Every time I close my eyes, I see blood on his shoulder.
The way he winced when I touched him.
The way he looked at me like I was something fragile in a world built to break.
When I finally give up on sleep, the sun is already creeping through the curtains. The penthouse hums softly with the sound of coffee brewing somewhere down the hall.
For a second, I almost feel… normal.
Until I remember where I am.
I pull on jeans and one of the sweaters Nicole brought me, pad barefoot into the hall, and follow the faint murmur of movement.
That's when I find him.
His office door is cracked open. Papers spread across his desk, laptop glowing faintly in the morning light. He's on the phone,sleeves rolled to his elbows, voice low and measured—the kind of calm that sounds dangerous.
He ends the call as I push the door open fully. His gaze flicks up, landing on me.
"You should be resting," he says.
"I'm done resting."
I cross the room, every step pushing against the weight of his authority. "I need to go home."
"No."
The word is sharp, absolute.
I fold my arms. "You can't keep me here forever."
"I can keep you alive."
"I don't need saving!" The words come out louder than I intend, bouncing off the walls. "What I need is my life back."
He leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing. "Your life is the reason someone is trying to put a bullet through you."
"That's not on me," I snap. "That's on whoever's behind this. And I can't find out who it is from a gilded cage!"
His jaw tightens. "You think I like keeping you here? You think this is easy for me?"
"Then let me go."
"I can't." His voice cracks—not loud, but heavy. "Because if you walk out that door, you won't make it a day. You'll disappear into the same hole they buried my wife in."
The words hit like a physical blow.
I can hear it in the way his voice fractures over the word wife that he doesn't normally talk about her. I wonder if he loved her or if their marriage was forThe Family.
I take a step closer, heat flooding my chest. "That's not your choice to make. I'm not her. I'm not your responsibility."
"It isn't about responsibility!" His voice rises, rougher now. "It's about—" He stops himself, drags a hand through his hair, and looks away. "I can't watch someone else die because of my name."
The air between us burns.
He's not angry at me. He's angry at the ghosts he still can't put in the ground.
I shake my head, heart pounding. "You're not protecting me. You're controlling me. Silencing me like everyone else who's tried to make me afraid of the truth."
