NOT OVER ME YET, ARE YOU?

IMANI ANDERS

VIXA VAUGHN

COPYRIGHT

Copyright © 2024 by Vixa Vaughn

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No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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1

ZAHARAH

Idon’t look back when the car pulls away from JFK.

New York’s skyline stabs the horizon like jagged teeth. It’s a city built on steel and secrets, and right now, I feel both pressing into my spine. The cab’s leather seat creaks beneath me as I adjust, smoothing down the front of my blouse like it’ll iron out the tension coiled in my gut.

Six years. That’s how long it’s been since I left this city. Six years since I buried everything I ever felt for Julian Cross under layers of work, motherhood, and silence. And now here I am again, back on his turf—invited, apparently, by an anonymous client who’s paying top dollar for a forensic audit. I almost turned it down. Almost.

But bills don’t wait. And my son? He deserves more than just almost.

The firm gave me nothing but the address. Midtown office tower, floor thirty-two. Private client, high discretion. No names. Which is why my heart is still thudding against my ribs as the elevator dings open.

I step into the lobby and freeze. I know that voice.

It hits me like a punch to the chest—smooth, deep, clipped at the edges. Julian’s voice. Laughing. Talking. Alive in this damn building like the past never touched him. And for a moment, I can’t move. My knees threaten betrayal. My lungs forget what they’re supposed to do.

I manage to step forward, the click of my heels echoing like gunshots across the marble. The receptionist looks up.

“Ms. Bryant?” she asks, eyes scanning her screen.

“Yes.” My voice is steady, but only because I’ve trained it to be.

“Mr. Cross is expecting you.”

My stomach turns. No. No, no, no. Julian Cross. It’s really him.

I should walk out right now. Turn around, take the elevator, get back in the cab and fly home to Atlanta. But I don’t. Because I’m not that girl anymore. And because I need to know why.

The door to his office is already cracked open when I reach it.

He’s standing by the window, city light throwing sharp shadows across his frame. Tall. Crisp. Impossibly familiar. Devastatingly handsome. My throat tightens.

“Zahara.” He says my name like a prayer and a curse.

I square my shoulders. “Julian.”

Silence stretches. Thick. Tense. He turns, and I catch the flicker in his eyes—shock, guilt, something darker.

“You didn’t know it was me,” he says. Statement, not question.

“No.”

“I didn’t think you’d come if you did.” He’s right. And he knows it.

My bag slides from my shoulder to the floor. “What is this?”

“We need an audit.” He motions to the table, where a stack of files waits. “I need you to look into some numbers. Offshore accounts. Shipping routes. Quietly.”

“And you thought hiring your ex-girlfriend for that would be the best idea?” I snap.

His jaw tightens. “You’ve always been the best.” The room stills. My heart hammers. I want to scream. I want to run. But I do what I always do—I look at the facts.

He’s hiding something. That much is clear. And I’m already here.

I grab the first file and flip it open, my hands steady even though my blood’s on fire.

“You’ll get your audit,” I say. “But don’t confuse this for forgiveness.” He nods once. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But his eyes say otherwise.

I shake my head, not ready to unwrap old wounds. “I didn’t come here for answers. I came to work. Let’s stick to that.”

He nods, face unreadable. “Fine.”

Julian walks to the desk and pushes the folders toward me. “These are offshore accounts tied to our humanitarian division. Something’s off. Transfers that don’t match product logs. Money disappearing between shell companies. I’ve tried to follow the trail, but someone’s burying it deep.”

I open the top folder. Numbers jump out at me—dates, amounts, coordinates. My comfort zone. My shield.

“Who else knows?” I ask, flipping pages.

“Only Elliot. And now you.”

The mention of his COO tightens something in my chest. Elliot was always loyal to Julian—to a fault. If he's involved, things might be worse than they seem.

Julian watches me like he’s trying to read my mind. “You’ve always seen what others miss.”

I look up slowly. “Maybe. But back then, seeing got me nothing but heartbreak.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. That silence is louder than any apology.

“Where do I work?” I ask.

He gestures down the hall. “You’ll have your own office. No surveillance. No interference. You run this your way.”

I pause, studying him. There’s a tiredness in his eyes that wasn’t there before. Fine lines around his mouth. Something hardened. But he still looks too good in that damn suit.

I gather the folders, slipping them into my bag. “I’ll start tomorrow.”

He steps forward, suddenly close. The scent of him—clean, woodsy, dangerously familiar—wraps around me.

“I meant it, Zahara. I need your help. Not because of the past. Because people’s lives might be on the line.”

My chest tightens. He always knew how to say the right thing at the worst time.

“You want the audit?” I say. “You’ll get it. But that’s all you get.”

I turn before he can answer, heels echoing on the marble floor. The elevator doors part, and I step in without looking back.

But as they close, I feel his eyes on me—burning, begging, maybe even bleeding. And damn it, I still feel it, too.

2

JULIAN

The moment she walks in, I forget how to breathe.

From behind the tinted glass of my office, I catch her before she sees me—moving like the storm she’s always been. Controlled, quiet, dangerous. Her heels strike marble like they own it. Her suit is gray, sharp as hell, tailored to a body that’s always looked like poetry in motion. Hair twisted into that sleek bun I used to unwind with my hands, eyes scanning the lobby like she’s prepping for battle.

Zahara.

She doesn’t belong here anymore. Or maybe it’s me who doesn’t.

The lobby light catches her skin—golden brown and glowing despite the sharpness in her features. She’s tighter now. Leaner. No softness left in her shoulders. I don’t know what I expected. But seeing her again? It cracks something open that I’ve been sealing shut for seven goddamn years.

I step away from the window. I need to pull myself together. This isn’t about the past.

It’s about what’s coming.

The door opens before I can settle the storm inside me. I don’t turn right away. I know it’s her by the way the air changes. Static. Heavy. Charged.

“Zahara.”

Her name feels like smoke in my mouth. Familiar. Dangerous.

“Julian.”

Just my name. No inflection. Not even a pause. She might as well have slapped me.

When I face her, she’s already dropped her bag at the edge of the chair. I can see it—she’s bracing. Every line of her body drawn tight, ready to bolt or bite.

“You didn’t know it was me,” I say. I already know the answer, but I need to hear it in her voice.

“No.”

“I didn’t think you’d come if you did.”

She doesn’t bother to deny it. Her eyes narrow just slightly. She’s reading me, calculating. Still so damn sharp.

I gesture toward the folders. “There are anomalies. Transfers that don’t match logs. Offshore accounts tied to humanitarian shipping routes that don’t check out. I’ve followed what I can, but something—or someone—is covering tracks I can’t trace.”

Zahara lifts her chin. “You could’ve hired anyone.”

“I had to have the best.”

Her lips press together. That flicker in her eyes—it’s not flattery. It’s fury barely leashed. She knows why she’s here. She’s not stupid.

“Why now?” she asks.

I shift, leaning against the desk. I’ve rehearsed this part.

“Because I’ve run out of options. And because you’re the only one I trust to do this right. No compromises. No political games.”

Her laugh is sharp and humorless. “You trust me.”

“I do.”

She crosses her arms, and the file remains unopened on the table.

“You disappeared on me. Ghosted me after I handed you evidence your father’s company was laundering money through illegal channels. You didn’t even look at me. And now I’m supposed to believe you’re suddenly trying to do the right thing?”

I take a step forward, then stop. “I never stopped trying to do the right thing. I just... couldn’t explain everything. Not then.”

“Then don’t expect me to care now.”

It’s like a punch in the throat. But I take it.

“I didn’t bring you here for closure,” I say finally. “I brought you here because this goes deeper than even I thought. Something’s coming. And if I’m right, it could get a lot of people hurt.”

That gets her attention.

She glances at the file, her fingers twitch like she wants to grab it but won’t give me the satisfaction.

“You think someone’s stealing from the company?”

“I think someone’s using it. For something darker. I’ve tried to follow the money trail, but it’s always a dead end. Shell corporations, blind trusts, routing numbers that bounce through five countries before disappearing.”

“And now you want me to sweep your mess?”

