My chest is heaving, tears burning hot at the corners of my eyes, and I can't stop the words from pouring out now that the dam has broken.
"You've already done so much for me," I say, my voice breaking into something raw and desperate. "The contract upgrade, the apartment, the—the fucking organic orange juice that costs more than my old weekly grocery budget. And I was grateful, Cyprian. Iamgrateful. But I didn't want you to think that was all I wanted from you. I didn't want you to look at me and see a charity case instead of—" I stop, my throat closing around the words I can't quite say. "Instead of someone you chose because you wanted to, not because you felt obligated to fix me."
Cyprian doesn't move. Doesn't speak. He just stares at me with those amber eyes that have gone flat and lifeless, and the silence stretches between us like a chasm I don't know how to cross.
"When did they contact you?" he asks finally, and his voice has gone quiet. Dangerously quiet. The kind of quiet that feels like the calm before a building collapses.
"Three days ago."
"And you rejected them immediately?"
"Yes. Immediately. I didn't even let them finish their pitch."
"Without consulting me." It's not a question. It's an accusation wrapped in stone.
I let out a bitter, broken laugh. "Oh, great. So now I'm officially a high-maintenance paranoia trigger. Should I have filed a formal incident report? Maybe scheduled a briefing with your security team?"
His calcified arm twitches—just once—and I watch the gray stone spread visibly past his elbow, creeping toward his shoulder like frost racing across glass. The amber veins flicker weakly, struggling against the petrification.
"You made a unilateral decision regarding a direct security threat to my organization," he says, and his voice is so controlled it sounds like he's reading from a corporate manual. "That is not humor, Tamsin. That is protocol."
"I wasn'tthinkingabout your fucking protocols!" I snap, my voice cracking. "I was thinking about proving I wasn't using you! I was trying to show you I could handle my own shit without running to you every single time something went wrong!"
"By concealing a direct attempt at corporate espionage."
"Byprotectingyou from thinking I was just another liability you'd eventually resent!"
His amber veins flicker again—once, twice—and then dim further. The calcification reaches his shoulder, and I can see the exact moment the joint locks. His entire frame shifts slightly to compensate for the dead weight, and the movement is so small, so subtle, but it feels like watching him die in slow motion.
"Your timeline is inconsistent," he says, and his voice has gone completely flat now. Clinical. Like he's analyzing data instead of talking to the woman he was inside of less than seventy-two hours ago. "You claim you rejected them immediately, yet you did not inform me for three days."
"Because I was scared!" The words rip out of me, raw and desperate.
"Of what?"
"Ofthis!" I gesture wildly between us, my hands shaking. "Of you looking at me exactly the way you're looking at me right now—like I'm a security risk instead of—" I stop. My throat closes. I can't finish the sentence because saying it out loud will make it real, and I can't handle that right now.
"Instead of what?" he asks, and his voice has gone so quiet I almost don't hear it.
"I was falling for you," I whisper, and the tears are streaming down my face now, hot and unstoppable. "And that was already terrifying enough without confirming that I was just... just a liability you'd eventually resent. Another problem you'd have to manage."
The silence that follows is suffocating. It presses down on my chest like a physical weight, and I can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except stand here and watch him shut down in front of me.
And then, finally, he speaks.
"You should have told me."
His voice is cold. Distant. Final. Like a door slamming shut.
"I know," I say, and my voice is barely audible now. "I know I should have. But I was scared, Cyprian. I was so fucking scared. And I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
He stands slowly, his massive frame unfolding from the table with careful precision. His wings spread slightly for balance, and the calcified arm hangs limp at his side—a dead weight of gray stone that used to be warm and alive under my hands.
He takes a step toward me, and I don't move. I can't move. I'm frozen in place, watching him approach like I'm watching my own execution.
"Your debt has been liquidated," he says.
I blink.
