"I'm not one of your subordinates. I'm not one of your soldiers. We had a deal: I work for you, you help me find Valentina. That deal included me being useful, not being locked up like some…"
"This isn't about the deal."
"Then what is it about?"
He's quiet for a moment. He steps closer, close enough now that I can smell him, that familiar scent of whiskey and old books and something darker underneath. My body responds without my permission, awareness prickling along my skin.
When he speaks again, his voice is lower. Rougher. "I can't watch you get hurt again. I won't."
"So you're going to control what I do instead."
"I'm going to protect you."
"I didn't ask for your protection!"
"You don't have to ask. It's not optional."
The words hit me like a slap. I stare at him, this man who heldme so gently last night, who looked at me like I was something precious, something worth saving. And I see it now, the thing I should have seen from the beginning.
He doesn't see me as a partner. He sees me as something to manage. Something to keep safe in a box where nothing can touch me.
Just like Valentina saw me as something to use.
Different methods. Same result. My choices taken away by someone who decided they knew better.
"Valentina turned me without my consent," I say, and my voice is shaking now. "She took my life, my future, my family, everything I had. And the one thing I had left, the only thing, was deciding what to do with my existence. Who I would be. What I would fight for."
"Celeste."
"And now you're taking that too." I step toward him, anger burning through me, close enough now that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough to see the way his throat moves when he swallows, the way his pupils dilate when I move into his space. "You get to decide where I go. What I do. Whether I'm allowed to take risks. You made yourself my gatekeeper, just like you're the gatekeeper for everyone else in this city."
"That's not…"
"Do you know what the worst part is?" My voice drops, and I watch him flinch like I've struck him. "You told me about Luciano. About what he did to you. How he controlled you, used you, treated you like property instead of a person. You told me that, and then you turned around and did the same thing to me."
He goes very still.
"I am not your property." The words come out hard and sharp. "I am not yours to command. And I am not going to let you lockme away because you're afraid. I've spent my whole life fighting for the right to make my own choices. I won't stop now."
The mask cracks. Whatever he uses to hold himself together, I just shattered it. His eyes are fixed on me, but not seeing me, like he's looking at something far away. Something terrible. The room seems to darken for a moment.
The silence stretches. I wait for him to argue, to defend himself, to tell me I'm being unreasonable.
He doesn't.
Instead, he turns and walks out of the room without a word.
The door closes behind him with a soft click, and I'm alone.
I stand there for a long moment, staring at the door, waiting for him to come back.
He doesn't.
"What the hell?" I say to the empty room.
I expected a fight. Expected him to push back, to explain himself, to give me something to rage against. Instead, he just... left. Like I'd struck him, and he didn't know how to respond.
I replay the conversation in my head. The apology that almost landed. The moment I felt myself softening, wanting to believe we could fix this. Then the benching, like my autonomy, was something he could grant or revoke at will.
