Chapter Twenty-Six
Emmy
The room feels wrong the moment he’s gone.
Not quiet, suspended. As if the walls themselves are holding their breath, waiting for him to return and set everything back into motion. The air is thick with what he left behind, heavy and restless.
I sit on the edge of the bed, his shirt still clinging to my skin, the fabric steeped in him. His scent wraps around me, familiar and dangerous, and my pulse refuses to settle. My body hasn’t caught up to his absence; my skin remembers him too vividly, remembers the weight of his hands, the way they anchored me as if letting go was never an option.
And that’s the problem.
I miss him already.
The realization lands softly at first, almost harmless, then spreads like a bruise beneath the surface, dark and aching. I press my palms into the mattress, grounding myself, forcing a slow, measured breath. Wanting him was effortless. Leaning into him felt instinctive, inevitable.
Understanding what that means is anything but.
I stand and begin to pace, my bare feet soundless against the floor. His bedroom is immaculate, too immaculate. Every surface is deliberate, every object placed with precision, as if disorder is something he refuses to tolerate. There’s nothing here that doesn’t belong exactly wherehedecided it should be.
Even the windows feel controlled.
Floor-to-ceiling glass stretches before me, not an invitation but a warning. The height is dizzying, the view distant and unreachable, a reminder of how far removed this space is from the world below. From everything familiar. From escape.
My phone waits on the bedside table, exactly where he left it. I pick it up, half-expecting something, anything. There’s nothing. No missed calls. No messages.
I type a message out to Tate quickly, letting her know I won’t be at work.
Emmy:
Hey, I’m taking a few days off. Need some time to unwind and relax.
A lie, smooth and harmless on the surface. I set the phone back where it was, just as carefully as I found it, and turn toward the door.
I test it.
It opens without resistance.
So, I’m not locked in. Not physically.
The distinction does little to settle the tight coil in my chest.
I drift into the hallway, my fingers trailing along the wall as if I need the contact to remind myself, I’m real, that this place hasn’t swallowed me whole. The living area comes into view, and I stop.
The mess from earlier is gone.
No shattered glass. No dark splash staining the wall. No sign of the violence that cracked through the air when Khai lost control. Everything is pristine, polished back into submission.
It’s as if the explosion never happened.
As if someone erased the evidence.
As if his control didn’t slip at all, only my illusion of it.
My stomach tightens.
On the kitchen island sits the manila envelope.
Thick. Unassuming. Waiting.
