This isn’t just about revenge anymore. It’s aboutprevention. Lachlan built more than a legacy—he built contingencies. And one of them is walking around right now, unaware she may have just become a target.
“She’s blood,” Lars says quietly. “To Zara.”
“And that’s why we handle this carefully,” I answer. “We don’t let Lachlan weaponize anyone else she loves.”
The room begins to shift back into motion. Notes are taken. Calls prepared. The wheels of the machine turning once more.
But beneath it all, the urgency sharpens. The pieces on the board have changed, and this game—this war—is far from over.
I pauseoutside Zara’s hospital room, fingers tightening around the bouquet in my left hand.
It’s simple—pink roses and pale cream tulips. Clean. Elegant. The kind of thing she’d pretend not to care about, and then smell three times in a row when she thinks no one’s watching. Tucked inside the inner pocket of my jacket is the real gift. The one I couldn’t wait to give her the second I saw it.
The door opens before I knock.
Lars steps out, coffee in one hand, phone in the other. He raises a brow when he sees me.
“She’s awake. Hungry. And pretending she doesn’t like watchingThe Great British Bake Off.”
“Good,” I grunt. “She’s healing.”
“She’s also opinionated,” he adds, gesturing to the stack of bridal magazines and dog-eared baby books on the nightstand. “Violette’s fueling it.”
“Of course she is.”
He nods. “Now that you’re here, I’m taking a break.”
I nudge past him and step into the room.
Zara’s in bed, upright, a soft blanket pooled around her waist and her dark hair loose around her shoulders. There’s a pink flush back in her cheeks now—color returning to her skin, strength in the way she lifts her chin when she sees me.
God, she’s beautiful.
“Someone’s brooding,” she says, smirking faintly as she spots the flowers. “Did you kill someone on your way here?”
“No,” I say. “But it’s early.”
I cross to the bed and set the bouquet on the tray beside her lunch. “These are peace offerings. I figure you deserve something beautiful that didn’t come with a bullet wound.”
She tilts her head, softening. “You brought me flowers.”
I reach into my jacket next and pull out the velvet box, placing it gently in her lap. “And this.”
Zara gives me a suspicious look, takes the box from my hand, then flicks open the lid.
Inside is a delicate gold chain, thin and gleaming, with a teardrop-shaped amethyst pendant at the center. Deep purple, smooth and faceted, catching the light with a shimmer.
“The baby’s birthstone,” I tell her. “February. If your due date’s right.”
Her throat works around a breath, and her fingers move to the pendant, touching it gently. “Enzo…”
“I wanted you to have something that symbolizes that we’re building something bigger than what they tried to take from us.”
She says nothing for a long moment. Then reaches out, curls her fingers into the front of my shirt, and pulls me toward her, my lips land on hers.
It’s soft. Certain. And it guts me more than anything else ever could.
When I straighten again, I take the necklace from the box and fasten it around her neck. Violette is in the corner flipping through a magazine like she hasn’t been watching us over the rim of her reading glasses. Lars comes back in and flops into the chair near the window.
