Page 136 of The Tower

“Morning,” I reply, moving to the table where he’s laid out a spread that reminds me painfully of our time together—croissants, fresh berries with cream, coffee in my favorite mug.

I take my seat, noticing that he’s put my note at the center of the table. Have breakfast waiting, and we’ll talk - S

I look at him—really look at him—for the first time since Maya dropped her bomb. He’s lost weight, making the angles of his face sharper, more pronounced. I see shadows under his eyes, too, evidence of more than a few sleepless nights.

I want to pull him close and hold him tight, but I force myself to stay put. I’m still not sure if what I need can mesh with what he’s capable of giving.

We eat in silence for a few moments, the tension between us so thick I almost feel I should add a third place-setting.

Finally, I’m unable to take the silence any longer. “Why Killiam?” I ask. “Of all the ways you could have interacted with me in Elysium, why choose to become the prince who Vale loved?”

He doesn’t flinch from the question, though I see the effort it costs him to maintain his composure. “It wasn’t planned,” he says. “I’d been in there for months, watching you build this incredible world, seeing who you were when you thought no one was looking, and realizing I liked that woman.” He draws a breath, lifts one shoulder in a tiny shrug. “I wanted to know you—not the woman your father let the world see. And in Elysium, you were real in a way you couldn’t be anywhere else.”

“So you manipulated me. You used Elysium to learn what I wanted, what I fantasized about, and you used what you learned to become closer and closer to me. To Vale.”

“Yes. It was selfish and invasive and wrong. And that’s exactly what I did.”

The straightforward acknowledgment both surprises and disarms me.

“When did it change? When did it become more than surveillance?”

His brow furrows as he considers the question. “I’m not sure there was a single moment. It was gradual—seeing your creativity, your resilience, your determination to create something beautiful despite being trapped. I started looking forward to our meetings in Elysium more than I should have. And I started thinking about you even when I wasn’t monitoring the system.”

“Me? Or Vale?”

He meets my eyes. “I was learning that there isn’t much difference.”

I look away, because he’s right.

“And after?” I say, once I’ve gathered myself. “When you took me from the gala and demanded everything as payment—was that just an extension of the game? Another way to possess me?”

“At first, maybe. I told myself it was about revenge, about using you against your father. But Sasha,” he says as he leans forward, “from the moment you were actually in my life—the real you, not Vale—nothing went according to plan. You weren’t what I expected. You were … more. Hell, Princess, you were everything to me. You are everything.”

His words melt me a little, which is why I lash out, my voice sharpened by the pain in my heart. “You lied, dammit. Every day, every moment we were together, you knew this massive truth about us—about our connection—and you didn’t say a thing.”

“I was afraid,” he admits, clutching his napkin like a life raft. “I’ve been through all kinds of hell in my life, and there’s nothing I haven’t faced down. But you fucking terrified me.”

I shake my head, not understanding.

“Dammit, don’t you get it? I was afraid that if you knew, you’d leave. That you’d never be able to look at me without seeing the violation. And since I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you, what choice did I have but to stay silent?”

“Even if that meant our relationship was based on lies?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t attempt to soften or excuse it. “I did that. And I have to live with it, whether you forgive me or not.”

We fall silent again, the weight of truth hanging heavy between us. I study him across the table, this man who has been both my jailer and my liberator, my deceiver and my protector. The contradictions seem impossible to reconcile.

“I don’t know if I can trust you again,” I say honestly, unable to look at him. “I want to,” I say to the tabletop, “but I don’t know if I can.”

“I know.” His voice is rough with emotion. “I won’t blame you if you can’t.”

I lift my head, drawn to look at him by the intensity of his voice. “But if you give me the chance, I will spend every day proving that what we found in Tribeca and locked down in Connecticut was real. That what I feel for you is real, regardless of how it began.”

There it is—the question that’s been haunting me since Maya’s revelation. Was any of it real? The connection, the understanding, the sense of finally being truly seen?

“I want to show you something,” I say, making a decision. I stand, then lead him into my studio. I cross to an easel in the corner, removing the cloth that covers my most recent work. It’s a painting of the Connecticut house, rendered in oils with painstaking detail—the glass and stone gleaming in morning light, the forest surrounding it in vibrant greens and golds.

“You painted this?” he asks, genuine surprise in his voice.