Third floor. The studio door was open.
Zeir stood at the window, phone in hand, still wearing the suit from the press conference—charcoal, no tie, collar unbuttoned. The bruise on his jaw from the break-in had yellowed to green. The cut on his side was hidden beneath layers of expensive fabric, but she knew it was there. She’d pressed a cotton pad against it herself.
He turned when she came through the door. His expression shifted—relief first, then the rapid recalculation of a man who recognized incoming fire.
Smart man.
“You made a public statement about MY career without consulting me.”
He started to speak.
“I wasn’t finished.” She crossed the room. “You staked your company’s reputation. Your personal credibility. On MY originality. Without asking me. Without a phone call. Withouta text. You went to a podium and spoke for me like I’m a subsidiary.”
“You’re right.”
“I’m not finished being angry.”
“Take your time.”
“You don’t get to be reasonable right now.” Her voice rose. “I came here to FIGHT and you’re agreeing with me. That’s not how this works.”
“How does it work?”
“You’re supposed to be wrong so I can yell at you!”
“I am wrong. Yell at me.”
Her mouth opened. Closed. She’d come here armed. Loaded with fury, rehearsed arguments, the righteous momentum of a thirty-four-minute subway ride. She’d expected a fight—his ego against her autonomy, his resources against her independence. She’d prepared for that.
She hadn’t prepared forI am wrong. Yell at me.
The fury cracked. Not in half—down the center, straight through, the way ice fractures when heat finds the fault line. Because Mika had shown up without knocking. Keanu had called before she’d asked. She’d expected them. They were hers. They’d been hers for years.
But this man—this man she’d known for weeks, who published villains and wore black like a religion and growled at coworkers in Hawaiian shirts—had stood at a podium in front of cameras and staked his name on hers. Without being asked. Without obligation. Without the history that earned the right to fight for her.
Her vision blurred.
Not a sob. Not a collapse. Her throat constricted and her eyes burned and two tears tracked down her cheeks before she could stop them. She pressed the heel of her hand against her mouth.
Not here. Not in front of him. Not?—
He crossed the distance. Not fast—deliberate. His arms came around her and he pulled her against his chest. No announcement. No asking if this was okay. He just did it. One arm across her back. One hand cradling the back of her head. He didn’t speak. Didn’t shush her. Didn’t tell her it was going to be okay.
He didn’t move.
She buried herself in the expensive fabric of his press-conference suit and breathed in: cedar, warmth, the faint sharp edge of whatever aftershave a billionaire alpha wore to defend a woman’s career on national media. Her hands fisted in the lapels of his jacket. The tears were silent—four, five, six—soaking into charcoal wool.
Three years ago, I sat on my couch and watched it happen alone. Mika came after. Keanu came after. Nobody stood at a podium.
Her breathing steadied. She stayed there. His heartbeat was slow and even against her ear. The contrast between her chaos and his calm was maddening and grounding in equal measure.
“I’m not going down without a fight this time.” Her voice was muffled against his chest.
His arm tightened. “No. You’re not.”
“And I’m not fighting alone.”
“No.” His chin rested on the top of her head. “You’re not.”
