I took it, drank deeply. “They want a statement.”
He nodded. “Expected.”
“Is it?” I set the glass down harder than necessary. “You expected this? All of it?”
“Not all.” His gaze didn’t waver. “But enough.”
“And you didn’t warn me.”
“You knew the risk.”
I laughed, bitter and low. “Did I? You’ve been entangled here for years. Properties. Connections. This isn’t just a hunter’s cabin in the woods, Cassian. This is … reach. Power. The kind that rearranges things.”
He stepped closer. “And?”
“And I feel like I’m the last to know what I’m dealing with.”
He stopped just short of touching me. “Ask.”
I met his eyes. “Who are you? Really?”
A pause. Then, quietly: “A man who built what he needed.”
“From what?”
“Security contracts. Land acquisitions. Investments that pay.”
“And the hunts?”
“Part of the land. Not the core.”
“But you profit.”
“Yes.”
I turned away, pacing again. “I need space. Tonight.”
He didn’t argue. “Take it.”
I grabbed my coat, my bag. “I’ll call you.”
He nodded.
I left without looking back.
My condo felt smaller than I remembered. The air was still, the light dimmer. I dropped my things by the door and sank onto the couch, staring at the blank wall.
Guilt came first.
Guilt for the years I’d spent on stages, telling stories of lives ruined by violence—domestic, systemic, recreational. The kind that hid behind tradition or sport. I’d raised millions to fund sanctuaries, lobby for bans, educate kids on empathy over dominance.
And now? Now I was addicted to a man who embodied the very system I fought. Who embodied dominance.
Denial followed.
This wasn’t addiction. It was … temporary. A lapse. I could end it. Walk away. Issue the statement Eleanor wanted.Mr. Locke and I have parted ways. My commitment to our mission remains unwavering.
Simple.
