Then he shifts beside me, brushing a kiss against my temple.
We get up eventually. The penthouse is too pristine, too still as I pad into the kitchen in one of his shirts. He hands me coffee without a word, his hand lingering just a second too long as it brushes mine.
We sit at the kitchen island, both barefoot and unguarded as he pulls up the first reports from the party.
“Initial half-life is exactly as predicted,” he says, scrolling. “Most subjects reported the effects wearing off six to eight hours post-ingestion. No rebound aggression. No withdrawal symptoms. Just… a tapering off.”
I take the tablet from him and skim the data, something warm blooming in my chest.
It worked.
The formula held.
“Some of them are still reporting residual focus on their partners, but not obsessive,” I murmur. “The oxytocin mimic might be too strong—it’s leaving traces of attachment even after the rest wears off.”
He nods. “You’ll figure it out.”
I glance at him, at the way his mouth curves around the edge of his coffee mug. “You always this encouraging to your criminals?”
“Only the ones I’m sleeping with.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling.
We scroll in silence a little longer, knees brushing beneath the island, and his shoulder warm beside mine. Every so often, our eyes meet over the rim of our coffee cups, and something unspoken passes between us—something fragile and new that neither of us dares to name.Not yet.I add notes in my head about tweaking the dopamine curve, maybe smoothing the spike to delay peak attachment. I’d like to see how long the bonds last. Whether they fade gently or shatter.
“We’ll need more data in the next few days,” I say. “Controlled groups. Long-term effects.”
“You’ll have it,” he replies. “Anything you need.”
And the way he says it makes my chest tighten because I believe him.
And that’s the most dangerous thing of all.
For the first time in weeks, I let myself believe—just for a moment—that maybe I’m not drowning anymore. Just floating, finally, in something warm.
Chapter 55
Perception Is Everything
Asher
“You need a woman on your arm,” Davis says, not even looking up from his phone. The skyline bleeds gold against the glass behind him, the city pretending it’s softer than it is. He’s already decided this for me. I hear it in his tone. “Gavin Hollister is a family man. Old-world values. You walk in alone, he sees a predator. You walk in with someone elegant and warm—he sees a man who builds things. Who has roots.”
“So,” I say, flat. “A lie.”
“A performance,” he corrects. “You want the deal or not?”
I lean back in my chair. Hollister’s company is bleeding capital but clinging to dignity. Gene therapy. Early-stage treatments for inherited conditions. Brilliant science. Bad timing. The kind of work that gets praised and buried in the same breath.
Crimson Inc could absorb them and liquidate everything but the patents. That’s the plan. Clean. Efficient. But I don’t need force—I need consent. I need them to want it.
My eyes drop to the tablet on my desk. A paused frame from the surveillance footage after the party. Violet, tangled in my sheets, and moonlight soft over the slope of her bare shoulder. Peaceful. Unaware.
I turn the screen dark.
“Set it up,” I tell Davis. “I’ll bring someone.”
I find Violet in her room, brushing her hair in the mirror. She turns when she sees me, smiling—and something in my chest shifts before I can stop it.