“I want you to find the truth. If I’m wrong, you’ll know it. If I’m right, we’ll need proof before the people involved realize how close we are.”

Silence stretches long between us.

“You’ll have a private office,” I add. “No surveillance. No interference. You’ll work your way. I won’t even ask what you’re looking at unless you tell me.”

She finally picks up the folder. Flips it open. Her eyes flick across the numbers.

“Who else knows about this?”

“Just you. And Elliot.”

She lifts a brow. “Elliot still works here?”

“He’s COO.”

She hums, unimpressed. “Still loyal?”

“I think so.”

“You think.” She closes the folder, and suddenly the wall’s back up.

“I’ll start tomorrow,” she says.

She grabs the folder and starts toward the door. I want to stop her. I want to say something that matters. But all I manage is her name.

“Zahara—”

She turns, fast and clean.

“This is just work. Nothing more. Don’t get it twisted.”

And then she’s gone. Just like that.

I walk to the window and watch her disappear into the elevator. When the doors close, it feels like the room loses color.

This is going to destroy me.

3

ZAHARA

The office is too nice.

That’s the first thing I think when I walk in and shut the door behind me. It's all glass walls and matte black surfaces, with sleek ergonomic furniture and subtle art that looks expensive but not loud. Every inch of it screams curated minimalism—strategic comfort. Which makes me even more uncomfortable.

Julian’s touch is all over it. And that makes my skin itch.

I walk around slowly, absorbing. The view is incredible—high enough to feel like you’re looking down on the world. Manhattan spreads out beneath me, slick and sharp and humming with a thousand lies. I haven’t lived in this city for years, but somehow, it still knows how to make my spine tighten.

The desk is massive. Clean. A monitor already hooked up, login waiting. There’s even a plant in the corner, one of those low-maintenance green things that are supposed to make you feel calm and cared for. I side-eye it like it might be bugged.

Dropping my bag onto the chair, I begin unpacking. Laptop. Notebook. Pen. The file folder Julian gave me, worn at the corners already. Then the small silver picture frame. My son’s face smiles up at me from last weekend’s birthday photo. He’s missing one front tooth and grinning like it’s a superpower.

I stare at the photo for a long second. Then flip it face down. A knock at the door makes me stiffen.

I school my features and turn. A young woman steps in—tall, clean-cut, auburn hair in a low ponytail, smart pantsuit. Her ID badge reads “Ava.” She’s holding a tablet and a cautious smile.

“Hi, Ms. Bryant. I’m Ava. Mr. Cross asked me to assist you while you’re here—logistics, tech, access, whatever you need.”

I nod slowly, sizing her up. She’s good. Calm. Efficient. Probably handpicked. Julian would never leave anything to chance.

“Appreciate it,” I say. “I’ll need unrestricted access to their philanthropic ledger files, shipping manifests for the last 24 months, and internal transfer memos across all humanitarian branches.”

Ava raises a brow, clearly impressed but doesn’t miss a beat. “I can get you started right away. Some files are air-gapped, so you’ll need a clearance badge and escorted access for the vault server.”

Of course I will. She moves to the desk and taps the tablet, pulling up a login screen. “You’ve already been granted level three clearance. Mr. Cross said to let you work freely, but I can run interference if anything slows you down.”

Julian said that. I keep my face neutral. “Good. The less I have to explain, the better.”

She smiles faintly, tilting her head like she’s testing something. “So... you used to work with Mr. Cross before?”

I meet her gaze evenly. “A long time ago.” She nods once, clearly catching the signal to back off. But not before she adds, “He doesn’t let many people in. Not really. So… whatever this is, it must matter.”

I don’t answer. I just lift the folder and flip it open, eyes already moving over the first line of figures.

Let her wonder. Let them all wonder. My secrets aren’t for public consumption.

The moment Ava leaves, I finally exhale.

I sink into the chair and pull the file back toward me, flipping open the manila cover. The numbers are neat, but I already see the mess hiding between the lines. Cross International’s so-called “humanitarian branch” has layers—too many. Immediate red flag. Most companies don’t need three holding accounts for one relief shipment.

I pull out a pen and start mapping connections on my notepad. Transfers routed through subsidiaries with vague names, dates that don’t match shipping logs, donor funds that vanish after the third relay.

Someone’s laundering money through their own fake generosity.

Julian wasn’t exaggerating. This isn’t just messy accounting—it’s deliberate obfuscation. A shell game. I’ve seen it before, and I’ll see it again. But this? This reeks of something more.

I pause. My pen hovers above a line item labeled "MaraHealth Shipments – Nairobi."

Kenya.

That’s where Julian interned after Yale. I remember how alive he sounded when he talked about it, how furious he got when he realized how exploited the system was.

Is that why he brought me back? Because it leads there? Or is this still just about covering his ass?

My head aches already. I rub my temples, close my eyes for half a second. And just like that, I’m back there—seven years ago, bent over another spreadsheet, heart racing, piecing together a quiet trail of crime... and watching the man I loved choose silence instead of standing beside me.

It had started with a slip—one mistyped vendor name. A small thing. But it led me to a trail I couldn’t ignore. And when I brought it to him, expecting outrage, unity... he gave me distance instead.

He didn't fight me. He didn't fight for me. Just a cold, professional “Leave it alone.”

I open my eyes and push the memory down like it’s smoke I can fan away.

I’ve rebuilt my life around not feeling that kind of betrayal again. I’ve raised a son in silence, determined to keep him safe—from this, from all of that. The corporate web. The blood ties. The rot.

I reach over and pull the photo frame back into view, staring at my son’s bright eyes, his dimpled grin.

“I’m doing this for you,” I whisper.

Then I flip the frame facedown again. That part of me has to stay hidden. For now.

A light knock breaks the silence, and Ava steps back in, holding a small envelope and a new keycard.

“Your access badge,” she says, placing it gently on the desk. “Also, Mr. Cross asked me to bring you this.”

I hesitate before picking up the envelope. Inside is a clean, impersonal memo—logins, clearance levels, server hours. But at the bottom, Julian’s handwriting curves out a short line:

“Let me know if you need backup. You’re not alone in this.” – J.

The paper crackles in my hand.

“Everything okay?” Ava asks carefully.

“Fine,” I say. “Just... dense files.”

She hesitates, like she might press, but instead offers a professional smile. “If you need coffee or a break, the espresso machine’s on the far end. Word of warning though—it’s temperamental. Like most people here.”

I smirk, despite myself. “Thanks, Ava.”

Before she leaves, she pauses in the doorway. “He’s looked like hell for months, you know. Since before you came back.”

I don’t respond.

When she’s gone, I stare at the facedown photo again. My fingers itch to pick it up. To stare at the one person who matters more than any truth Julian Cross is hiding.

But instead, I reach for the next file.

And I keep going.

4

JULIAN

Ispent half an hour rewriting the damn message before I sent it. “Dinner to discuss the audit plan. Neutral ground. Strictly professional.”

I had to make it sound clinical, strategic. Had to give her zero reason to think it was anything more than logistics. But let’s be honest—it was always more than logistics.

Now I’m sitting in the far corner of Bellamy’s, a quiet, wood-paneled place I know she used to like. Not flashy. Not romantic. Just intimate enough for a conversation that might cut deeper than either of us wants to admit.

The waiter refills my water. I check the time. She’s three minutes late—not enough to worry me, but just enough to make my heart race.

She said yes. I didn’t expect her to. Hell, I wouldn’t have blamed her if she ignored the message altogether. But she agreed, and now I’m here—wearing my most neutral suit, tie slightly loosened, trying to look like I’m not unraveling inside.

The hostess appears at the edge of my vision, leading her in. The rest of the room fades.

She walks like she owns the air around her—calm, composed, eyes scanning the room like a goddamn assassin. Her dress is simple but tailored, dark green with long sleeves and a neckline that does something to my breathing. Hair down, loose curls resting against her shoulders.

But it’s her face that gets me. Set like stone. No softness. No smile. Just cool detachment.

I stand as she approaches. “Zahara.” She nods once. “Julian.”

That’s it. No warmth. No hint of the woman I once knew. I gesture to her chair and wait for her to sit before taking mine.

