I turn my head slowly against the pillow. Malcolm is lying on his stomach, his face turned toward me. One of his arms is tucked beneath his head, the other draped heavily across my waist, pinning me to his side.
In the pale, gray light of the Chicago morning, the sharp, terrifying edges of the CEO are completely gone. His dark hair is a mess. The faint stubble along his jaw makes him look older, rougher, and entirely human. Without the bespoke suits and the calculated posture, he just looks like a man who has finally stopped fighting a war he never wanted to be in.
I carefully slide my hand out from under the blanket. The air in the loft is freezing.
I look at my left hand. The vintage diamond catches the muted light filtering through the frosted windows.
Marry me, Audrey.
My chest tightens, a sudden, overwhelming wave of emotion hitting the back of my throat. I press my lips together, fighting the urge to wake him up just to hear him say it again.
I don't. He needs the sleep. He spent the last sixteen years carrying the weight of his family’s corruption, and he spent the last forty-eight hours dismantling it.
I carefully lift his heavy arm, sliding out from underneath it. He makes a low, protesting sound in the back of his throat, his hand grasping blindly at the empty space on the mattress. I grab one of the extra pillows and push it against his chest. He wraps his arm around it, his breathing evening out again.
I stand up, my bare feet hitting the freezing concrete floor. I pull on the oversized sweatpants and the black t-shirt I wore yesterday, shivering as the cold fabric touches my skin.
I walk quietly toward the kitchen area at the other end of the loft.
My cracked phone is sitting on the stainless steel counter, right next to the empty pasta bowls from last night. I pick it up. The battery is at twelve percent.
I press the side button. The shattered screen lights up, displaying a terrifying number of notifications.
Thirty-four missed calls. Eighty-two text messages. Four news alerts.
I ignore the calls from unknown numbers and tap the notification from theChicago Tribune.
The page loads slowly over the cellular network. When the headline finally appears, I have to lean my hip against the edge of the counter to steady myself.
VANCE EMPIRE CRUMBLES: PRESTON VANCE DENIED BAIL AMID MASSIVE FEDERAL PROBE.
There is a photograph below the headline. It isn't a glamorous society shot. It is a picture of Preston Vance being escorted out of the federal courthouse in an orange jumpsuit, his hands cuffed in front of him. He looks pale, disheveled, and completely stripped of the arrogant armor he wore in the dining room.
I scroll down, reading the bullet points.
Simon Vance cooperating with authorities in exchange for leniency.
Federal authorities freeze all assets associated with Vance Holding Company.
Vance Security division officially dissolved; CEO Malcolm Vance unreachable for comment.
I set the phone down on the counter.
The silence in the loft feels different now. It isn't the tense, suffocating quiet of a bunker waiting for an attack. It is the absolute, ringing silence of an aftermath.
The dragon is dead. The castle burned down.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, taking a long, shaky breath. I thought I would feel a massive surge of vindication. I thought reading about Simon’s downfall would fix the hollow space in my chest where my company used to be.
It doesn't.
Simon is going to prison, but my firm is still gone. The blueprints, the client lists, the late nights I spent building myreputation—none of it comes back just because the men who took it are in handcuffs.
"You are overthinking."
I drop my hands and turn around.
Malcolm is standing at the edge of the kitchen. He is wearing the dark sweatpants from yesterday, his chest bare. The pale, jagged scar on his neck stands out sharply against his skin. He looks sleepy, his eyes heavy, but his focus is entirely locked on my face.
