The SUV slowed, pulling onto a tree-lined street in Beacon Hill. Old money. Old power. The kind of neighborhood where secrets were currency and loyalty was bought with blood.
The house sat at the end of the block. A massive Federal-style home not quite large enough to be considered a mansion with black shutters and a red door, the kind of place that screamed understated wealth and quiet menace. Lights glowed in the windows, warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the cold calculation that governed everything that happened within those walls.
The vehicle came to a stop.
For a moment, I didn’t move. Just sat there, staring at that red door, feeling the weight of what I was about to do settle over me like a shroud.
This was it.
The culmination of six months of careful planning, strategic moves, and dangerous gambles. Six months of playing the long game while every instinct screamed at me to go to her, to take her away from all of this, to find some quiet corner of the world where we could pretend the past didn’t exist.
But that wasn’t possible.
Not yet.
Not until I finished what I’d started.
The front passenger door opened first. Eric, one of my father’s most trusted men, stepped out, his eyes scanning the street with practiced efficiency. He was followed by Finn and Seamus, both of them moving with the kind of fluid grace that came from years of violence.
They were sworn to protect me now.
Sworn to protect Braesal, though they didn’t know it yet.
That would change tonight.
Eric opened my door, his expression neutral but his eyes sharp. “We’re clear, sir.”
Sir.
Not Rowen. Not professor. Sir.
The title still felt wrong, like wearing someone else’s skin. But I’d learned to accept it, to use it, to wield it like the weapon it was.
I stepped out of the SUV, the cool Boston air hitting my face. It was early March, the kind of night where you could still see your breath but feel spring approaching. The trees lining the street were mostly bare, their branches reaching toward the sky like skeletal fingers.
I straightened my suit jacket, a Tom Ford, black, tailored to perfection. Sinclair had taught me that appearances mattered in this world. That the right suit could be armor, that the right watch could be a statement, that every detail communicated something about who you were and what you were capable of.
Tonight, I needed to communicate power.
Tonight, I needed to look like a man who belonged at this table.
Finn and Seamus flanked me as I walked toward the front door, their presence a silent reminder of the violence that lurked beneath the surface of this civilized façade. Eric moved ahead, his hand resting casually on the weapon concealed beneath his jacket.
My heart pounded against my ribs, but my face remained impassive. I’d learned that too. How to hide fear, how to project confidence even when uncertainty gnawed at your insides.
Was I doing the right thing?
The question had plagued me for months. Every decision I’d made since that night with Melissa had been leading to this moment, but that didn’t mean I was certain. Certainty was a luxury I couldn’t afford.
I thought about her face when she’d discovered what I’d done. The shock, the hurt, the desperate determination in her eyes when she’d refused to give up on me. I thought about the letter I’d written, the words I’d poured onto paper because I couldn’t say them to her face.
I’m doing this for you. For us. For the life we should have had.
But was I?
Or was I doing this because I’d been backed into a corner, because Sinclair had maneuvered me into a position where this was the only move left on the board?
The truth, as always, was somewhere in between.
