None of it hurt as much as the sound of her crying through a door I wasn't allowed to open.
I sat outside her room all night. My back against the wood, the concrete cold beneath me, the hallway dark except for the thin line of light seeping under her door. I listened to her sob until the sobs became hiccups, until the hiccups became silence, until the silence became the worst sound of all because at least crying meant she was still feeling. Silence meant she was going numb.
And then, just as dawn moved in, two words came through the wood. A whisper so quiet I almost missed it. "Thank you, Kon." I pressed my palm flat against the door and held on to those words the way a drowning man holds on to driftwood.
“You’re never alone, little flame. Never.”
I knew this was coming. From the moment I decided to keep her, the truth was a timer I couldn't see but always heard ticking. Itold myself I'd find the right moment. The right words. The right way to hand her the worst truths of her life without shattering the fragile thing growing between us.
The right moment never came. And now the timer has hit zero.
Morning light spills through the hallway windows, casting long rectangles of gold across the concrete. My legs are stiff from sitting all night. My back aches where the door frame pressed into my spine. I haven't slept. Haven't moved. Fuck, I haven't done anything except breathe and wait and hate myself with a thoroughness that borders on art.
Her door opens. Fuck me. She looks gutted. Hollowed out. The blue eyes that usually blaze with challenge and curiosity are swollen, red-rimmed, flat with the particular exhaustion of a woman who has cried herself empty. Her skin is pale beneath the freckles. Her dark hair tangles around her shoulders, uncombed, unwashed. She's still wearing my t-shirt, the collar stretched and damp from tears.
The folder is clutched against her chest. Her knuckles are white around the edges.
She finds me standing in the hallway, my back against the wall beside her door, arms crossed, jaw tight with a night's worth of silence and regret. My hair hangs loose around my face. Haven't moved further than arm's reach from her door since she locked it.
Our eyes meet. Hers swollen and raw. Mine burning from hours of staring at nothing.
She walks past me toward the kitchen without a word. The sleeve of my t-shirt brushes my arm as she passes, and the brief contact sends something sharp through my ribs.
I quietly follow, giving her space. I observe the rigid line of her spine, the careful way she places each foot, the controlled movements of a woman holding herself together through sheer force of will.
She pours coffee. My gaze drops to her steady hands. That scares me more than tears would. Steady hands on a shattered woman mean the grief has calcified into a decision, and I don't yet know what she's decided.
She sits at the kitchen table. Sets the folder in front of her. Wraps both hands around the mug and stares at me across the surface where we've shared meals and arguments and laughter and one memorable afternoon where I took her against the edge while she was mid-sentence about shipping routes.
"We need to talk." Her voice is flat. Professional. The journalist, not the woman. The armor is back, thicker than it's ever been, and every word comes out polished and cold.
"Da, malyshka."
"Tell me everything." She lifts the mug, takes a slow sip, sets it down with careful precision. "And start from the beginning. No more holding back. Not ever again. Since you know everything there is about me, I think it is fair I know everything about you. But tell me first about how you got a hold of all this." She taps the folder.
“I agree.”
"Luca's network has been tracking the Malone operation for months. After Enzo Marchetti was taken down, Seamus saw a vacuum and started pushing into our territory. We've been building a case against him ever since. Shipping routes, shell companies, trafficking connections. Every family membermapped and profiled." I keep my voice level, my hands flat on the table, giving her the respect of steady eye contact even when her gaze cuts through me. "Including you."
"So you knew about me before the auction."
"I knew Declan Malone had a daughter. A journalist. I knew your name and your face." I hold her gaze. "What I didn't know was that you were investigating your own family from the inside. Or that Seamus was planning to sell you. That didn't come to light until the night you walked into Scarlet Thorn and your friend ended up bleeding in our alley."
"And then you found my wish."
"And then I found your wish. And everything changed." I don't soften what comes next. She deserves honesty, especially when it's ugly. "Your wish confirmed you wanted out. You were willing to trade secrets for freedom. Seamus had already arranged the auction through Society 69. By the time we traced your location, you were already there."
"So you bought me." Her voice doesn't waver. Her eyes don't blink.
"It was the only way." My fingers press harder against the table. "I told myself it was strategy. Intel extraction. Protection of a valuable asset."
"Was it?"
She asks the question with her chin lifted, her blue eyes pinned on mine, but the muscle in her jaw twitches and her fingers tighten around the coffee mug hard enough to whiten her knuckles. She wants the truth and she's bracing for it to hurt.
The question fills the space between us. The kitchen is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic beyond the walls. Morning light catches the steam rising from her coffee, curling between us in thin wisps.
"At first." I hold her gaze. I don't look away. "That first night, in the car. You looked at me with those blue eyes and I could read exactly what you were thinking: here's another man trying to own me. And I thought, you're right. That's exactly what I'm doing."
