It’s done. Ten years of corporate fraud, offshore accounts, and illegal zoning permits are currently sitting in the inbox of a federal prosecutor.
"Now for the Tribune," Malcolm murmurs, opening a secure email client.
He attaches the files, types a brief, cryptic message to David, and hits send.
He closes the laptop.
The silence in the loft returns, thick and absolute. The adrenaline that has been keeping me upright for the last twelve hours finally begins to recede, leaving behind a dull, throbbing ache at the base of my skull.
I look at Malcolm. He is staring at the closed laptop, his hands resting flat on the metal desk.
He just destroyed his family. He just destroyed the company he spent his entire adult life building.
"Are you okay?" I ask softly.
He doesn't answer immediately. He traces the edge of the laptop with his thumb, his expression completely unreadable.
"When I was fourteen," Malcolm says, his voice low and distant, "Simon stole a car belonging to one of Preston’s business associates. He drove it into a ditch on the South Side. He panicked and ran."
I stay perfectly still, afraid that any movement will break the fragile vulnerability of the moment.
"Preston found out before the police did," Malcolm continues. "He didn't punish Simon. He woke me up, handed me a set of keys, and told me to go fix it. I spent four hours negotiating with a local gang to tow the car and wipe the security footage from a nearby liquor store."
He looks up at me.
"I have spent sixteen years cleaning up the wreckage," he says, the bitterness finally bleeding into his tone. "I built Vance Security to ensure that the wreckage never reached the holding company. I thought I was protecting the family."
"You were protecting them," I say gently.
"No." He shakes his head, a dark, self-deprecating smile touching his lips. "I was enabling them. I was the reason Simon believed he could steal your company without consequence. If I hadn't spent my life acting as their shield, Simon would have been in prison a decade ago, and you would still have your firm."
The words hit me hard. He isn't just grieving the loss of his company; he is carrying the guilt of what his family did to me.
"Malcolm." I step closer to him, reaching out to cover his hand with mine. "Simon stole my company because he is a selfish, empty man. You didn't make him that way."
"I made it possible for him to survive that way."
"And now you are making it impossible." I squeeze his hand, forcing him to look at me. "You stopped him. You stopped Preston. You didn't have to do this, but you did."
He looks down at our hands. The vintage diamond catches the harsh overhead light of the loft.
He turns his hand over, tangling his fingers with mine. He pulls me gently toward him, stepping around the desk until we are standing toe-to-toe.
"I am entirely unemployed," he murmurs, the heavy emotional weight shifting into a dry, self-deprecating humor. "I am currently hiding in an off-the-grid warehouse, and my father is likely plotting my assassination."
"It’s a very impressive resume," I reply, a small, exhausted smile touching my lips.
"Are you absolutely certain you want to stay in this room?"
"I'm not going anywhere."
He exhales a slow, rough breath, resting his forehead against mine. The physical contact is grounding, a quiet anchor in the middle of the chaos.
We stand there for a long time, the silence of the safe house wrapping around us.
My stomach lets out a loud, embarrassing rumble.
I wince, pulling back slightly. "I’m sorry. I think the last thing I ate was the pizza you ordered yesterday morning."
