Her breath catches. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.
I continue, because dragging it out would be worse.
“And the shooters…they got in through a construction company your family owns. Someone inside handed them the access code.”
She goes pale instantly.
“Wait.” Her voice cracks. “My—my family? My father’s company?”
“Yes.” I hold her gaze. I don’t let her look away. “Someone tied to the Laurents opened the door for them.”
She shakes her head slowly, like she’s denying a nightmare that won’t dissolve. “Dimitri…I didn’t know. I swear, I didn’t—”
For the first time, I don’t push. I don’t interrogate.
I just look at her. Really look at her.
That’s when I see the faint, fingertip-shaped bruise on her upper arm. Right where I grabbed her last night when the bullets started flying. Right where I yanked her out of the line of fire like she was glass I didn’t want shattered.
Guilt punches straight through my ribs. I step closer, slow, controlled, because she’s already on edge.
Then I reach for her arm. She flinches. A sharp, involuntary recoil that slices clean through me.
“Vivian,” I breathe, barely audible. My fingers hover, not touching now. “I’m sorry.”
She blinks, stunned—like she didn’t expect the word to exist in my mouth.
“You shouldn’t have been there,” I continue, voice low, unsteady in a way I hope she doesn’t notice. “None of this was supposed to touch you.”
For a moment, she says nothing. Her throat works, her eyes glisten—not with tears, but with the weight of realization settling into her bones.
Then softly, almost like it hurts: “It already has.”
The words slice deeper than any bullet ever could.
The silence that follows is thick, charged, dangerous.
Not the kind that explodes—the kind that changes things.
My hand is still hovering near her arm, close enough to feel her warmth but not close enough to touch. I don’t know how long I leave it there. A second. A breath. A lifetime.
Then I make myself pull back. Not because I want to. Because I have to.
Her eyes follow the movement, sharp and quiet.
She’s not looking at me with hatred anymore.
No—this is worse.
She’s seeing me.
Reallyseeing me.
Past the anger, past the performance, past the armor I’ve worn since I was seventeen.
She sees the man who dragged her into danger.
She also sees the man who threw himself over her when the bullets came.
