“Together.”
Her breath hitches—and for the first time in days, the roaring in my skull quiets.
War is coming.
But she’s standing with me.
And that changes everything.
***
That night, the penthouse feels like a bunker. Maps, files, and laptops cover the living room table. Sylvester sits across from me, shoulders tense, eyes darting between documents and the screens.
And Vivian…Vivian sits right beside me. Not in another room. Not hiding behind a locked door.
Right here—in the center of the chaos.
Sylvester tries not to stare, but I catch it anyway. The flicker of surprise. The quick, confused glance he sends me like he’s silently asking:
She’s sitting in on this? You’re letting her?
I ignore him.
Vivian’s knee brushes mine every few seconds—a small, grounding touch that I never knew I’d crave.
Sylvester clears his throat. “Like I was saying…the courier who dropped the envelope at the estate used a fake ID. But the route he took intersects with another Koval transaction—”
Vivian shifts closer, unconsciously, like she wants to understand every word.
Like she refuses to be helpless ever again.
I don’t push her away.
Hell, I do the opposite.
I reach for her hand under the table.
Just for a second.
A brief squeeze.
Silent. Protective. Mine.
She glances at me, eyes softening, but she doesn’t interrupt.
Sylvester stutters over his next sentence. He’s definitely shocked.
Good. Let him be.
She’s not a bystander anymore.
She’s part of this.
Part of us.
And for the first time in months, the war doesn’t feel like a burden I’m carrying alone.
Eventually, Vivian’s breathing evens out by degrees, exhaustion dragging her under until she’s curled into the corner of the couch, lashes trembling against her cheeks. The firelight flickers over her face, softening everything that’s been hard and frantic tonight. She looks younger like this. Untouched by all the danger circling us.
