But the thought made my chest ache, like something vital was being carved out.
I stood, paced to the window. The harbor glittered in the distance, boats bobbing like they had no cares. I thought of myletter—the one that started this. Exhaustion from being good. Wanting danger in human form.
I’d gotten it.
And now the consequences were here.
My phone buzzed—a voicemail from Anna, the reporter.Ms. Quinn, I’d like your comment before we go to print. Is it true you’ve been staying at Mr. Locke’s South of Broad residence? How do you reconcile that with your advocacy?
I deleted it.
Another text from Harper:You okay? Luca says give you space, but I’m worried.
I replied:Thinking. Talk tomorrow.
The evening stretched.
I made tea I didn’t drink. Opened my laptop, stared at a blank document for a statement I couldn’t write. Flashbacks came unbidden: Cassian’s hands on me in the snow, his voice in the dark, the way he looked at me like I was the only thing worth seeing.
Addiction.
Yes.
I closed the laptop, went to bed early. The sheets felt cold, empty. I tossed, chasing sleep that wouldn’t come.
By midnight, I gave up. Sat up, phone in hand.
No messages from him.
Of course, not. He wouldn’t push.
But the absence felt like a void.
I scrolled through the photo again, the comments piling up.Hypocrite.Sellout.How much did he pay her?
Tears burned.
This was the cost.
And I wasn’t sure I could pay it.
26
The condo was too quiet.
I’d forgotten how silence sounded different here—hollow, almost polite, the way certain places learn to hold their breath. Just the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional tick of the clock on the wall I’d bought because it looked “timeless.” It wasn’t. Nothing in this space felt timeless anymore.
I sat on the edge of the bed in the dark, phone face-down on the nightstand like it might bite me if I looked at it again. The screen had lit up three more times since I’d crawled under the covers—Harper, Abigail, an unknown number I assumed was the reporter. I hadn’t answered any of them.
Instead I stared at the ceiling and tried to remember what it felt like to sleep alone.
I couldn’t.
Not really.
The sheets were cool against my skin, but my body still carried the memory of his heat—the way he’d held me like I might vanish if he loosened his grip, the slow circles he’d tracedon my skin, the quiet promise in his voice when he said he’d sell the preserves if I asked.
He’d meant it.
