I stabbed the window control and let the glass roll down. Across the street, Lawrence approached Ashley Bailey—Steven’s wife—and handed her a thick envelope.
Dates. Times. Addresses. Receipts.
And just for the hell of it, I added the high-res photos and select video footage of my ex-wife and Steven.
Steven wouldn’t just dump Eris—he’d do it publicly. Loudly. And when Ashley came for half of his assets, I’d be the one to light the cigar.
I even included the name and number of an aggressive divorce attorney in the envelope.
Lawrence jogged back across the road. I stayed parked, watching.
Ashley opened the envelope right there on her doorstep.
I didn’t flinch when her hand flew to her mouth. Didn’t blink when she started to shake.
“Back to the office, sir?” Lawrence asked as he slid into the front seat.
I gave her one last look.
Ashley had begun to cry. Not quietly.
I hit the window button.
“No,” I said. “Let’s call it a day. Home, please.”
The engine purred to life. The glass slid up. And we drove away.
I didn’t take pleasure in this part.
But I meant what I said to Everly.
No one comes after me. Or mine.
And Everly was mine.
I’d dismantle anyone who thought otherwise—piece by fucking piece.
?? ?? ??
Connie was in the kitchen, beating something mercilessly in a silver mixing bowl. The moment I walked in, she looked up, one brow raised like she’d been expecting me.
“Mr Voss,” she said, exasperation creeping into her voice, “Everly has been great today.”
She didn’t need to elaborate. It had become our daily ritual—me showing up at the end of my workday, pretending I wasn’t checking in on Everly.
“If there were a problem, I’d call,” she added, returning to her bowl with another vicious stir.
I grunted and turned to leave.
“She’s in your office,” Connie called after me, not missing a beat. “Probably humming to herself and typing like her life depends on it.”
Of course she was.
Everly had taken to her new role at BLM like she’d been born for it. Neural interface research. Algorithms. Code. All things that gave me a headache but lit her up from the inside. She worked from home most days—my home—and claimed my office as her own. I didn’t mind.
I liked the scent of her lingering in the room.
I liked coming upstairs and seeing her bent over the desk, brows furrowed, tongue peeking out as she focused.
