I think about my mother sometimes. What she would say if she could see me now. She warned me about the Crawfords, about the way their world swallows people whole. She thought I would become like Olive, hollowed out and filled with someone else's desires.
But I don't feel hollow. I feel more solid than I've ever been.
I'm not Olive. Phoenix is not Nicholas. We're writing our own story, even if it's written in blood and secrets and the kind of love that burns rather than warms.
Phoenix stirs beside me, his arm tightening around my waist even in sleep. I press back against him, letting his warmth anchor me to the present moment.
The past is buried in the mountains.
The future is uncertain.
But right now, in this bed, in this house, in this life I never imagined I'd be living, I choose to believe we're going to be okay.
I close my eyes and match my breathing to his, letting the rhythm lull me toward sleep.
Tomorrow I'll write another chapter of my fantasy. Tomorrow I'll drink coffee on the balcony and pretend the world is exactly as simple as it looks.
CHAPTER 22- PHOENIX
My assistant's voice crackles through the intercom, uncertain in a way that immediately puts me on edge.
"Mr. Crawford, there's a man here to see you. He doesn't have an appointment, but he says it's urgent. A personal matter."
I glance at my calendar. My two o'clock canceled, leaving an unexpected gap in my afternoon. I should use the time to review the contracts sitting in my inbox, the ones I've been avoiding for days because my mind keeps drifting back to Jade and the way she looked this morning, sleepy and warm in my bed.
"Did he give a name?"
A pause. Then: "Dominic Webb."
The name hits me like a bucket of ice water. My hand freezes over the mouse, and for a moment I forget how to breathe. Webb. Marcus's brother. The one who called the police when Marcus first went missing, who's been leaving messages with my assistant that I've been ignoring for weeks.
I should send him away. Tell Rachel to call security, have him escorted from the building, pretend I'm in meetings for the rest of the day. That would be the smart move. The safe move.
But running would look like guilt. And Phoenix Crawford doesn't run from anyone.
"Send him in."
I stand and button my jacket, positioning myself behind my desk like a general preparing for battle. The view of downtown Los Angeles spreads out behind me, forty floors of glass and steel between me and the street below. I've built this office to intimidate, every piece of furniture chosen for its ability to make visitors feel small.
I need every advantage I can get.
The door opens, and Dominic Webb walks in.
He's taller than Marcus was, broader across the shoulders, with the same dark hair but none of his brother's easy charm. Where Marcus always looked like he was about to tell a joke, Dominic looks like he's calculating exactly how much force it would take to break your neck. His eyes are pale gray, almost colorless, and they sweep the room with the practiced efficiency of someone who's spent time assessing threats for a living.
Military, maybe. Or private security. Something that taught him to move like a predator.
"Mr. Crawford." His voice is flat, emotionless. "Thank you for seeing me."
"Mr. Webb." I gesture to the chair across from my desk but remain standing myself. A small power move, but every inch matters. "I was sorry to hear about your brother's disappearance. Please, sit down.”
He doesn't sit. Instead, he walks slowly around my office, examining the artwork on the walls, the books on my shelves, the family photo I keep on my credenza. His fingers trail along the edge of my desk as he passes, leaving invisible tracks on the polished wood.
"Nice office," he says. "Very impressive. You must be doing well for yourself."
"I can't complain."
"No, I imagine you can't." He stops in front of the window, his back to me, hands clasped behind him. The pose should make him vulnerable. Instead, it makes me feel like the one who's exposed. "Do you know why I'm here, Mr. Crawford?"
