Page 40 of Villainous Rise

Because accepting them meant admitting he knew me well enough to predict when I’d forget to eat. It meant acknowledging that somewhere in that twisted, brilliant mind of his, he cared.

And that was infinitely more dangerous than a little hunger.

Valor finally approved the last photo with a magnanimous nod, as if bestowing a royal blessing upon the universe. “This one really captures my essence.”

“Great,” I said, gathering my things before he could discover another angle of his face to worship. “See you tomorrow.”

The trip home was a blur of exhaustion and hunger pangs. My stomach had given up growling and moved straight to what felt like consuming itself. I should order something. Anything. But the thought of waiting forty-five minutes for delivery made me want to cry. It would be microwave mac and cheese again, that sad orange powder reconstituted into something vaguely cheese-adjacent, paired with whatever wine was already open.

The nutritional plan of champions. Or of people whose lives were spiraling into sad, pasta-shaped circles.

I unlocked my apartment door to darkness. No Dawn. Again. The place felt hollow, like someone had taken all the warmth and left only empty space.

“Home sweet home,” I announced to nobody. My voice bounced off the walls, mocking me. Even my echo sounded lonely.

I peeled off my work clothes, trading my pencil skirt for sweatpants with a hole in one knee. Professional Annie Bishop was officially off duty.

The knock at the door made me freeze mid-shirt-change. I knew that knock. It was the sound of another delivery I should absolutely refuse.

My stomach let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like begging.

“Fine,” I muttered to my traitorous digestive system. “But this doesn’t mean he wins.”

I shuffled to the door, already making excuses. I’m only accepting this because it would be wasteful not to. Food insecurity is a real problem. I’m basically being charitable.

I swung the door open, prepared speech dying on my lips.

Because there stood Cipher, in jeans and a dark blue henley, holding a bag that smelled like heaven and looking like he might set the building on fire with the force of his glare.

“You haven’t been eating,” he said, his tone clipped.

Of all the nerve. Of all the boundary-crossing, privacy-invading, completely-missing-the-point nerve.

“Fascinating observation,” I replied. “Did your surveillance equipment tell you that, or did you just assume I’d fall apart without your culinary supervision?” I crossed my arms and planted my feet, blocking the threshold. “I’m not accepting that. You can leave.”

“Close the door in my face, Sparks. I won’t stop you.” His voice dropped, smooth and terrifyingly calm. “But I’m not leaving. I’ll stand right here all night. Then, tomorrow morning, when you finally collapse from exhaustion and hunger on your way to the elevator, I’ll be here to catch you.”

Fighting his brand of stubbornness required a level of energy I simply lacked.

I scowled but stepped back and pulled the door wider. Cipher brushed past me.

“I was going to eat dinner,” I insisted.

He spun toward me, his eyes narrowing. “Right. You were going to eat that sad box of mac and cheese, the one with the neon orange powder that tastes like chemicals and regret. You’d wash it down with whatever half-empty bottle of wine is sitting on your counter from three days ago, while standing at the kitchen island because you can’t be bothered to sit down for a meal you know is pathetic.”

My cheeks burned. It was like he’d installed cameras in my brain.

He stalked to my dining table and started unpacking containers, each one hitting the surface with a little more force than necessary. “You’ve refused every single delivery this week. Every. Single. One.”

“I told you to stop sending them.”

“And I said fucking no. You don’t get to starve yourself on my watch.”

“I don’t need your help,” I snapped, even as the smell of actual food made my knees weak.

Cipher’s laugh was hollow. “Like fuck you don’t.” He straightened, eyes traveling over me. “You’ve lost nine point four pounds. At this point in time, you’re running a daily deficit of at least twelve hundred calories. You’re metabolizing your own muscle tissue.”

“Have you been weighing me in my sleep?”