“Thanks for agreeing to this,” I say.

She opens the menu without looking at me. “Let’s keep it efficient.”

Right. All business.

“I thought Bellamy’s would be quiet enough to talk.”

She shrugs, eyes still on the menu. “Didn’t come for the ambiance.”

A pause stretches between us, taut and heavy. I reach for my water, mostly to do something with my hands. She doesn’t fidget. She doesn’t glance around. She’s calm in the way bombs are calm before they go off.

I know this woman. I don’t know this version of her. And somehow, that’s even harder.

She closes the menu, sets it down, and finally looks at me. Her gaze doesn’t waver.

“Let’s get to it. What do you need from me, Julian?” It’s not hostility in her voice. It’s worse. It’s indifference. And it’s a damn blade through the center of my chest.

I clear my throat and lean forward just enough to feel engaged without pushing. She’s not giving me much room.

“I reviewed the files again this morning,” I say. “It looks like the discrepancies are centered in the Kenya and Colombia branches. But I’m sure you’ve already seen that.”

Zahara nods once, folding her hands in her lap. “Yes. The shipping dates and donation logs don’t match, and the third-party routing through shell accounts feels deliberate. It’s not a bookkeeping error.”

Her tone is clipped. Efficient. Like she’s reading off a checklist in her head. I try to break the rhythm.

“I remember you used to color-code your audit notes by category. Still do that?”

She looks at me flatly. “We’re not here to talk about my methods.”

Right.

“Of course,” I say, adjusting my silverware unnecessarily. “I only meant—you’ve always had a system. It works.”

She doesn't respond. Just sips her water and lets the silence do the heavy lifting.

The waiter arrives with wine—one I ordered because I remembered it used to be her favorite. She doesn’t acknowledge it. Doesn’t ask what it is. Just lets him pour a glass, then stares at it like she might need it to tolerate the next hour.

I shift again, more out of nerves than comfort. “I want you to know I’m serious about this, Zahara. The audit. I’m not trying to fix a PR issue—I’m trying to uncover the rot.”

She meets my eyes, her expression unreadable. “You’ve said that. Let’s hope your follow-through matches your words this time.”

I swallow hard. Her words aren’t cruel. They’re precise. Surgical. Like she’s not here to wound—she’s here to ensure I feel every ounce of the damage I caused.

I reach for the wine, more out of habit than desire, and for a split second my gaze catches on the way her fingers rest against the stem of her glass. That tiny detail drags me under—straight into a memory I didn’t ask for.

Her hand in mine, years ago, soft with warmth and laughter. Late night, our kitchen, music playing low. Her fingers tracing the edge of my collarbone as she whispered something about never wanting to lose this…

I blink, and the warmth is gone. Now she’s all lines and angles and practiced restraint. But she’s watching me.

“Where’d you go just now?” she asks, voice too calm.

I set my glass down. “Nowhere.”

She tilts her head, just slightly. “You always did that. Disappear when things got real.”

I breathe through the ache building in my chest. “Sometimes it was the only way I knew how to stay in one piece.”

She raises her eyebrows but says nothing. That silence again—so loud it rings.

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you back then,” I say, voice low. “You have to know that.” She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t soften. She just looks at me like she’s staring at a locked door she has no intention of opening.

“I know what you were trying to do,” she says. “But what you did—that’s the part I had to live with.” The illusion of progress vanishes.

I lean back, defeated. I’ve come here trying to talk around the edges of what I wanted to say. And she’s reminding me—she lived through it. I just walked away.

I set my silverware down, push the plate away, and finally let the wall drop a little. Just enough.

“I know this isn’t easy,” I say. “Working together again. Seeing each other. But I meant it when I said I trust you. That hasn’t changed.”

Her fingers still against her wine glass. A subtle shift. Her eyes flicker for half a second—but she masks it quickly. Too quickly. She exhales, slow and deliberate. “Trust is a big word for someone who couldn’t give me the truth when it mattered.”

I nod, because what else is there to do? “You’re right.”

Silence again. She reaches for the folder she brought and begins organizing her notes, like that conversation never even happened. Like I’m just another client who got too personal during a project meeting.

But I don’t back down yet. I lean in, voice low. “Do you hate me?”

She freezes. Then slowly looks up. “You think this is about hate?”

“I think it’s about pain.”

She considers that. Her expression shifts—so subtly, most people wouldn’t catch it. But I do. She’s tired. Tired of fighting me. Tired of not fighting me. Tired of pretending like we can do this dance without stepping on everything we used to be.

She gathers her things, straightens in her seat. “This is about getting answers, Julian. Nothing more.”

And that is the final shut of the door.

We walk out in silence.

Outside, the evening has cooled, city lights bouncing off wet pavement. The valet pulls her car around, sleek and black like her exit strategy.

I open the door for her without speaking.

“Thanks for dinner,” she says, voice flat. “The food was fine.”

“Glad to hear it,” I murmur, standing just inches from her but feeling miles away.

She adjusts her coat. Pauses. Then finally meets my gaze again.

There’s something there. Not forgiveness. Not warmth. But not indifference either. She gets in without another word.

But just before the door closes, she says quietly, “Don’t expect me to forget.”

Then she’s gone.

The car disappears into the stream of traffic, taillights glowing red like a warning I didn’t heed fast enough.

And I stand there, alone, fists in my coat pockets, replaying every second of the night—every word I said that didn’t land, every truth I was too late in offering.

I tried to be professional. I tried to be honest. I tried not to feel anything.

And I failed at all of it.

5

ZAHARA

The door clicks softly behind me as I step back into my office, and since the staff meeting ended, I let my shoulders drop a fraction. It’s not relief. Not even close. Just a pause—a tight breath between rounds.

The meeting was exactly what I expected: polished agendas, performative nods, and too many eyes flickering in my direction like I was a test they hadn’t studied for. Half of them avoided me altogether. The other half watched too closely.

I toss my notepad on the desk, flip it open to a fresh page, and start writing in quick, clean loops:

Ava – poised, efficient. Tense around Elliot.

Marcus – defensive posture, eyes darted when procurement came up.

Elliot – composed, overcompensating with false ease. Running something.

I don’t know what it is yet, but I can feel it in my bones. There’s rot underneath the marble floors and stainless steel smiles. The numbers told me something was wrong. The room just confirmed it.

I push back from the desk and rub my temples. My headache is setting in early today—no surprise. I barely slept last night, and when I did, it wasn’t restful. Images of Julian’s eyes across the dinner table—searching, full of things I wasn’t ready to hear—flickered behind my lids like a reel stuck on loop.

I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment. Just long enough to push him out. Then there’s a knock.

Or more accurately—there’s the suggestion of a knock. One sharp tap, then the soft click of my door opening before I can answer.

Julian steps inside like it’s his right. Like this space belongs to him too.

He’s ditched the tie from earlier, rolled his shirtsleeves up like he’s ready to get his hands dirty. His jacket’s slung over one arm, and there's a familiar tension in the set of his shoulders—like he’s trying to pretend this is casual, but his body didn’t get the memo.

“I figured you’d be in here already.”

“Clearly.” I don’t look up from my notepad. “Guess we’re not doing the whole wait-to-be-invited thing today.”

“I knocked.”

I lift my eyes, arch one brow. “You barely paused.”

He has the decency to look half-guilty, half-smug. It’s irritating. He moves further into the room, placing his jacket on the back of the visitor’s chair like this is going to take more than a minute.

“I wanted to get your read on the meeting,” he says. “Thought you might’ve picked up on something I missed.”

I fold my hands in front of me. “You mean besides the fact that half your senior team couldn’t make eye contact and the other half looked like they were praying I’d disappear?”

Julian exhales a sharp, almost-laugh. “So… you noticed that too.”

“It wasn’t subtle.”

His eyes meet mine across the desk. “No, it wasn’t.”

The pause stretches longer this time—not tense, exactly, but expectant. He’s not just here for a debrief. And we both know it.

“Zahara,” he says, a little quieter now. “Can I sit?”

I should say no. Instead, I nod once. “Two minutes.” The door that was cracked open swings a little wider.

Julian settles into the chair across from me like he owns the silence between us.

