"Fresh air sounds good," Luan says before I can voice my concern. His mouth curves slightly. Almost a smile. "I'll wear the sunglasses."
Lily smiles in response. Those dimples appear, deep and genuine, transforming her face from pretty to something that hits harder. Something that makes looking away feel like effort.
Something in my chest tightens. A sensation I've been trying to ignore for days now.
"I'll get everything ready," she says. "Come out in ten minutes?"
She turns to leave.
"Lily."
She stops. Looks back at me. Blue eyes curious.
"You settling in alright?"
The question feels inadequate the moment it leaves my mouth. Too casual for what I'm actually asking. Too surface-level when what I want to know is whether she regrets this choice. Whether she feels safe here. Whether we've trapped her in something she can't escape.
"Everything's fine," she says. The reassurance sounds automatic, practiced. The voice of someone who's learned to say fine even when nothing is.
Then she's gone. The door closing softly behind her.
Luan leans back in his chair. The leather creaks under his weight. "You can relax, Artan."
I don't respond. Don't point out that relaxing isn't something I do well. That vigilance is what's kept both of us alive this long.
"I won't have another outburst," he continues. His voice is firm and certain. "My sight is improving every day. My uncle is on board, at least temporarily. The Irish situation will be handled tonight. Everything is returning to control."
Control.
I want to trust his assessment. Want to believe that the worst is behind us, that we can stabilize and move forward without the constant threat of crisis looming over every decision.
But I've learned not to trust calm. It's usually just the pause before the next storm. The breath before the blow.
We stand. Move toward the door. I'm already mentally running through the logistics for tonight when the doorbell rings.
I check the security feed on my phone. Erion's face fills the frame, grinning at the camera.
Crazy bastard.
I buzz him in. The lock disengages with a soft click.
He walks through the door seconds later. His presence changes the air pressure in the room, making everything feel slightly off-balance.
"Perfect timing," he says. That grin widening. "I'm starving."
"We're having breakfast outside," Luan says.
"Even better."
I open the glass doors that lead to the terrace.
The space opens up before us. Expansive. Professionally designed by someone who understood that wealth isn't just about having money, it's about displaying it in ways that feel effortless. Sleek outdoor furniture in charcoal gray, cushions thick enough to be comfortable but structured enough to maintain their shape. Planters filled with greenery. The view stretches out beyond the railing, Chicago sprawling in the distance, clean and ordered from this height.
Up here, everything looks manageable. Contained. The chaos of the streets smoothed into geometric patterns.
It's an illusion. But a convincing one.
The table is set for two.
