My chest tightens.
I’ve spent days watching her. Memorizing the small things. The way she hums when she cooks. The way she checks on Ella twice before bed, like she needs to see her breathing to sleep. The way she carries everything alone because she thinks she has to.
She shouldn’t be here.
“This isn’t just business,” Maverick says carefully. “And you know it.”
“No,” I admit. “It isn’t.”
He watches me for a long moment. “You can’t burn the city down over a woman.”
I turn to face him, my voice dropping low enough to be dangerous. “She’s not just a woman.”
Silence stretches between us.
“She’s mine,” I finish.
Maverick exhales, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Then we do this smart. Quiet. No trails. No headlines.”
I nod once. “Start cleaning.”
He pulls out his phone without another word, because he knows this is already decided. As he turns to leave, he gestures to my bleeding hand. “You planning on leaving that all over the carpet, or should I call someone to mop up your dramatic bullshit?”
I grab a cloth and wrap it tight, eyes never leaving the screen.
Violet is home now. Back in her apartment. She looks shaken. Smaller than she should. Like she’s still waiting for something to go wrong.
She thinks she’s alone.
She isn’t.
No one touches what’s mine.
And anyone who tried?
They just signed their death warrant.
Chapter 22
Her Future Arrives Too Fast
Violet
The apartment is too quiet. Not peaceful. Not calm. Just hollow in that way that makes every thought echo louder than it should. I sit at the kitchen table, my coffee cold, and my hands wrapped around the mug like it might anchor me, while the police interview replays on a relentless loop behind my eyes.
The fluorescent lights.
The scrape of the chair.
The way the detective’s gaze sharpened every time he asked the same question with slightly different words.
Some witnesses say they saw someone matching your description.
Matching my description?
I wasn’t there. I didn’t go to the penthouse. I didn’t leave the apartment that night. Ella was on the couch beside me, half asleep, and scrolling through her phone. I remember the exact show we watched. I remember the rain hitting the windows. I remember everything—because I’ve replayed it a hundred times, trying to figure out how memory can matter so little once someone decides you fit the story they want.
Someone saw what they needed to see, and now I’m a suspect in a death I didn’t cause, tied to a drug I never handed over, while standing on ground that feels dangerously thin.
