"You don't think it's too dark?"
"There's no such thing as too dark, not if it's honest." She leans forward, her eyes intense. "The best romances explore the shadows. They don't shy away from damage or violence or moral complexity. They show us that love can exist even in the darkest places, especially in the darkest places."
I think about Phoenix. About what he did for me in that cabin. About the blood and the violence and the way he held me afterward like I was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.
"The real world is dark," I say. "It seems dishonest to pretend otherwise."
"Exactly." Olive reaches over and squeezes my hand briefly. "When you finish this book, I want to read it. And if you need any advice along the way, I'm here. One writer to another."
The offer takes me by surprise, warmth flooding through my chest. "I'd like that. Thank you."
We talk for another hour, about writing and publishing and the craft of creating emotional resonance on the page. Olive isgenerous with her knowledge, sharing tips and techniques she's developed over decades of work. She recommends books on story structure and character development. She tells me about the romance community, about conferences and critique groups and the support system that exists for writers in the genre.
By the time Phoenix appears in the doorway, I've almost forgotten why we came here in the first place.
"Ready to go?" His face is carefully neutral, giving nothing away about what was discussed with his father.
I stand, reluctant to leave. "Yes. I think so."
Olive rises and walks us to the door, her hand resting briefly on my shoulder. "Remember what I said, Jade. Whatever happens, keep writing."
"I will."
She kisses Phoenix's cheek, then mine, and then we're walking back through the marble foyer and out into the fog.
In the car, Phoenix reaches for my hand again.
"How was it?" he asks. "With my mother?"
"Surprising," I say. "In a good way."
He nods, not pressing for details.
I want to ask what happened with his father, what they decided about Dominic Webb, what comes next. But I can see that he's not ready to share yet, and I don't push.
Some conversations need quiet afterward.
We drive home through the fog, hands intertwined, and I let myself imagine a future where Dominic Webb disappears and the police close their investigation and Phoenix and I get to just be together.
CHAPTER 25- PHOENIX
The restaurant my father chose is the kind of place where problems get solved over hundred-dollar glasses of wine and nobody asks questions. Private dining room in the back, thick walls, a maître d' who knows when to disappear. The kind of establishment that has existed in Los Angeles for years precisely because men like Nicholas Crawford need places where their conversations don't carry.
Dominic Webb is already seated when we arrive.
Of course he is.
He wanted to watch us walk in. Wanted the moment of entrance to belong to us so that the power in the room would belong to him. I recognized the tactic the moment I saw his empty chair facing the door, but recognizing it doesn't make it any less effective. He sits with his hands folded on the white linen, his eyes tracking us from the moment we step through the door. He's wearing a dark jacket over a charcoal sweater, understated and expensive. There is no jewelry, no tie, nothing decorative about him at all. He looks like a man who stripped himself down to function a long time ago and never missed what he left behind.
He stands when we approach. Extends his hand to my father first, then to me. His grip is brief and firm, conveying nothing.
"Nicholas. Phoenix." He gestures to the chairs across from him. "Thank you for coming."
We sit. A server materializes, pours wine, and retreats. The door closes behind him.
My father sets both hands flat on the table. "What do you want?"
There's a version of this conversation where we spend twenty minutes on pleasantries, on careful words and careful silences, on the elaborate performance of men who are trying to understand each other before they reveal themselves. My father has cut that version out entirely. It's one of the things I've always admired about him, that willingness to strip the theater out of a room.
