“No,” I cut in, and my throat tightens. “I want to be the one to end it.”
He nods once, then reaches over and brushes hair off my cheek. “The meeting location is already secured. A team will be inside, and law enforcement will be listening. You won’t be alone.”
I press my fingers into my thighs and stare straight ahead. “I want eyes on the street, and I want a signal if I need to abort.”
“You’ll have it,” he says.
I text Gavin back.
Me: Friday. Seven. Wyck & Dove. Come alone.
He replies in under ten seconds.
Unknown: Not a chance. You don’t call the shots anymore.
I exhale. “That sounds like him.”
Ethan shrugs. “He’ll come anyway.”
The next three days are tight and controlled. Ethan works with counsel through secured channels, Harrison traces Sabrina’s burner activity to a dump site in New Jersey, and Victoria’s office gets a subpoena that she pretends not to care about.
I rehearse the meeting in my head until my thoughts blur. I put the wire on with shaking hands, I throw up twice the morning of, and when Ethan tries to help, I snap at him and make him leave the room.
He does, and he doesn’t argue. Before he goes he pulls me into a hug so tight I can’t breathe.
“You don’t have to forgive me yet,” he says. “But I’ll be here when you do.”
Friday night, I walk into Wyck & Dove in a silk blouse and jeans that don’t fit the same way anymore. My belly is still mostly flat, but my body feels different, and my nerves feel louder.
The host recognizes me and leads me to the back room. It’s reserved, it’s quiet, and there’s an exit close enough that I don’t have to pretend I don’t see it. One of Ethan’s men sits in the far corner looking like a bored businessman, and I don’t glance at him twice.
Gavin walks in at 7:03 p.m.
Same arrogant stride, same black shirt with the sleeves rolled, facial hair grown out and poorly chosen, and his smile is lazy in a way that used to make me doubt myself.
“You look different,” he says.
“So do you.”
“You look tired,” he adds, and he sits opposite me. “And scared.”
“I’ve had a long few months.”
He leans forward, too close. “You shouldn’t have run.”
“You shouldn’t have made me.”
He reaches for the drink waiting for him. “You’re not afraid of me anymore?” he asks, fingers closing around the glass as if he’s claiming it.
“I never was.”
I say it clean, and my hands stay on the table, palms down, nails pressed into the wood until I feel the edge of myself again.
He grins like he knows I’m lying. “Then why the whisper-text routine?”
“I had to be sure it wasn’t a trap.”
His smile vanishes.