“I’ve been thinking about Elliot,” he says, drumming his fingers once against the desk. “You clocked something, didn’t you?”

I don’t answer right away. Instead, I tap the cap of my pen against the pad, watching him. He’s watching me right back.

“He’s too clean,” I finally say. “Too confident for someone whose department has the highest volume of missing documentation.”

Julian leans back slightly. “So you’re saying he’s hiding something.”

“I’m saying he’s practiced at pretending he isn’t.”

He lets that settle, then nods, slow and deliberate. “You always had a sharp read on people.” I bristle. There it is—that line again. A compliment dressed like observation. A lure. I’ve seen it too many times, worn it too many ways.

“I’m good at my job,” I say coolly. “That’s why I’m here.”

He shifts, eyes narrowing slightly. “That’s the only reason?”

And there it is. The edge. The unspoken tension lacing itself tighter between every word.

“I agreed to audit your company. Not your personal history,” I say, voice flatter now, harder.

Julian’s jaw tightens. “It’s not that simple.”

“It never was,” I shoot back. “But we’re not here to complicate things, remember?”

His silence says more than his words ever could.

I stand and move to the window just to put space between us. My reflection stares back—calm on the outside, screaming underneath. I cross my arms.

“You wanted a read on your staff?” I say without turning. “Here it is: they don’t trust each other. Which means they probably have a good reason not to trust you either.”

He doesn't deny it. Doesn’t defend himself. Instead, he stands. Which brings us to the moment everything tilts.

I feel him behind me before I hear him. One step, maybe two—and then he’s close. Not too close, but close enough that I can feel the heat off his skin.

“Why are you so angry with me?” he asks softly.

I turn slowly, keeping my expression neutral. “You really have to ask?”

“I do,” he says. “Because I think about it every day, and I still don’t know how to make it right.”

There’s no mask in his voice now. No polish. Just raw honesty, scratched at the edges. And damn him—my chest tightens.

“You can’t make it right, Julian.”

We’re inches apart now. He glances down—at my mouth. Just for a second. But it’s long enough to shift something between us.

My breathing stills. I don’t mean for it to. And then—his hand lifts. Slow. Intentional. Not to touch me, not quite, but to reach past me toward a file on the windowsill. Except… he doesn’t grab the file.

His hand brushes mine. The contact is light. Accidental. But my body lights up like a fuse was struck.

We both freeze. Eyes lock. The air crackles, thick and wild and completely untamable.

And for half a heartbeat, I forget the past. The silence. The years.

For half a heartbeat, I lean in.

Then my body rebels—snaps back.

“No,” I say, more forcefully than I mean to.

I take a full step away. Then another. My arms fold again, this time like armor.

“I can’t.”

He doesn’t chase me. Doesn’t apologize. He just watches, wounded and still, like a man staring down a door that slammed in his face.

And maybe that’s exactly what just happened.

Julian doesn’t say a word as I return to my desk, slowly, deliberately, trying to collect pieces of myself I didn’t even realize were slipping.

He’s still by the window, jaw tight, fists buried deep in his pockets like he’s holding back more than he should.

I keep my back straight, my face blank, but my heart’s beating too loud in my ears. That near-moment between us? I feel it in my stomach. In the shake of my fingers. In the shame heating the skin on my neck.

“I need to get back to work,” I say, not looking at him. “We both do.”

He turns toward the door. Pauses. And I swear, for a second, I think he’s going to push back—say something reckless, something honest. But he doesn’t.

“Right,” he murmurs. “Of course.”

The door opens. Then closes behind him, quiet as a sigh.

And I’m alone.

I stay still for a beat. Then walk over to the door, locking it. My hand lingers on the knob for a second longer than it should.

I go back to my chair and sit down slowly, like my body doesn’t quite know how to move anymore. The room is too quiet now. Too still.

I turn toward the monitor, but I’m not reading. Not really. My eyes are on the screen, but all I see is the heat in his eyes—just before we crossed a line we couldn’t uncross.

I whisper into the silence, “Get it together.” And then I bury myself in numbers. In spreadsheets. In cold facts that don’t need heartbeats or history.

If I let myself feel any more right now, I might not come back from it.

6

JULIAN

Idon’t remember leaving her office. I just know that one minute I was standing in front of her, breath heaving, pulse pounding—and the next, I was back in the hallway, walking like I didn’t just almost kiss the only woman who’s ever made me forget my name.

It’s a long way to my office, even though it’s just two floors up. I take the stairs instead of the elevator, hoping the movement will bleed off the frustration buzzing under my skin. It doesn’t.

Every step echoes with the memory of how close we were. The shift in her breath. The way her eyes darted to my mouth before she shut it all down. Fast. Cold. Final.

But it wasn’t final.Not for me.

That wasn’t just resistance. That was fear. And it wasn’t fear of me—it was fear of what she felt.

I run a hand through my hair as I push through the stairwell door. My chest is tight, and no amount of deep breathing will fix it. I should be focused on the audit. On Elliot. On the corporate cancer we’re trying to cut out before it spreads.

But instead, all I can think about is her. By the time I reach my office, I’m a storm in a suit. I toss my jacket onto the chair, drop into the seat behind my desk, and immediately regret it. Everything feels wrong.

My eyes drift to the door. I should go back.

I should walk into her office, demand to know what the hell just happened. Demand to know why she looked at me like she was going to kiss me back—and then shut down like she’d touched fire.

She wanted it. She wanted me. I saw it.

But something stopped her. Something bigger than just anger.

I grip the desk, knuckles going white. My instincts are screaming—go back. Ask her. Don’t let it sit. Don’t let it fester.

But I don’t move. I know her. And pushing right now? It won’t break through the wall. It’ll just make it thicker.

She’s already gone. Not physically, not yet. But emotionally? She’s halfway out the door, and I haven’t even figured out what I’m fighting against.

I sit there, staring at the door like it might open on its own. It doesn’t.

And I hate that part of me is relieved—because if I saw her right now, I don’t trust myself to keep it professional. Not anymore.

I lean back and stare at the ceiling like it might have answers I haven’t already tried to bury.

I’ve known a lot of women since Zahara. Brief connections. Even briefer feelings. I dated who I was supposed to—clean resumes, polished smiles, no baggage, no danger. Women who fit into my world like well-placed art.

But none of them ever made me forget I was in the room.

Zahara? She walks into a space and I forget how to exist in it. She ruins composure, bends time. Always has.

It wasn’t just the way she thought—the way her mind could break down a tangled ledger like she was untangling knots in thread. It was the way she never flinched when I challenged her. The way she laughed like it mattered. The way she used to look at me like I was something more than what I’d been born into.

That pull never left.

I’ve tried to rationalize it. Tried to call it nostalgia. Closure. Even guilt. But none of that explains the fact that I still can’t sit across from her without wanting to lean in, touch her, ask questions I have no right to ask.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I rub my neck and glance at my monitor—numbers blinking, waiting. I have work to do. A company to protect. A father to keep at bay. A COO whose poker face I no longer believe.

And here I am, pining like I’m twenty-two and reckless all over again.

But it’s more than attraction. It’s more than what we didn’t say back in that office. Something about her is different.

Zahara’s always been guarded—sharp and measured. But this is new. This is armor.

She deflects too quickly. Doesn’t just dodge personal questions—she flinches from them. Her expression tightens when I get too close, and not because she’s mad. It’s something else. Something deeper.

I think about the way she pulled back today. The look on her face—it wasn’t disgust. It wasn’t even anger. It was fear. But not of me.

She’s protecting something. Or someone. The thought hits me like ice water.

My fingers freeze on the desk. My mind starts racing in a different direction entirely.

No. She would’ve told me—would’ve had to. Wouldn’t she?

Then again, Zahara is the most private person I’ve ever known. If she wanted to keep something hidden, she would.

And that makes her presence here all the more complicated. Because I brought her in to uncover lies, not to live one across the hall from me.

And now I don’t know what’s worse—wondering if she’s keeping something from me, or knowing that if she is…

I might still protect her anyway.

I push away from the desk, stand, and pace the office like motion might uncoil this knot in my chest.

