My chest tightens. The cold, hollow rage I felt when Simon locked me out of my office starts to feel very small compared to this.
"What did you do?" I ask quietly.
"I bought the property back from the city through a blind trust and returned it to the man’s daughter," Malcolm says. He says it so casually, as if he’s talking about returning a borrowed pen. "And then I told Simon that the next time he destroyed a civilian for sport, I wouldn't clean it up. I would burn him to the ground."
I stare at him.
The media paints Malcolm Vance as a monster. Vivian’s internet search made him sound like a mob boss in a tailored suit. But sitting here in the dark, watching the subtle tension in his jaw, I realize the truth is much more complicated.
He is a monster. But he’s a monster with a code.
"And then he did it to me," I say, the pieces finally clicking together.
"And then he did it to you," Malcolm confirms.
He reaches out, his fingers brushing against the edge of my plate. It’s a tiny, insignificant movement, but the proximity makes the hair on my arms stand up.
"I am not a good man, Audrey," he says, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Do not mistake this arrangement for charity. I am using you to dismantle my father’s legacy just as much as you are using me to get your company back."
"I never thought you were a good man," I reply, my voice surprisingly steady. "Good men let people like Simon win because they’re too polite to fight dirty. I don't need a good man right now. I need a weapon."
Malcolm’s expression hardens. The air in the kitchen starts to feel too thick to breathe.
He leans in, his face inches from mine. I can smell the faint trace of whiskey and cedar on his skin. My heart gives a hard, erratic thump against my ribs, but I don't pull back. I refuse to be the one who breaks first.
"Be careful, Audrey," he murmurs, his gaze dropping to my mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back to my eyes. "Weapons don't care who they cut."
"I'm not afraid of getting cut," I lie.
I am terrified. I am terrified of the way my body reacts to his proximity. I am terrified of the fact that I feel safer in a room with a dangerous man than I ever did in a room with a safe one.
Malcolm studies my face. He knows I’m lying. I can see it in the slight curve of his mouth.
Before he can call me out on breaking the transparency rule, a sharp, vibrating buzz shatters the silence.
I jump, my knee knocking against the underside of the counter.
The sound is coming from the pocket of my jeans. I reach in and pull out my phone. The screen is glaringly bright in the dark kitchen.
I look at the notification. All the breath leaves my lungs in a single, painful rush.
Simon (2:45 AM):Audrey, please. I know you’re still in the city. The lawyers said you haven't cashed the severance check. We need to talk. Don't make this harder than it has to be.
My thumb hovers over the screen. A wave of nausea hits me, entirely unrelated to the pizza.
He has the nerve to tell me not to make it harder. He steals my life, replaces me with a twenty-three-year-old, and then texts me at three in the morning playing the victim.
"What is it?" Malcolm asks.
The low, dangerous edge is back in his voice. The vulnerability from a moment ago is gone, instantly replaced by the enforcer.
I turn the phone around and slide it across the marble counter.
Malcolm doesn't touch it. He just reads the screen. I watch his face, waiting for a reaction. I expect him to sneer, or to make a sarcastic comment about Simon’s pathetic timing.
Instead, his expression goes completely blank. It’s a terrifying kind of stillness.
"He wants to talk," I say, my voice shaking slightly despite my best efforts to control it. "He thinks I’m going to negotiate."
