
