Zahara’s hiding something. I can feel it in my bones. But the problem is, I can’t tell if that makes her dangerous or just... human.

And worse? I don’t know if it changes how I feel about her.

It should.

Because I’m not just the man she used to love—hell, I might not even be that anymore. I’m the heir to a company under federal scrutiny. I’m the son of a man who built an empire on careful lies and benevolent branding. I’m the guy who let her walk away all those years ago instead of burning it all down with her.

And now? Now I’ve dragged her back into it—whether I meant to or not.

I run a hand across my jaw and stare out the window, trying to see the city clearly through my own warped reflection.

What if she is hiding something?

Would I go after her the way I’m going after Elliot? Would I dig through her life, pull up everything she tried to bury, expose her to protect what’s left of this company?

Or would I cover for her again—risk everything just to make sure she gets out clean?

The answer sits in the back of my throat like acid. I don’t know. And that scares the hell out of me.

Because I’ve made peace with a lot of things—my legacy, the lies I’ve been fed, even the damage I’ve done.

But what I haven’t made peace with is the fact that Zahara Bryant still has the power to ruin me.

And I think she knows it.

7

ZAHARA

I’ve always said numbers don’t lie.

People? Constantly. But numbers—if you follow them far enough—will always point you to the truth, even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts. That’s why I’ve made them my shield. My weapon. My armor.

This morning, I walked into my office before most of the staff had even arrived. Coffee in hand, hair scraped into a bun, heels already aching. I needed to beat the sun to the punch, needed to prove to myself that the near-kiss in my office wasn’t lingering in my chest like an echo.

Spoiler: it is.

But I’m ignoring that.

I settle into my chair, crack open the next round of files, and dig in. The data feels like water over fire—cooling, cleansing. I breathe deeper. My fingers move quickly across the keyboard as I cross-reference vendor IDs and international transaction logs. Invoices. Routing numbers. Bunker delivery forms.

The details are dense, convoluted. Deliberately so. Whoever built this paper trail wanted to bury it under precision. But I’ve seen this before. Smoke signals in spreadsheets.

I keep going. The deeper I get, the quieter everything becomes. My world shrinks to cells and columns, to the rhythm of keys beneath my fingers and the constant hum of betrayal hiding in plain sight.

The past is not welcome here. I’ve locked that door. I’ve changed the code. I don’t have time to revisit ghosts.

Except—then I see it. One account name stops me cold: HarbourAid Logistics. I don’t blink. Don’t breathe. I just stare.

The name is different. Slightly. But the structure? The transaction routing? The pattern of fund dispersion across third-party entities with no websites and zero social profiles? It’s the exact same blueprint.

Seven years ago, I uncovered this exact laundering method under a different name. Hidden beneath the Cross Foundation’s educational initiative. It was the beginning of the end—of trust, of love, of us.

And now it’s here again. A new name. A new face. But the same DNA. I scroll back. And back. My fingers move faster now, scanning like I might find something different this time. Like maybe I misread it.

But I didn’t. There’s a line in the transfer record that mirrors one from years ago—down to the structure of the invoice number. It’s like a ghost typed it.

I sit back hard in my chair. My pulse is thudding in my ears.

This isn’t coincidence. This is strategy. Continuation. Evolution.

They never stopped.

Whoever was behind it then is still behind it now—or worse, someone new took over and kept it alive. The room feels smaller. My skin feels hot. And all I can hear are the words I whispered to Julian, seven years ago, the last time I stood on the edge of this discovery:

“Tell me the truth, or I walk.”

And he said nothing. The numbers blur. I blink, hard. Once. Twice.

Still there. The same string of digits from the file seven years ago, embedded like a scar in the system. My breath shortens. My fingers freeze above the keyboard.

It’s not just the files anymore. It’s the scent of old paper in a shared apartment. The low hum of late-night jazz on his stereo. The way I’d looked up from my laptop one night and said, “I think someone’s moving money through your charity,” and the world had stopped.

His face. That look. Not of shock—of calculation.

I hadn’t known it at the time, not fully. But in hindsight, I remember the exact second Julian Cross slipped behind his eyes and became someone I couldn’t reach.

He said he needed time. That he’d “look into it.”

Then came the distance. The evasive meetings. The cold answers.

Soon enough there's nothing. I left. He let me. No fight. No follow-up. No confession.

I shut my eyes against the sting building behind them. It’s too much. The screen in front of me is glowing like an accusation. Like a second betrayal.

Except this time? I’m not the same girl who begged for honesty. I won’t beg again.

I suck in a breath and hold it like armor. My hand is trembling on the mouse, and I force it still.

Get it together, Zahara.

This is why you came. To uncover the rot. To protect your son. To make sure the empire that cost you everything doesn’t get to claim anyone else.

But in this moment, I don’t feel strong.

I feel splintered.

The edge of the desk digs into my palms as I press down. My spine is ramrod straight, but inside, I’m all jagged lines and unfinished sentences.

I whisper his name—my son’s name—soft, like a spell. Like a lighthouse. He’s the reason I’m here. He’s the reason I have to stay sharp. Focused. Ruthless, if I have to be.

Julian doesn’t matter. Not anymore.

Not the man. Or the memory. Certainly not the ghost of him staring back at me from every file that tells me this company still thinks it can dance in the dark and never get burned.

I wipe my face, even though no tears have fallen. Not yet. I won’t let them.

I pick up my pen. And I start drawing blood—highlighting every match, every lie, every old sin dressed in new names.

I click the pen. Once. Twice. Hard enough to hear it echo. Then I get to work.

The highlighter glides across the page in jagged, angry lines—red, not yellow. Not for emphasis. For warning. For war. Every file I touch now has a mark. Every anomaly. Every coded lie. Every shell corporation built to look innocent from ten feet away. I flag them all. No mercy. No hesitation.

They think they’ve evolved their tactics? I’ve evolved, too.

I trace transaction chains across continents, highlight a backdoor transfer disguised as a disaster relief supply. I see through the camouflage because I’ve seen it before—and this time, I’m not looking with rose colored glasses.

This time, I’m hunting. And the second I find the name at the root of this network, I’m not going to whisper it to Julian in some dimly lit room like a secret I’m afraid to say out loud.

I’m going to say it on record. In ink. With proof.

My son’s face flashes behind my eyes again. I see the dimple in his smile. The tiny worry line between his brows he got from me. He’ll never know what it cost me to leave. He’ll never know what I almost gave up yesterday.

But he will know this.

His mother didn’t come back to relive the past. She came back to end it.

And maybe Julian doesn’t deserve redemption. But I do.

And I’ll get it the only way I know how, by burning every lie to the ground.

8

JULIAN

Ibalance the tray in one hand and knock gently on her office door with the other. No response. I open it anyway.

Zahara’s hunched over a ledger, brow furrowed, pen tapping against her lips like a metronome set to "dangerous thoughts." The afternoon light cuts across her face, all angles and quiet steel. She doesn’t look up.

I clear my throat. “Figured you could use a break.”

Still no response.

So I walk in. Carefully. Set the tray down on the edge of her desk like I’m disarming a bomb. White porcelain. Loose-leaf. Honey on the side, like she used to take it.

“It’s not a peace offering,” I say, hands up, half-grinning. “Just tea.”

Zahara glances up. Just long enough for me to catch the flicker of something in her eyes—annoyance? Resentment? Something unspoken and sharp.

She looks at the tray. Then back at me. “Thanks,” she says, flat as glass.

That’s it. No smile. No eye contact. Just cool dismissal before she’s already looking back at her notes.

I stand there a second too long, feeling stupid with my perfectly curated tea tray and the hope I’d walked in with. I thought maybe we could... I don’t know. Reset. But clearly, I’m still the villain in this story.

I sit in the chair across from her without asking. She doesn’t protest, but the air between us turns icy.

“You’re working through lunch again,” I offer, casually. “Some things never change.”

Zahara finally sets her pen down and looks at me—slow, deliberate. “Some things should,” she says.

The hit hurts more than I want to admit.

I lean back slightly, studying her. “You always get this frosty when someone brings you tea?”

She raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t bring tea. You brought expectation.”

My jaw tightens. I smile, but it’s hollow. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

Her voice is like silk over a razor. She’s not shouting, not making a scene. But she’s cutting me, and I can feel it.

“I’m just trying to be decent,” I say. “Civil.”

“Try harder.”

The silence after that is loud. She picks up the tea but doesn’t drink it. Just cradles the cup in both hands like it’s a prop. I hate how much I notice that. I hate that she won’t look at me. I hate that I can’t read her anymore.

For one split second yesterday, I thought we were closer to something.

Now? Now I’m not sure she’d even flinch if I walked out and never came back.

I lean forward, elbows on knees, watching her like she’s a puzzle I used to know how to solve but someone changed the edges when I wasn’t looking.

She hasn’t said a word beyond pleasantries—or what pass for pleasantries with Zahara when she’s armed and pissed off. Her guard’s up so high it’s casting shadows.

“Is this about the files?” I ask, voice low. “Or is it still about us?”

Her fingers tighten around the teacup. No answer.

“Zahara,” I push, because I can’t not, “what is this really about?”

She finally looks up and meets my eyes without flinching.

There’s panic in them. Just a flash. Buried fast. But I catch it.

“You act like I’m the one who betrayed you again,” I say. “But I haven’t even had the chance.”

That gets a reaction. Her face goes still—too still.

“You want the truth?” she asks, voice steady but cold. “The truth is, I don’t owe you an explanation for how I handle being back in this office, back in this building, back in your orbit.”

“Don’t give me that,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “You reacted yesterday. You flinched when I touched your hand like it burned you. That’s not nothing, Zahara. You felt it too.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t feel something,” she says.

Then, silence. We stare at each other for a beat too long. Then she blinks. And the moment is gone.

She sets the tea down gently—almost reverently. Like she’s about to shift gears.

“You keep asking me what I’m hiding,” she says. “But maybe I should be asking you something instead.”

Here it comes.

“Why did you hire me?” Her voice is quiet, almost thoughtful. “Of all the forensic auditors you could’ve chosen, why me?”

I freeze. Because I’ve rehearsed this answer before. But not for her. For Elliot. For my father. For the board. The professional version.

But not the truth.

Zahara leans back in her chair, arms folded now, posture relaxed like she’s won a round. “Was it strategy? A trap? Some twisted form of closure?”

I shake my head, but it’s not enough. “I hired you because you’re the best,” I say. “You know that.”

Her brow arches. “You could’ve picked someone else just as capable. Someone who didn’t used to sleep in your bed and make your morning coffee.”

That stings.

“I didn’t want someone else,” I admit. “Not for this.”

Something flickers across her face. Her mouth opens—then closes again. And for a split second, I think she might cry. Or scream. Or kiss me. Instead, she exhales and looks away.

“You should’ve left me where I was,” she whispers.

And the air between us shifts again—dense, aching, unfinished.

I don’t move. I could try to argue. Could tell her she’s wrong—that I didn’t “pull” her into this, that this isn’t some twisted game or a trap disguised as a job offer. But that’s not the truth. Not really.

The truth is—I did want her here. Even if I didn’t know how much until she walked through that door.

“I hired you,” I say slowly, “because I needed someone who wouldn’t fold. Someone who could dig into this without worrying about my last name or the legacy that comes with it.”

Zahara doesn’t interrupt. But she doesn’t soften either.

“And yeah,” I add, “maybe I also wanted to see you again. Maybe part of me thought… if we were forced to work together, we’d finally say the things we never had the chance to before.”

She turns her head slightly, not quite facing me. “That’s not very professional of you.”

“No,” I agree. “It’s not.”

The tension thickens. But it’s not volatile now—it’s heavy. Gravitational.

“I’m not expecting anything from you,” I say, quieter now. “I’m not here to play you or manipulate this situation. I just want the truth. From you, from these files. From this whole damn mess.”

Her eyes flick toward me, just once. And in that look, I swear I see it—conflict. Not hate. Not even anger. Just fear. Of what she might say if she let go for one second.

“I’m not doing this with you,” she says, shaking her head. “Whatever this is? It’s not going to happen.”

The words are crisp. Measured. But her voice breaks just slightly on the last syllable. And I know. I know she doesn’t believe herself.

I lean back, give her space, let the silence speak.

“I get it,” I say, even though I don’t. “You’re not ready. Or you don’t want to be. Either way, I’m not going to push.”

Zahara’s eyes widen slightly—like she didn’t expect me to say that.

I stand, slowly, and pick up the empty tray. She doesn’t thank me. Doesn’t dismiss me. She just watches. Guard up. Heart locked behind every unspoken word.

But as I reach the door, I glance back.

“I meant it,” I tell her. “You’re the best there is. I trust you. Whether you trust me back… that’s your call.”

Then I leave. And I don’t look back again. If I do, I might ask her to come with me. And I already know—she’s not ready to walk that road again.

9

ZAHARA

Julian didn’t ask. He told me.

“Quick sit-down with Arthur,” he’d said this morning. “He wants to hear where we are with things.”

No warning. No prep. Just a half-smile and that unreadable tightness in his shoulders. And now here I am—heels clicking down a hallway that smells like fresh varnish and something colder underneath.

My pulse is steady, but I can feel the blood humming in my ears. Something about this doesn’t sit right. Not because I’m intimidated—Arthur Cross may be a legend in legacy and moneyed circles, but I’ve looked worse men in the eye. No, this is something deeper. Something off-script.

Julian opens the door for me like a gentleman with a secret. His face gives nothing away. But his jaw is tight. Always the jaw with him—when he’s masking emotion, that’s where it shows.

The office is too pristine. Mahogany and steel. Strategic lighting. Minimalist art that probably cost more than my annual salary seven years ago. A power palace.

Arthur Cross stands when I enter.

He’s tall. Trim. Silver hair perfectly swept. A smile that could pass as warm if you didn’t look too closely.

“Ms. Bryant,” he says, voice smooth like a tailored suit. “Julian tells me you’ve been quite thorough.”

I nod once. “I don’t believe in half-measures.”

Arthur chuckles—a sound that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I respect that,” he says. “Especially these days. Thoroughness seems to be a lost art.”

Julian moves to the far chair but says nothing. His silence says plenty.

I take my seat across from the man who built the empire Julian’s trying to fix. And I already know—He didn’t want me in this room.

Arthur offers tea. I decline. He doesn’t look surprised. He sits down with the kind of practiced grace that tells me he’s spent decades perfecting how to dominate a room without raising his voice.

He steeples his fingers. Looks at me—not into me.

It’s subtle, but I see it: the way his gaze moves over my face, dismissing rather than engaging. The way his mouth twitches at the corner every time I mention specifics. The way he only ever says my name when Julian’s in the room.

He doesn’t want me here. That much is clear. And I can’t help but wonder: is it because I used to love his son... or because he knows I see too much?

Julian tries to steer the meeting toward the audit’s inconsistencies—philanthropic budget gaps, untracked donations, vendor chains that go nowhere. But Arthur? He redirects with ease.

“Ah, the Kenya files,” he says, waving a hand. “We’ve always had challenges with that region. Poor infrastructure. Spotty banking systems. I wouldn’t overthink the small errors.”

I don’t even blink. “Respectfully, Mr. Cross, offshore wire transfers aren’t small errors. Especially when they total in the six figures and vanish after the third reroute.”

Julian glances at me. Just a flicker of something—pride? Panic? Arthur’s smile stays on, but his eyes sharpen.

“Of course. That’s what we brought you in for, Ms. Bryant. We value your perspective.”

His tone says the opposite.

I feel my maternal instincts flare—not in protection of me, but in response. The way a mother senses danger near her child, even if they don’t yet see it.

Arthur Cross is hiding something. And he thinks charm can cover the stench. I ask the first question that actually matters.

“Can you provide full financial records on the Global Cross Initiative between 2019 and 2022? There are discrepancies in the disbursement reports that don’t line up with vendor statements.”

Arthur blinks once, slow. “That’s quite the range, Ms. Bryant.”

“It’s quite the gap,” I return. “Twelve million unaccounted for across multiple fronts.”

