“Consider this a lesson learned.”
I stand. Step back.
Sofia and Elena lift him, keeping the silver chains taut. Nathaniel readies himself, like Damien is going to somehow break free.
Damien writhes against the restraints, but the silver has already weakened him—his movements are sluggish, uncoordinated.
“Please.” The word tears out of him. “Please, Julian. Kill me. Just kill me. Don’t—”
“You wanted me to understand loneliness.” I meet his eyes one last time. “Now you will.”
They carry him to the cliff’s edge.
Damien screams. Curses. Begs. He calls me every name he can think of, cycles through rage and terror and bargaining in the space of seconds. But the words blur together, meaningless noise against the crash of waves below.
“I’m sorry about Katya,” I look him the eye one last time. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save her. I’m sorry you’ve carried that grief alone for so long. But this—” I gesture at the dark water below. “This is what you built. This is what you earned. A hundred and forty-six years of cruelty, and now you get to live with it. Forever.”
“You’ll remember this moment longer than you’ll remember her,” he screams as I nod to Elena and Sofia. “That’s my gift—”
They let go.
Damien falls.
He falls—a dark shape against the brightening sky—and then the water swallows him whole. One splash. A moment of churning foam.
Then nothing.
He’s pulled under. Sinking toward the cold, dark nothing at the bottom of the Atlantic.
Where he’ll stay. Conscious. Aware. Alone.
Forever.
The silence that follows is absolute.
I stand at the edge and watch the surface settle. Watch the sun finally crest the horizon, painting the water gold. Watch the waves continue their eternal rhythm as if nothing has changed.
Somewhere below—far, far below—Damien is sinking. Conscious. Aware. Beginning an eternity of silence and darkness and regret.
“It’s done.” Sofia’s voice is flat. Professional, even though she’s been waiting decades for this moment.
“It’s done,” I agree.
But it doesn’t feel done. It feels like something has been carved out of me—a piece I didn’t know I was still carrying until it was gone.
Elena touches my arm. “Julian. You need to go.”
“I know.”
“The girl is waiting.”
Poppy. Yes. Poppy is waiting in our suite, probably pacing and checking her phone every thirty seconds. Probably driving herself mad with worry.
Poppy, who looked at a monster and saw a man.
Poppy, who chose love over fear.
Poppy, who I almost lost to a grief I didn’t even know existed until it was too late.
