I didn't bring her here to control the narrative. I brought her here because the moment I saw her sitting in that hotel bar, calculating the cost of a martini olive while her entire life burned down around her, I recognized the exact same darkness that lives inside of me.
She is not a civilian. She is a survivor.
The door to the bedroom clicks open.
I don't turn around immediately. I listen to the soft, rhythmic sound of her heels against the hardwood floor.
"Vivian is currently threatening the florist on the phone because the bouquet has too much baby’s breath," Audrey says. Her voice is calm, laced with the dry, sarcastic humor she uses when she is trying to mask her nerves.
I turn around.
The breath stalls in my lungs.
She isn't wearing a massive, traditional wedding gown. She isn't wearing the gold silk dress from the boutique. She is wearing a tailored, ivory pantsuit. The cut is sharp, elegant, and completely devastating. She wears a simple silk camisole underneath, the pale fabric highlighting the delicate line of her collarbones. Her hair is pulled back into a sleek knot, exactly how she wore it to the Peninsula Hotel.
She looks like a woman who is about to walk into a boardroom and take ownership of the entire building.
"Is it too corporate?" she asks, her hands smoothing down the front of the ivory jacket. She bites the inside of her cheek, the familiar tell betraying her anxiety. "Vivian said I should wear a dress, but I didn't want to feel like I was performing today. I wanted to feel like myself."
"You look exactly like yourself," I say, my voice dropping to a low, rough register.
I cross the room, stopping right in front of her. I reach out, my hands resting lightly on her waist. The fabric of the suit is smooth beneath my palms.
"You don't need a dress, Audrey," I murmur, my thumbs brushing against the silk of her camisole. "You don't need to perform. Not for me. Not ever again."
She looks up at me. The anxiety in her eyes completely dissolves, replaced by the fierce, absolute certainty that makes her so dangerous.
"Good," she whispers. "Because I am entirely done pretending."
She slides her hands up my chest, her fingers resting flat against the lapels of my suit jacket. She doesn't pull me down for a kiss. She just stands there, anchoring herself to the steady rhythm of my heartbeat.
"Simon’s lawyers reached out to Vivian this morning," she says quietly.
The mention of my brother’s name doesn't trigger the usual spike of violent rage in my chest. It just feels like a distant, irrelevant fact.
"What did they want?" I ask.
"They offered to formally transfer the deed for the commercial space of my old firm back to me," she replies. "They want me to sign a non-disparagement agreement in exchange."
I look at her. "Did you accept?"
"No." She shakes her head, a small, cold smile touching her lips. "I told Vivian to tell them to keep the building. I don't want it back. I don't want anything that has Simon’s name attached to it. Apex Architecture is moving into the West Loop space next week."
A heavy, profound sense of pride settles in my chest. She didn't take the easy victory. She chose to build her own.
"That was a highly expensive decision," I point out mildly.
"I have a very generous silent partner," she counters, her eyes flashing with dark amusement. "I think he can afford the overhead."
"He can." I lean down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of her mouth. "Are you ready to go to the courthouse?"
"I've been ready since the safe house," she murmurs against my lips.
I pull back, offering her my arm. She takes it, her fingers wrapping securely around my bicep. We walk out of the master bedroom, down the hallway, and into the living room.
Vivian is standing by the kitchen island, shoving her phone into her leather briefcase. She is wearing a sharp burgundy suit, looking entirely prepared to litigate a divorce if the wedding doesn't go as planned.
"The florist has been neutralized," Vivian announces, grabbing a small, elegant bouquet of white calla lilies from the counter and handing it to Audrey. "And the car is downstairs. If we leave now, we can bypass the lunch rush on the Kennedy Expressway."