He chuckles, smooth as silk. “Don’t tell me you’ve already gone line by line.”

“I’m not here to make assumptions,” I say. “I’m here to find facts.”

That’s when he starts talking in circles.

“Funds for humanitarian work are always messy,” he says. “Foreign aid. Currency conversion. You’d be surprised how many zeros get lost in translation. I’ve seen it a hundred times.”

He gestures vaguely toward the window, like the outside world is where the problems live—not in this building. Not in this boardroom. Julian shifts in his seat. He’s not interrupting, but his eyes are fixed on his father now—really watching him.

I press again. “There are consistent, patterned anomalies. That’s not human error. That’s architecture.”

Arthur’s smile thins. “And yet none of this was an issue until you arrived.”

The air changes. Julian straightens. “That’s exactly why she’s here.”

His father doesn’t flinch. “Is it?” The silence stretches. There it is—tension between father and son so sharp I could cut my name into it.

Arthur reclines slightly, smoothing a wrinkle in his sleeve. “We’ll see what we can do about those files. But let’s not derail the greater mission over accounting paperwork, shall we?”

The implication is clear: Don’t poke too deep. Don’t make a mess.

My skin tightens across my shoulders. My instincts tingle—not fear, but fury. I’ve sat across from men like Arthur before. Men who could quote legislation while skimming profit from broken systems. Men who smiled while they buried truth.

And I’ve got one reason I can’t afford to let this go. My son.

The thought hits me hard and fast. Like a whisper in my bloodstream. Like armor I didn’t realize I was putting on until now.

If Arthur Cross is involved—if he’s the root of this thing, if he’s the reason Julian shut down years ago—then the risk is bigger than a scandal. It’s legacy-level rot. And if he’s willing to lie to me in daylight, I have no doubt what he’d do in shadows.

Julian hasn’t spoken again. But I see him now—tense, jaw locked, hands folded too tightly in his lap.

This isn’t just a bad father-son relationship. This is power struggle disguised as professionalism.

I glance between them. And in that moment, I know that if I don’t dig deeper, no one will.

Arthur? He doesn’t scare me. Because mothers don’t fear men like him. We prepare for them.

Arthur stands, smoothing the crease from his slacks with that effortless elegance older men wield like a weapon. The meeting is over. He’s decided so, even though nothing of substance was actually resolved.

He steps around the desk and offers his hand. I rise slowly. His grip is firm. Intentional. One of those handshakes that lingers just long enough to make sure you feel it later.

“Thank you for your time,” he says. “I’m sure you’ll find whatever you’re looking for—eventually.”

His voice is warm. His eyes are not. And it doesn’t take much to hear the warning tucked neatly inside those words.

I nod once. “I always do.”

His smile flickers—tight, brittle—and then he turns to Julian. “Son,” he says, voice suddenly clipped. “Keep me posted.”

Julian just nods. And with that, Arthur walks out. No folder. No commitment. No accountability. Just presence and pressure and the scent of quiet intimidation in his wake.

The door clicks shut behind him, and the silence that follows feels like a vacuum.

Julian exhales, low and long, like he’s been holding it since we sat down.

“Thanks for the heads-up,” I say, tone dry.

He runs a hand down his face. “I didn’t know he’d... come at you like that.”

I arch a brow. “But you knew he wouldn’t come clean.”

He looks away. That’s all the answer I need. I gather my folder, tuck it under my arm, and start for the door.

Julian moves, blocking it gently with one arm. “Zahara—wait.”

I stop but don’t look at him. “What?”

“I didn’t bring you here to be a pawn in whatever game he’s playing.”

I turn, slowly. “But you brought me knowing he was playing one.”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. I study him. The way his shoulders droop now that his father’s gone. The conflict etched into the corners of his mouth. The war behind his eyes.

“You really think you’re ready to take him on?” I ask, voice lower now.

Julian’s answer is quiet. But steady.

“I have to be.”

We stand there, still as statues, in the echo of his father's shadow. And in that moment, I decide something too.

If I’m going to do this, I won’t just uncover the truth—I’ll protect the one person who still doesn’t know what’s coming.

Even if that means going through Julian Cross to do it.

10

JULIAN

It’s nearly midnight, and I’m still at the office.

The city outside is lit up like a circuit board—neon veins pulsing through steel and shadow. But up here, in my glass tower, it’s dead quiet. Just the low hum of the HVAC and the scratch of a pen across paper I’m not really reading.

I’ve scanned the same paragraph three times, but Zahara’s voice keeps bleeding into the margins.

“Twelve million unaccounted for.”

“That’s not human error. That’s architecture.”

She said it with ice in her tone. Fire in her eyes.

I let the file drop on the desk with a soft thud. I can still see the moment in her posture—how she didn’t flinch when my father tried to redirect her. Didn’t fold when he pulled out that old, practiced charm. She stood firm. Called it like it was. Looked him in the eye like she’d already made peace with whatever came next.

She doesn’t scare easy. And that? That’s a problem. But god help me, it’s also why I can’t stop thinking about her.

Not just as the auditor.

As the woman who used to whisper plans into my skin at midnight. The woman I let walk away. The woman who’s back now, sharpened, focused, dangerous.

And still somehow mine in a way I can’t shake.

There’s a folder locked in my desk drawer that she hasn’t seen. A second layer of files—unlabeled accounts, charity fronts we shuttered under pressure, names I’ve never been able to tie to anything real. I found them two years ago. I flagged them. I asked my father about them.

He told me they were historical artifacts. "Old strategies. Long buried." But the money still moves.

Zahara hasn’t seen that file because once she does, there’s no turning back. There’s no “audit” anymore. There’s exposure. There’s risk.

And I’m not ready to put that on her. Not until I know exactly what we’re up against. Not until I know what my father might do to someone like her—someone smart enough to find the cracks he thought he’d sealed.

I tell myself I’m protecting her. That when the time’s right, I’ll hand her everything.

But maybe I’m lying. Maybe part of me is scared of what she’ll think when she sees the full blueprint. When she realizes how deep the rot runs—and how long I’ve known.

Because she thinks I’m still one of the good guys.

And I’m not so sure anymore.

The sound is small. Just a single ping from my phone.

But it slices through the quiet like a scalpel.

I glance over. No caller ID. No preview. Just a banner that says “Message received.” Blocked number. Of course.

I grab the phone, thumb swiping without thinking. The screen goes black for half a beat—then the message appears.

Just one line. No signature. No context.

“Control her. Or she disappears.” My stomach drops.

I read it again. And again. As if the words will rearrange themselves into something harmless. As if there’s another version of reality where this isn’t a threat.

But it is. And it’s clear.

Zahara.

She’s not just in danger. She’s a target.

I freeze for too long.

The part of me that was still pretending this was a corporate cleanup job? That part’s gone. Dead and buried in the space between one keystroke and this message.

The phone stays in my hand, but I’m no longer really holding it—I’m clenching it, white-knuckled, like I could crush the words inside and erase them from existence.

But I can’t. Whoever sent this knows what they’re doing. Knows I’ll take it seriously. Knows I’ll listen.

Which means someone’s watching. Someone’s already close enough to know how deep she’s digging—and how far I’ll go to protect her.

I force myself to breathe. To sit back down. Lock the door. Close the blinds. Standard panic reflexes. I’m not even aware I’m doing it until the room darkens.

I reread the message, this time with intention. No punctuation. No fluff. Just instruction. Like I’m already part of the machine. Like they think they can still make me choose silence.

Like I haven’t already lost her once. I don’t know what scares me more—that they think they can erase Zahara… Or that I believe they’d actually try.

Zahara has no idea.

She’s probably still in her office—head down, pen moving, piecing together the web one string at a time. She thinks this is about numbers. About guilt. About me.

She doesn’t know that someone else is already watching her. She doesn’t know how fast something like this can go bad. And that’s my fault.

I should’ve told her. About the files. About my father’s pressure. About the board members I don’t trust and the names that disappeared off donor lists overnight.

But I didn’t.

Because she’s fearless. Because she’s relentless. She already left me once when the truth got too heavy.

