That’s what I told myself.
The second time, I said it was about the view. The skyline stretched wide beyond the floor-to-ceiling window, washed in purples and golds as night rolled in. The city blinking on, alive and moving, like proof the world hadn’t stopped just because I had.
By the third time, I stopped pretending there was a reason that sounded noble.
Because the truth is—here, in this tub, with the water always just shy of scalding and the city laid out like something I’m allowed to touch—I can lie tomyself.
I can pretend this is my life. Pretend I belong somewhere like this. Pretend that when I step out of the water, I won’t be stepping back into a gilded cage.
Tonight is no different.
I trail my fingers through the bubbles, watching them swirl, pop, and vanish. Temporary. All of it. I wonder how long I can keep sneaking into this space before Asher notices. Before he says something. Before he reminds me—gently or otherwise—that nothing here belongs to me.
Not really.
I sink deeper, resting my head against the smooth porcelain edge, and eyes drifting to the lights outside. They flicker in patterns I don’t understand, but something about them pulls at me anyway.
And for a little while, I forget.
The cage. The man holding the key. The way everything feels like it’s inching toward a shift I won’t be able to ignore.
I know it’s coming.
I just don’t know what it will cost me when it does.
Chapter 31
The Woman in the Surveillance Tape
Asher
Two weeks.
Fourteen fucking days of tearing the city apart, chasing leads that dissolve the second we get close, and feeling my patience grind down to nothing. Every resource I have is moving—my men shaking contacts, Maverick tearing through data, and favors being called in that I’ll have to repay later. And all of it happening under a spotlight I didn’t ask for.
And still, she’s a ghost.
But ghosts don’t walk into high-profile parties wearing someone else’s face without help.
Maverick stands across from me in the corporate office, the room lit by the glow of surveillance feeds pulled from every corner of the city. Alleyways. Hotel lobbies. Parking garages. Grainy black-and-white footage looping endlessly.
Places that used to be quiet. Places that now feel watched.
I scan them all, eyes flicking from screen to screen, and looking for something—anything—that doesn’t belong.
So far, it’s just shadows slipping through shadows.
It’s pissing me the fuck off.
The air is heavy in here. Not just with the investigation, but with everything stacked on top of it. The buyout is in progress, already stirring internal tension. Every few minutessomeone knocks with another update, another number, and another problem. And every one of them wants reassurance I don’t have time to give.
I don’t care.
This isn’t about business.
This is about The Order.
Rinaldi’s crew didn’t frame Violet for sport. This was deliberate. A calculated hit designed to shake confidence, make clients question our control, and put cracks in our foundation. And with law enforcement tripping over itself to look productive, the timing couldn’t be worse.
