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Another pause.

"Instead, I followed you home to make sure you got there, then left. For so long I held back, telling myself I hadn't earned the right to open that door yet."

I don't want to turn the water off, but my hand reaches out and does it anyway. The bathroom goes quiet except for the water running off me onto the floor that keeps on for a moment.

"That boy came to me," he says. "It wasn't chance. His family happened to use one of my funeral homes, and when his body arrived I sent out the staff who normally do that work, because I wanted to be the one who did it. So I did it myself, all through the night. He'd gone into the road face-first and there was a lot of damage. I rebuilt his face by hand, slowly, until he looked like himself again. I did a better job on that boy than I have done on anyone before. When his mother asked me what she owed, I told her the hospital had already covered the cost, which wasn't true. I covered it. I was one of the men who carried the coffin. And afterward, she stood at the door and held my hand in both of hers and thanked me for giving her the chance to see her son's face one more time."

He pauses, and I take a deep breath, tipping my head back.

"I did that because you cried that night and I couldn't comfort you. It was the one thing I could do for you that you'd never know about. Of course I never told you, and I wasn't going to tell you now. But you're now here thinking you didn't try hard enough, and I can't let you believe that."

I step out of the shower and look up at him. Laszlo is soaked down the right arm of his shirt where he's been leaning against the glass. As I’m dripping wet and shaking, I finally understand why he confessed. He didn't tell me all of this to frighten me, but to make me feel better. This is the kindest thing, making a dead boy beautiful with his bare hands, for me, while I never knew he existed. With those hands, he can do so much more than maim or kill.

I should still be terrified though, and I am. But there's something else I feel that I can’t deny any longer. I can say with complete certainty now that nobody has ever loved me the way this man loves me. It's the wrong kind of love, a kind I never got to see or agree to, but it's so much more than anyone has ever given me, or likely will ever give me. Now that I’m aware of this I can't go back to not knowing it.

He reaches past me, takes the towel off the rail, and wraps it around me, pulling me in against his shirt. I don’t tell him to leave me alone but look up to see the pain that’s so vivid now, on his face. I am hooked.

I give him a small smile. It isn't much, but it's about all I've got left in me.

His face changes when he sees it. The control drops for a little while, and underneath it all he just looks relieved. Relieved and almost unsure, too.

"There you are," he murmurs.

The way he speaks gives me the final blow. For months I have hated him, and that hate has kept me safe. As long as I feel that emotion none of this counts, and when the year is up I can leave and never look back.

Now I go look for that hate, reaching deep within, and can’t find it anywhere. It's gone. What’s left is terrifying. It’s that I now know I care about him. I’m afraid of him and want him at the same time. What can I do with all of this?

In six months, I’ll be able to leave. I can’t make this time count because if I do, I’m finished. God help me, I might already be too far gone. I should hold on, keep my head straight.

I press my face into his shirt and repeat this to myself, again and again, as if doing this will make me believe it. As if this alone will save me from whatever treacherous waters I’m putting myself in.

CHAPTER 21

Laszlo

I'm the luckiest man on this fucking planet. Who would have thought that Laszlo Novak would end up married to the most beautiful woman in the city? And not just any woman, but a gifted surgeon, despite being the daughter of one of the men who has likely spent years wishing me dead. Henri Valmont's own girl, his pride, the one thing he guarded closer than his territory—she sleeps under my roof now and wears my name. I took her out from under him, and there was nothing he could do but stand at the wedding and smile. If I were a better man I'd be ashamed of how much I enjoy that. I'm not a better man, and I enjoy it enormously. Mostly because she’s worked hard to get out from under his thumb. With me, she’ll be cared for. Cherished.

Now here she is, walking toward me in the dress I bought her.

Six months ago, I put a ring on her finger against her will, and she still looks at me most mornings like she's deciding how to end my life. But she's here tonight. I asked and she said yes. She let me choose the dress, and she's crossing this room like she owns it, which she does.

I stand when she reaches the table and pull the chair out for her myself before the waiter beats me to it.

"You look beautiful," I tell her.

"You paid for the dress," she says, sitting down. "I’m just wearing it so don’t get sentimental about it."

That’s my Manon, realist to a fault. God, I want to kiss her. I sit down instead and watch her study the menu.

We've got the best table in the room, my back to the wall, the whole floor in front of me. For a while it's actually nice. She tells me about a resident who fainted mid-surgery, I tell her about my week and leave out the parts that would ruin her appetite. Once she nearly laughs at something I say before she catches herself and hides it behind her wine glass. She'd rather die than laugh at my joke. I count it as a win anyway.

This is all I wanted tonight. One hour when she forgets she's supposed to hate me.

Then a man at the table behind her starts talking, and he doesn’t fucking stop. The table is full, six guys. He's louder than the other five put together, a few glasses of wine past charming. I already know who he is. He isn't difficult to recognize. He’s a property man, plenty of it on the water, richer than Croesus. I’ve seen billboards advertising his company.

"—no, no, she's a hundred and ten feet," he's saying. "Custom. You don't order a boat like that, you commission it. I've got her at Chelsea Piers for the season, best slip on the water, right next to the Meatpacking District with a killer view down toward the Freedom Tower. Ah, it’s great to be on her, better than the duplex penthouse on 57th, I say." He spreads his arms wide. "You should all come out sometime. Bring the wives. I'll have the crew put on the whole show."

One of the others asks him something, happy to keep him going.