“Mikhailov thinks he can destroy me through the art world,” I say. “So we take his leverage away. We expose his forgery network before he exposes anything of mine. We trace the attacks back to him. We turn his plan into a confession.”
Her breath catches as she follows the lines, the names, the implications.
“But that would mean—” she starts.
“Yes.” My voice stays calm. Controlled. “We weaponize your involvement.”
Her blood drains from her face. “Sebastian—”
“Listen to me,” I say carefully, stepping closer. “You’re the only person he trusts enough to keep communicating with. If you pull away now, he escalates. He panics. He burns everything.”
Her voice is barely above a whisper. “But if I stay…he’ll think I’m still helping.”
“Exactly.”
Understanding dawns in her eyes.
Fear follows immediately after.
“I’d be playing spy,” she says.
“No,” I correct softly. “You’d be playing yourself.” I lift my hand, brush my thumb along her wrist, grounding her. “A woman who wants peace. A woman who wants out.”
She swallows, throat working. “And what about you?”
A faint smirk curves my mouth—not amused, not careless. Calculated. “I’ll handle the rest.”
Her eyes darken, worry cutting through the fragile calm we’ve built. “He’s dangerous.”
“So am I.”
The words aren’t a boast. They’re a fact.
She moves suddenly, cupping my jaw with both hands, fierce in a way that steals the air from my lungs. “Promise me you won’t let him push you into something reckless.”
I turn my head and press a kiss into her palm, slow and deliberate. A vow without paperwork.
“I promise only one thing,” I murmur against her skin. “I won’t let him take you.”
Her breath shudders. Emotion flashes across her face—fear, relief, something dangerously close to love.
She pulls me down into a kiss.
It’s not hungry. Not frantic. It’s slow, desperate, tender—like she’s anchoring herself to me, like she’s asking without words:Stay. Survive. Don’t leave me again.
I answer the only way I know how.
By kissing her back, and holding on.
We fall back onto the bed together, not rushed, not desperate—just tangled. Her head settles on my chest, right over my heartbeat, and I stroke her hair slowly, steadily, until her breathing evens out. She fits there like she always has. Like she always will.
“Tomorrow,” I murmur into the quiet, “you’ll send him a message.”
She shifts slightly, fingers curling into the fabric at my side. “And say what?”
“That you’re ready.”
Her eyes close, lashes trembling. For a second, I think she might pull away. Instead, she exhales.
