Because itdoessteady me.
It makes me feel safe. Comforted. And that scares me more than his silence ever could.
By the time I shut the water off, my breathing has slowed. The heat has leeched the sharpest edge from my anger, leaving behind something colder and more focused.
Questions.
Why would his father usemeto hurt him? What history sits between them, rotten and unresolved? Why is it suddenly dangerous for me to live my life the way I always have?
And finally, why does the thought keep circling back to the manila envelope I almost opened?
The one I didn’t get to see.
I wrap myself in a towel, my reflection hazy through the fogged glass.
Whatever he’s hiding, I know one thing with terrifying certainty:
This isn’t about control alone.
It’s about something coming.
And somehow, I’m standing right in the middle of it.
Once the last of the anger bleeds out of me, I dry off with one of the thick black towels, wrapping it tight around my body like armour. The air is still heavy with steam as I step out of the bathroom, heat following me into the bedroom in slow, curling tendrils.
The room feels… altered.
On the bed, laid out with deliberate care, is a pair of dark pants and a soft T-shirt. Not mine. His. A reminder that even here, even alone, I’m still surrounded by him. My belongings are nowhere in sight.
Of course they aren’t.
I pull the shirt over my head, the fabric falling far past my hips. I don’t bother with the pants, they’d drown me. The shirt smells like him, faint but unmistakable, and I hate how my body reacts before my mind can stop it.
That’s when I hear it.
Voices.
Raised. Male. One of them unmistakably Khai’s. The other, unknown.
My pulse spikes.
I move toward the bedroom door, every instinct sharpening as the sounds carry from the living area. I can’t make out the words yet, justthe edge of anger, the tight cadence of an argument being held back from something worse.
The door is closed.
I hesitate only a second before easing it open, careful, silent. The apartment is dim, shadows stretching long across polished floors as I edge closer, each step measured, cautious.
Then his voice breaks through, no restraint this time.
“This doesn’t make sense!”
The roar echoes through the penthouse, raw and unfiltered, followed immediately by the violent crash of something shattering. Glass, or stone, splintering into pieces.
Khai
Jaxon watches me from the kitchen like he’s waiting for me to detonate.
I’m already halfway there.
