Reluctance flickered across his face.
It was subtle — jaw tightening, muscle in his cheek ticking, eyes narrowing like he was measuring the consequences of every word before he allowed it to leave his mouth.
He didn’t like losing leverage.
He didn’t like surrendering control.
But after a long beat, he nodded once. “I’ll do whatever it takes to have you under my roof again, Elena.”
I met his gaze — steady, unreadable.
“Cool.”
I pushed off the stool.
The legs scraped loudly against the polished floor, cutting through the low hum of conversations and distant bass.
“Let me have your card.”
He hesitated for half a second.
As if releasing it meant releasing access.
Then he reached into the same interior coat pocket where the dagger had rested earlier.
The motion was deliberate.
He pulled out a matte black business card.
He extended it toward me.
I took it.
Carefully.
Without touching his fingers.
That boundary mattered.
His eyes followed the card as it disappeared into my jacket pocket.
He was memorizing me. Every movement. Every shift in posture. Every decision.
I turned away.
Without looking back.
Who would have imagined?
The man who once ordered a grave dug for me now sat in a nightclub, begging for access to his ex-wife. Legally tied perhaps—but mentally, I had already severed myself from that marriage.
Begging for her to return.
Begging for her presence.
For his son.
Power had shifted.
