The shower is hot, deliberately so. Water cuts over my skin, steam curling as I brace my hands against the tile and breathe through the lingering edge of violence in my blood. Control settles back into place, layer by layer, like it always does.
Coffee comes next. Black. Bitter. Familiar.
I stand at the counter, mug warming my hands, watching the city finally wake beneath me. Cars begin to move. Lights blink out. Life resumes.
Tonight arranges itself in my head with the precision of a job.
I won’t take her out.
Restaurants are exposure. Too many eyes. Too many exits. And now, too much risk. My father watches patterns. He notices proximity. Anything that can be leveraged becomes a weapon.
Emmy will not be one.
The decision is easy.
I make the call while the coffee is still hot. Private chef. Discreet. No lingering staff. Rooftop only. Candles. Time. Silence. My balcony sits high above the city, glass, steel, distance.
Untouchable.
Safe.
Mine.
My phone vibrates before I can linger too long on the image of her there, city lights stretched beneath her feet.
Jaxon.
“Tell me you’re not in the city tonight,” he says.
“I am.”
A pause. Then, “I need you not to be.”
I listen as he explains, retrieving the file, moving quietly, keeping me away from the blast radius if anything goes wrong. He doesn’t say it outright, but I hear it anyway.
Choose.
“Fine,” I say after a moment. “You handle it.”
He exhales. “Good. Also,” a grin creeps into his voice, “, you having a date is still fucking surreal. Thought you only did conquests and one-night stands.”
“She’s not that,” I reply, cold and final.
Another pause. Longer this time.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “I figured.”
The call ends.
My phone lights again, softer now.
Emmy:
What should I be dressing for tonight?
I stare at the screen longer than necessary.
Khai:
