And my life—my visibility, my wealth, my decision to step into the spotlight alongside Avery—made it possible. I painted a target on the woman I love, and now she's paying the price for it. Both of them are. Avery and the child growing inside her. Our child. The life I swore I would protect from everything bad in this world. Yet I'm standing here with my hands in the air, unable to do a goddamn thing.
Nadiyah's voice pulls me back.
"My plan had no shape at first. I watched. I learned. I saw how closely you protected Avery. How precious she was to you. I wanted to hate her too, but I couldn't." A ghost of something softer crosses her face. "I rented an apartment close to the place she spent time away from you. And I waited. I told myself in time I would know what to do. I made mistakes, however. After I called the tabloids to the studio, you wrapped her in security that never left her side.”
I lift my chin, wondering how I hadn’t seen Nadiyah’s animosity—her dangerousness—right away.
“I thought I’d ruined all my plans,” she says, slowly shaking her head. “Then suddenly the security was gone. Yesterday, when I overheard her say she would be at the art center, I knew that was my sign. The time had come to hold you accountable for Omar's death."
Every instinct I have resists what I'm about to say. The arguments line up automatically—Omar's family wanted out, thepapers were signed, the offer was fair—and I have to choke each one down. Swallow them like glass. Because Avery's life is worth more than my pride has ever been.
"You're right." I nod in acknowledgment, my voice steady. "I am accountable."
Nadiyah's eyes narrow slightly. She wasn't expecting that.
"I didn't think about what that deal might truly cost. I didn't think about Omar as a person—just an obstacle." I swallow against the tightness in my throat. "And when he jumped... I told myself I wasn't responsible. I blamed him for what happened on that roof so I wouldn't have to blame myself. But I was wrong."
The hum of an HVAC unit drones somewhere behind me. Avery's eyes glisten, but she doesn't look away from me.
"I took something from you that I can never give back, Nadiyah. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for Omar. I'm sorry for your son. I'm sorry for the life you lost."
Nadiyah listens. Her expression doesn't soften, but the acknowledgment lands. I can see the moment it registers, see it reach whatever is left of the woman in those photographs downstairs.
"I can't undo it. I wish I could, but I can't. All I can do is stand here and tell you that I know what I did. And I'm not going to pretend otherwise."
I watch for a reason to hope, but Nadiyah’s face gives away nothing. The gun stays where it is, that black barrel pressed to Avery's temple.
But Nadiyah heard me.
She watches me across the distance. For a long moment, she doesn't speak. When she finally does, her voice is different. Quieter. Almost wondering.
"I thought I would feel something when you finally stood in front of me."
Her thumb moves against the grip of the gun. A small, unconscious motion, like a woman worrying a prayer bead.
"I've imagined this so many times. What I would say. How it would feel to finally make you see." She pauses, just looking at me. “But you're just a man. Afraid for someone you love. And Omar is still gone."
The words lack the vitriol from before. This isn't the voice of a woman savoring her revenge. It's the voice of someone who has just discovered that the thing she's been living for doesn't feel the way she thought it would.
That should be an opening. A crack.
But the gun hasn't moved from Avery's temple, and I understand something else too. A woman who has realized her revenge won't save her is a woman with nothing left to lose.
I watch her face. Looking for the fracture. Looking for any weakness I can exploit.
Her logic is airtight inside itself. She's not ranting. She's not unraveling. She's operating from a moral framework that makes perfect sense to her—divine providence, cosmic balance, the necessity of answered wrongs.
But there's something else there too. Something behind the calm.
She's been carrying this for eighteen months. Alone. Raising a child while planning a murder. Going to work every day at House of Delaire, stitching pearls onto a wedding veil, pretending to be someone she's not.
That kind of sustained performance takes a toll. And I can see it now—the edges fraying, the exhaustion beneath the resolve. The way her certainty has hardened into something that can’t bend.
This isn't justice. This is someone who has been in pain for so long that the pain became the only thing she knows. Someone who can't imagine living without it.
Which means reason won't work. Empathy won't work.
I edge forward. One inch, then two. Testing.
