But something inside me has shifted.
Something that feels like clarity.
I grab my phone and pull up Cyprian's contact.
My fingers hover over the keyboard.
Then I type:We need to talk. About terms.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself.
The response comes back in less than thirty seconds.
When?
I smile.
Tonight. Your place. And bring the good orange juice.
Another pause.
Then:As you wish.
I set the phone down.
And for the first time since I woke up, I feel warm.
Not from the radiator.
Not from the blanket.
From the simple, terrifying, exhilarating knowledge that I'm choosing this.
I'm choosing him.
And that makes all the difference.
Chapter 8: Cyprian
The boardroom meeting has ended. Kael and I remain in my private office, reviewing threat assessment data on encrypted tablets. The air is cold. Precise. Professional.
My hand moves across holographic displays showing financial transactions, forensic audit trails, and rival firm intelligence reports. Everything about this moment should demand my full attention.
It does not.
My attention is fractured.
My eyes drift—again—to the small, private biometric feed tucked into the lower right corner of my personal display. The data stream is encrypted, routed through three separate proxy servers, and accessible only to me. It shows a single apartment unit in the city's east district.
Heart rate: sixty-two beats per minute.
Respiratory rate: fourteen breaths per minute.
Core temperature: 98.4 degrees Fahrenheit.
She is asleep.
Safe.
