He peers closer, studying me until I want to burn into ashes. Then he states, "That depends on you."
I step back, creating distance because standing close feels dangerous. I lie, "You don't scare me."
He stands, and the room shifts the moment he's on his feet. He comes close enough to register heat and quietly asserts, "I'm not here to scare you. I'm here to set terms."
My pulse spikes. "You don't get to set terms for my life."
"I already have," he replies.
Of course he has.
I lift my chin. "Say them."
"No contact. No explanation. No attempts to repair what was removed."
"And if I don't comply?"
He watches my face closely, cataloging every micro-expression. "Then everything becomes louder."
My throat tightens. "You're threatening me."
"I'm informing you."
I laugh once, sharp and brittle. "You men all use the same language."
His gaze darkens, something flickering beneath the control. "You're not wrong."
The admission throws me off-balance. I study his face, the sharp lines, the calm authority, the confidence that doesn't require volume.
I warn, "You think this ends quietly?"
"I know it does. Unless you foolishly don't let it."
"And Red?"
"He walks free with his career intact, a clean record, and no furtherscrutiny. Everything that happened today becomes a mistaken identity by the authorities."
My hands shake. I grasp them together to try to hide it. "And what about me?"
He pauses with the smallest hesitation. "You remain protected."
The words lands wrong. "At what cost?"
He steps back, giving me space again. "If you love him like you think you do, then you'll do what's best for him."
My hands curl into fists at my sides. "Don't speak to me about love!"
He shrugs. "Fine. But you're inside our perimeter now. If you think your family will stand for this, you're mistaken. If they find out, things get very ugly for your lover. So I suggest you keep his best interest at heart at all times, now and in the future."
My knees wobble, so I grab the back of a chair to steady myself.
He walks to the exit, then spins. "Think carefully, Blue. Some things survive because they get buried, and only because they don't come to light. This is one of them. And this conversation won't happen again. Have a good day." He opens the door and shuts it behind him.
I stand alone in my apartment, heart racing, lungs working too hard to keep up. I sink onto the chair nearest the table, toss my bag on it, and press my hands flat against my thighs, trying to ground myself.
My phone dings. I pull it out of my purse and glance at the screen.
Demi: We need to talk.
