The phone rang.
I dried off. Answered.
Klaus's voice, wet and triumphant: "I heard. Clean work. Professional. Your first star is earned, son."
Silence.
"She's safe now. For as long as you cooperate. Here—proof."
A photo loaded.
Alena.
My heart stopped.
She was in her London flat—kitchen counter, leaning forward, face buried in her hands. Her shoulders were shaking. The angle was close enough to see the wine stains on the wall behind her, the broken glass glittering on the floor.
She was crying.
Sobbing.
Alone.
Timestamp: today. Two hours ago.
I closed my eyes.
Fuck.
My hands started trembling. The phone nearly slipped from my grip.
She wasn't safe. She was destroyed.
Because of me. Because I'd disappeared without a word. Because she thought I'd abandoned her after finally having her.
Klaus's voice cut through: "See? Still breathing. Still in one piece. That's all that matters, son. As long as you cooperate, she stays that way."
Breathing wasn't the same as safe.
In one piece wasn't the same as whole.
But I couldn't say that. Couldn't argue. Couldn't let him know how much that photo gutted me.
"I understand," I said, voice flat.
"Good. Rest tonight. Tomorrow, we discuss what comes next."
The call ended.
I sat on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, staring at her face.
At the way her hands covered her eyes like she was trying to block out the world.
At the devastation I'd caused by trying to protect her.
She thought I'd left her. Thought the sex meant nothing. Thought I'd looked at what we'd done and decided silence was easier than facing her.
And I couldn't tell her the truth.
