Somewhere down the line between hooking up with Roxy and seeking my revenge, I started to care.
About her.
It snuck up on me without my realizing.
And now?
I’m left without access to Lock’s intel—not that I ever had that in the first place—and in this weird limbo in my relationship with her.
Marry me.
I want to. An unexpected development for sure.
Why, though?
The question has been playing on a loop in my head. The answer is too obvious, and too elusive.
Why? Because I want her to want to marry me. And that’s as far from her motivation as possible.
It’s also fucking confusing, because I never imagined myself as a married man.
The only woman who got close to breaking that determination looks fragile in the large hospital bed. Not talking to me.
Roxy Moretti Lock has been betrayed by all the men in her life, and now, I have become one of them. The realization sits heavy on my chest.
The only thing I ever wished for was to break free from him.
I threatened that. Not deliberately. Not with cruelty. But she still believes she has to sacrifice her career to save her sister. Still believes her only currency is herself.
And I put her in that position.
The bag of electrolytes hangs beside the hospital bed, half-empty now, dripping steadily into her vein. The quiet rhythm of it feels accusatory. Clinical. Measured. A slow correction of the damage I helped cause.
Some color has returned to her cheeks. The gray has receded. I can breathe again. Barely.
But relief doesn’t erase what’s underneath.
I am not used to feeling this way. Unsteady.Reactive. As if something vital has slipped beyond my control.
My entire plan was precise. Calculated. And it detonated the moment she walked into it.
A thirst for revenge would only keep me connected to him. I don’t want to give him so much power.
Roxy’s words settle somewhere deeper than I want them to. This hatred has been my compass for so long that I don’t recognize the landscape without it.
I thought I was severing the tie. Instead, I was reinforcing it. Every move I made was still about him. Still orbiting his shadow.
I told myself I was dismantling him. In reality, I’ve let him define me. If I let it go, what remains? Who remains?
I look at her.
Pale, stubborn, too proud. Definitely smarter than me. More grounded. More free. I nearly took that from her.
The thought lands with a clarity that feels almost violent. If I continue down this path, I don’t just lose her.
I become him. The distinction matters more than I expected.
Because this woman—this infuriating, relentless woman—is forcing me to confront the possibility that there is something more important than winning.
