Perfect.
Everything is perfect today.
I look good, too. Tom Ford suit. Charcoal grey, three-piece. Fit is perfect. Silk tie in deep burgundy. Shoes are Church's, polished to a mirror shine.
All three monitors show the Idaho Falls Greenbelt trail at different locations.
I lean closer, as a figure appears on the riverwalk that follows the Snake River trail. I hold my breath, waiting to recognize—yes. It's her. Scarletta is so punctual these days. Always right on time. She's wearing black leggings and a matching fitted tank top. She's got her hair pulled back in a high ponytail that swings when she runs.
She looks healthy.
Better than healthy, she looks absolutely gorgeous.
Like someone who has her life together.
I take a sip of coffee, studying her form as she breaks into a slow jog. Posture is good. Breathing steady. She runs like she's training for something, not just passing time.
This is progress.
Real progress.
She hasn't logged into DarkDesires in six months. Not once. I check daily—her account sits dormant, followers still asking where she went, when she's coming back, if everything is okay.
Radio silence.
At first, I was concerned. Wondered if I broke something fundamental. If the maze, the blood, watching me kill Volk—if it shattered her completely.
But then I realized… she's not broken.
She'sstacking.
Writers do this. They go dark for months, building up material, refining their craft. Then they come back with something massive. Something that redefines their entire body of work.
That's what she's doing.
She must be.
She is.
She's writing our story. The truth of what happened between us dressed up as pitch-black fiction. The auction. The cabin. Story Island. All of it.
She just hasn't shared it yet.
Not because she's ashamed.
Because it's not ready.
Becauseshe'snot ready.
That's all. That's why.
On the screen, Scarletta's pace has intensified. The morning light catches the sheen of sweat forming at her temples. She's pushing herself today—harder than usual.
I watch the fluidity of her stride, the controlled aggression in each footfall. This isn't the tentative jogging of someone going through motions. This is someone runningtowardsomething. Or away from it.
Either way, it's movement.
It's life.
