Page 69

"I assumed."

"And if you ever move my belongings again without asking, I'll audit you."

"You already threatened that."

"I've upgraded the threat."

"To what?"

"Tax authorities."

I stare at her, and she gives me a cold little smile and turns toward the door.

"Elena."

She stops.

I could apologize. The word is there. So is another one. But neither makes it out.

"Tell me before you go out."

She watches me for a moment, and I wonder if she'll hear the order instead of what I mean.

Then her expression softens by a fraction.

"I will." She turns and leaves.

I remain beside the desk, staring at the closed door. Nothing about this feels like winning. I've spent most of my life believing protection means eliminating variables. Control the territory. Control the information. Control who gets close enough to hurt you. If danger appears, remove it before it reaches the people who matter.

Simple. Efficient. Until Elena.

She doesn't want a fortress if the doors open only when I permit it. She doesn't want safety bought with pieces of herself, and what unsettles me most is that I understand. When she said I couldn't love her by refusing to let her live, I didn't object to the word.

I objected to what it revealed, and that is far more dangerous.

23

Elena

By the following morning, Adrianos and I have reached what I consider a functional compromise.

I tell him when I leave the penthouse. He sends security with me. I pretend not to notice that my driver has shoulders broad enough to stop traffic without the assistance of a vehicle, and Adrianos pretends he has not turned the simple act of buying coffee into a military operation.

My mother still has security. My apartment is still watched. I am still angry about both. But Adrianos asked before making two additional changes this morning, which I consider remarkable personal growth for a man whose natural response to disagreement is apparently to purchase more armed personnel.

More importantly, neither of us has mentioned what I said yesterday.

You cannot love me by refusing to let me live.

The sentence has spent the night haunting me. It was not a declaration. I refuse to classify it as one. It was a hypothetical statement made during an emotionally charged discussion about personal autonomy.

Unfortunately, my brain knows when I'm committing accounting fraud against myself.

I push the thought away and concentrate on the six screens surrounding me.

Numbers are easier.

Numbers don't look at you after you've almost said you love them.