But he’d given her his truth. She owed him hers.
“Clive was my mentor. I trusted him completely.”
She stared at the shadows on the wall. The memories felt distant—like they belonged to someone she barely recognized.
“We were developing an engineering algorithm. A predictive model that could adapt in real time.” She hissed out a breath. “The core logic was mine. I shared it with him because I thought that’s what partners did.”
She could still feel that moment—the pride, the certainty, the sense of finally standing on solid ground.
“He went to the investors alone. Used my work. My language.”
A sigh escaped her.
“My idea got a logo before I got a conversation.” Her mouth curved without humor. Bitterness bloomed—sharper than she expected. She thought she’d burned it out years ago.
“I could’ve fought it,” she went on. “Lawyers. Claims. Noise.” She shook her head. “But I was young. And scared. And I thought?—”
“What?” Wyatt asked quietly.
“That maybe he was right. That maybe I wasn’t the idea person. I was just the one who made it work. That the real value wasn’t mine to claim.”
His hand flattened against her ribs—warm and real.
“So I left. Found work as far from him—and from that version of me—as I could get. Seven.” A breath of dry laughter escaped her. “It wasn’t exactly a crowded field of options. But it was contained. Isolated. Predictable.”
Safe.
“I told myself it was a career move. But really, it was an exit route. A place where I didn’t have to defend myself.”
She went quiet.
For a long moment, he didn’t speak. His hand stroked her waist. As if his hands needed to keep touching her while his mind caught up.
“We make sense.” He reached up and smoothed loose hair from her cheek.
“How do you mean?”
“You were taken apart for what you could produce.” He tucked the hair behind her ear. “I was taken apart for what I could do. Different packaging. Same outcome.”
She hadn’t framed it that way before. Hadn’t seen how neatly their stories aligned until he laid them side by side.
“And now,” he continued, voice low, “we’re both here, wondering who we are when nobody’s pulling the strings.”
The truth of it settled in her—uncomfortable but also undeniable.
“Maybe that’s the wrong question,” she said after a beat.
He looked at her. “What’s the right one?”
She shifted closer, her feet bumping his, losing herself in the warmth of him. “Maybe it’s not about what we’re worth. Maybe it’s about who we choose to be.” A small breath. “When there’s no mission. No emergency. Just this.”
His gaze held hers. “And who are you, when it’s just this?”
“I don’t know yet.” A faint smile tugged at her mouth. “But I want to find out.”
“With me?”
“Yes.” The answer came easily. “With you.”
