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I look up at her, my eyes burning. "I don't know."

"Yes, you do."

I swallow hard. "I want him. But I'm so angry at him. And I'm terrified of what this could cost me."

Cora reaches across the table and takes my hand. "Then you need to decide what you can live with."

I nod, tears spilling over.

"Thank you," I whisper.

Cora pulls me into a hug, and I let myself cry against her shoulder.

I spend the rest of Friday thinking.

About Brock. About Kayla. About my job and my reputation and everything I could lose.

About the way Brock's hands felt on my body. The way his voice sounded when he called me beautiful. The way he looked at me in that hotel room like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.

About the message he sent me.

I could ignore it. I could walk away. That would be the safer option.

But it would also be fear.

And I'm tired of being afraid.

If I'm going to walk away from this, I want it to be because I've made an informed decision—not because I'm too scared to face him.

I want to see him. Hear him. Confront him as himself, not as Vanguard.

And then I'll decide.

By the time the sun sets, I know what I need to do.

I pick up my phone and type out a message.

Me: We need to talk. In person. No hotel. No games.

I hit send before I can second-guess myself.

Brock: My address is 428 Maple Ridge Drive. Kayla is with her mother this weekend. Come whenever you're ready.

I stare at the message, my heart pounding. Then I grab my keys and walk out the door.

Twenty minutes later I'm parked in his driveway, staring at the front door. Brock's house is exactly what I expected. A large, elegant two-story in one of the nicest neighborhoods in town. Perfectly maintained lawn. Tasteful landscaping. A porch light that glows warm and welcoming in the gathering dusk.

Finally, I get out of the car and walk up the front steps. Before I can knock, the door opens.

Brock stands there, dressed in jeans and a dark sweater, his expression carefully neutral. "Megan," he says quietly.

"Brock."

He steps aside, gesturing for me to come in. I walk past him into a spacious, tastefully decorated entryway. Hardwood floors. Warm lighting. A staircase leading to the second floor.

It's a home. A real home. Not a hotel room. Not a fantasy.

Brock closes the door and turns to face me. "Thank you for coming," he says.