By the time I reach the gates, my rage has condensed into something cold, sharp, and deadly.
He wants to play games?
Fine.
I'll show him what happens when you back a soldier into a corner.
The main house looms against the sky, all white columns and old money elegance.
I don't bother knocking.
The door is unlocked—of course it is, he's been expecting me, probably watching me walk up the drive, savoring every furious step.
The foyer is cool and dim, marble floors echoing under my boots.
I know where his study is.
I spent enough time in this house as a teenager, trailing after Gracie, pretending I didn't feel his eyes tracking me through every room.
Pretending I didn't feel the heat of his gaze pooling low in my belly.
Pretending I didn't like it.
I find him behind his desk, reading something on his laptop like this is any other afternoon, like he hasn't spent the past week systematically destroying every option I have.
He looks up when I enter, and his expression doesn't change.
No surprise. No concern.
That infuriating, devastating patience—like he has all the time in the world.
Like he knows exactly how this ends.
"Liberty." He closes the laptop and gives me his full attention, those pale blue eyes sweeping over me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. "I was wondering when you'd come."
"My car won't start." I stop in the center of the room, hands curling into fists at my sides.
"That's unfortunate." He leans back in his chair, the picture of casual ease.
"The transmission is shot. Mechanic says it'll take weeks to fix."
"These things happen." His mouth curves—barely, infuriatingly—and I want to claw that smile off his face with my bare hands.
Instead, I close the door behind me and lock it.
His eyebrow rises a fraction. The first crack in the composure.
Good.
"Youdid this." I keep my voice steady, even though my hands are shaking, even though my heart is slamming against my ribsso hard I can feel it in my throat. "You sabotaged my car. You paid off the mechanic. You've cut off every exit, and you're sitting there looking at me like?—"
"Like what?" He tilts his head, studying me like I'm something fascinating. Something he can't wait to take apart.
"Like you've already won." I take a step toward him, then another.
He stands. Comes around the desk. Moves toward me with that slow, deliberate grace that makes my pulse race with warning and something darker—something I refuse to name.
"Haven't I?" He stops three feet away, and I can smell him now.
