The reply comes almost immediately.
Jaxon:
Done.
I slide the phone away before she can see it, before she can ask who I’m speaking to, before she can notice the way my shoulders ease, just slightly. A fraction of the weight lifts. Not enough. Never enough.
“You’re not going back to work tomorrow,” I say.
Her head snaps up. “Excuse me?”
“I’ve already handled it.” I meet her stare, unwavering. “Personal leave. No questions asked.”
“That was not your decision to make.”
No. But it was mine to enforce.
“I won’t have you out there,” I say, my voice tightening, “not until I’ve shut my father down.”
She steps closer, anger flaring bright and sharp. “You don’t get to rearrange my life without telling me what the hell is going on.”
“I’m protecting you,” I bite out. “I’m keeping you safe.”
Her hands curl into fists at her sides. “By locking me in your penthouse?”
The accusation lands clean. True.
I don’t deny it. I can’t.
“I’m giving you walls,” I say instead. “Security. Distance.”
“And no choice.”
The words hang between us, heavy and undeniable.
I say nothing.
Because this is where the line is thinnest, and I crossed it the moment I decided her safety mattered more than her consent.
I drag a hand down my face and step toward her.
She retreats instantly.
One step from me. One step from her.
I keep moving, slow, deliberate, until her back meets the wall. The sound is quiet but final. I brace my hands against the wall beside her head, close enough that she feels the weight of me there without my touching her.
I bow my head, breathing through the restraint it takes not to close my hands around her.
She’s right. I’m not giving her a choice.
That doesn’t make my reasons any less real.
She looks at me like she’s deciding whether I’m worth fighting… or whether fighting me would only make this worse.
That look cuts deeper than her anger ever could.
“I just need you to be safe,” I say quietly.
