“Dramatic.”
“Well, it’s accurate.”
He returns his attention to the contract, but the focus is gone. I watch him read the same paragraph three times before he gives up and sets it aside.
“My mother was killed in our home when I was twelve,” he says abruptly. “The men who did it walked through the front door. We’d left it unlocked because it was our house, our territory. We thought we were safe.”
The words land heavy in the quiet room. I don’t move, don’t speak, afraid any sound will make him stop.
“They shot her in the kitchen while she was making tea. Damien and I were upstairs. We heard the gunshot, came running.” His voice stays level, emotionless. “She was already dead. They were already gone. The door was still open.”
“My God.”
“I check locks now. I position myself between you and exits. I don’t trust silence because silence meant someone was already inside, already moving, already too close.” He meets my eyes. “You wanted to understand the pattern. That’s the pattern. Loss and the failure to prevent it.”
The vulnerability in the admission steals my breath. This is more than he’s given anyone, stripped of the careful control he maintains everywhere else.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “For telling me.”
“Don’t thank me. You asked a question. I answered it.” He stands, rolling his shoulders like he can shake off the weight of memory. “I’m going to the gym.”
He leaves before I can respond.
I stay in the window seat, processing. Twelve years old, finding his mother’s body, learning that safety is an illusion and control is the only defense against chaos. No wonder he cages everything—including me. It’s the only way he knows to protect what matters.
The realization should make me angrier. Should reinforce every reason I have to resent his restrictions.
Instead, I feel something closer to understanding.
Twenty minutes later, I find myself outside the gym. The private one in the penthouse, all mirrors and equipment and space for violence that can’t be expressed elsewhere. Through the partially open door, I hear impact—flesh against leather, rhythmic and brutal.
I should leave him alone. Should respect whatever processing he’s doing in there.
I push the door open instead.
Dimitri is shirtless, wearing only loose pants, hands wrapped for sparring. He’s attacking the heavy bag withcontrolled fury, each strike precise enough to be lethal if the target were flesh instead of leather. Sweat gleams on his shoulders, across the scars I traced with my eyes at the warehouse.
He doesn’t stop when I enter. Doesn’t acknowledge my presence at all. He just keeps hitting, working through something that can’t be resolved with words.
I lean against the wall and watch.
The violence is beautiful in its precision—no wasted movement, no unnecessary flourish. This is what he is underneath the suits and control. Raw power channeled through discipline, fury contained but never eliminated.
After several minutes, he finally stops. Catches the bag, breathing hard, and looks at me.
“You should go.”
“Why?”
“I’m not good company right now.”
“I don’t need good company.” I push off the wall, crossing the space between us. “I just need you.”
Something flickers in his eyes. “Janice, don’t.”
“You showed me your mother’s ghost. I’m not running from it.” I stop just out of reach. “You’re allowed to be human. To grieve, to be angry about what was taken from you.”
“I’m not grieving. It was twenty-eight years ago.”
