“And you could have chosen me.”
The words land harder than any bullet.
I stare at her. At the woman who used to laugh at my stupid jokes and kiss the scar on my knuckle like it mattered.
My chest aches.
“You want out?” I ask finally.
She nods once.
Sharp.
“Then go home,” I snap, and I hate myself for it the second it leaves my mouth. “Go back to your fancy rooftop clubs and your DJ friend and your cockatiel.”
“Cockatoo,” she corrects automatically, and it’s so small and stubborn it almost breaks me.
I see it then, the flicker in her face, fast as a blink.
Pain.
She hides it immediately.
“That’s the plan,” she says.
“Fine.”
We stand there breathing hard.
Close enough to touch.
Too far apart to reach.
A muffled knock hits the office door once, cautious.
“Prez?” Vice’s voice, low.
“Stay the fuck out,” I bark without looking away from Darling.
Silence.
Then footsteps retreat, because the club understands boundaries even when we’re burning.
I step back first.
Because if I take one step forward, I’ll grab her again.
And if I grab her again, she’ll see Rico in my hands.
“Go home then,” I say, and the words taste like rust.
She doesn’t hesitate.
She walks to the door, unlocks it, and pulls it open.
Hallway light spills into the office.
She steps out without looking back.