And now I’m scared if she sees the full picture, she’ll run again—and this time, they’ll make sure she doesn’t come back.

The truth isn’t power anymore. It’s a liability. And she’s walking toward it like it can’t touch her.

I know better. I’ve seen what happens when people pull too hard on threads in this world. I close the message. Don’t delete it yet. Not right away.

Instead, I forward it to myself—secure line, off-site server, encrypted folder. If something happens, if someone comes asking… I want them to know I saw it. I knew.

I just didn’t act fast enough.

But not tonight.

Tonight I’m going to do something I haven’t done since she came back:

Keep her in the dark.

Not because I don’t trust her. Because I can’t trust anyone else. I close the blinds completely, lock my phone, and sit back in my chair, heart pounding.

And then I say it—quiet, almost a whisper.

“No one touches her.” I mean it. I swear it.

Deep down, in the part of me that’s lived under Arthur Cross’s shadow long enough to know how this works…I know someone already has.

11

ZAHARA

The scent hits me the second I push open the door—dark roast and cinnamon, warm bread and safety. For a minute, it’s like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

No boardrooms. No spreadsheets. No Julian Cross staring at me like he wants to fix something that can’t be unbroken.

Just Café Miro—a little slice of calm in a city built on chaos. It’s small, tucked into the corner of a block no one really notices. Muted lighting. Soft jazz oozing out of hidden speakers. Locals hunched over laptops, couples whispering over lattes.

And Luis.

“Zahhhh,” he calls out the moment he sees me. “You didn’t text me ahead, so I assumed the world ended and no one told me.”

I smile despite myself. “No, just needed to be somewhere that doesn’t smell like corporate stress and leather-bound manipulation.”

He grins and snatches a plate from behind the counter. “Croissant and cinnamon oat milk latte, coming up.”

“You read minds now?”

“I read body language. And yours says: 'I’m fighting off a moral collapse with caffeine and carbohydrates.'”

I let out a real laugh—short, but full. Luis slides the plate and latte onto my favorite table by the window. “Stay as long as you want, boss lady. I’ll keep the pastries coming.”

I mouth a thank-you, drop my bag into the chair, and settle in. My shoulders start to ease the moment my fingers wrap around the warm ceramic cup.

It’s stupid how good this feels. How normal.

I open my laptop and let the screen’s glow replace the anxiety in my chest. For the next hour, this isn’t about Julian. Not about board politics. Not about whatever his father’s hiding beneath a marble-smile exterior.

This is about data. Clean, sortable, brutally honest data. And right now, that’s the only thing that makes sense.

I load the encrypted folder I mirrored from the secure server two nights ago. Digits bloom on my screen—transaction logs, dates, vendor ID codes, timestamps. I take a bite of croissant and scan through them like a surgeon reading X-rays.

This is where I live. Not in meetings. Not in confrontations. Here, inside the architecture of movement—money and power and everything people try to hide beneath both.

Outside the window, the city pulses. People rush. Cars scream by. But here, I breathe.

For a while, I almost forget what it feels like to be watched. Then I find the file I’d bookmarked and double-click.

Suddenly, the calm begins to crack.

It starts with a small inconsistency—three transfers labeled “Emergency Medical Funds: Kariah.” Kariah isn’t listed in the primary Cross Initiative regions. Not in the last ten years.

I frown and open a side tab to run a quick search. The top result? Kariah’s a conflict-heavy zone, recently flagged by international watchdogs for smuggling, guerrilla activity, and money laundering. Not exactly ideal charity terrain.

I scroll deeper into the files. The transfers aren’t anomalies—they’re part of a pattern. Money funneled through names like Hope Grows East, Foundation Light, KindHands United. All sound vaguely humanitarian. None are real.

I open another folder. Same story. Different names. Different countries. Sudan. Venezuela. Syria. DRC. High-risk. High instability. High cover potential.

I suddenly find it harder to breathe.

They’re not helping anyone. These “charities” are shadows. And the funds aren’t tracked—they vanish into a loop of off-grid ledgers, fake staff profiles, and nonprofit URLs that lead nowhere.

I scroll through transaction IDs until I spot one linked back to a logistics partner registered under an alias I remember from seven years ago.

A ghost from my past, repainted in Cross International’s colors. A wave of nausea washes over me. I study the screen like it’s going to blink first.

They’re laundering money under the guise of humanitarian aid. Using disaster zones as drop points. Hiding corruption in plain sight.

I’m not shocked. Not really. Not after what I saw the first time around.

But this? This isn’t just bad. It’s predatory. And it’s on Julian’s watch.

I sit back slowly. My hands fall to my lap. The café noise fades into white noise. Luis might still be humming behind the counter. The girl across the room might still be typing. But for me? Time’s stopped.

This is bigger than I thought. Bigger than numbers. Bigger than mismanagement.

This is intentional.

And if Julian doesn’t know... that’s one problem.

If he does?

That’s betrayal all over again—just rebranded and polished in a custom suit.

My heart thuds once, hard. My brain screams to keep thinking, but my body goes still. Fight or flight? I don’t even know which one’s supposed to help anymore.

I look at the file names, the routes, the countries. And then I think of my son. The future I’m trying to protect. The world I want to keep him from ever having to understand.

I close my eyes. I can’t unsee this.

And the worst part? I’m not ready to show it to Julian.

Because once I do… it’s no longer just data.

It’s war.

Luis returns with a second croissant—chocolate this time, because he’s an emotional clairvoyant and I apparently have a tell.

“Still working?” he asks, setting it down with a concerned glance.

I nod once, eyes still on the screen. “More like... absorbing.”

He doesn’t push. Just leaves the plate and taps the table gently. “You look like you’re building a case against God.”

“Something like that,” I murmur.

When he’s gone, I reach for the pastry but don’t eat it. Just stare at the glaze catching the light. My screen dims. My laptop waiting.

One email. One forwarded file. That’s all it would take to loop Julian in.

But I hesitate. Because this time, I hold the cards. And knowledge is leverage.

And trust? That’s a luxury I’m not sure he’s earned. Not yet.

I remember his face across the boardroom table. The way his voice softened when he talked to his father. The way he didn’t warn me before dragging me into that meeting.

Julian’s not the enemy. But he’s not clean either. He’s in this—somehow.

If I send him this file, I’m no longer the outsider peeling back layers.

I become a piece in the game.

I close the laptop. Gently. Final. I wrap the second croissant in a napkin, slide it into my bag, and toss a twenty into the tip jar on my way out.

“Long day?” Luis calls.

I nod. “Just getting started,” I say.

The air outside bites harder than I expect. I turn toward the office. Toward Julian. Toward whatever comes next.

And I walk slowly. Deciding when to detonate a truth bomb is sometimes more important than deciding if you should.

12

JULIAN

Her office is still dark.

I stand outside the glass, pretending to check my phone, like I haven’t already done this twelve times today. The door’s locked. Blinds drawn. Desk empty.

It’s nearly noon, and no one’s seen her.

I try her cell again—text first.

"You around? We need to sync on the vendor discrepancies."

It’s innocuous. Professional. Chilly, even.

No read receipt. No dots. Nothing. The ache in my chest has nothing to do with the audit.

I take a slow breath and lean against the wall like I’m resting, like I’m casual. I’m not.

Zahara doesn’t vanish. She doesn’t “take personal time.” She works. She moves. She gets quiet when she’s furious, sharp when she’s suspicious—but she never just disappears. Not like this.

I scroll our last thread of texts, rereading her clipped replies from yesterday. Every word carries weight now that I’ve seen the message.

Control her. Or she disappears.

I never showed her. Couldn’t. But maybe I should have.

If someone is watching her—if that threat was more than a scare tactic—then this silence?

It’s not passive. It’s a weapon. And I’m already losing the fight.

Back in my office, I close the door and lower the blinds. I sit. Then I stand. Then I sit again.

My body doesn’t know what to do with this kind of tension—it’s coiled under my skin like something living.

I stare out at the skyline, trying to organize the chaos in my head.

She’s digging. She’s getting close. Too close. And she doesn’t know what waits at the center of this mess.

She thinks it’s just financial rot. Paper trails and shell corps.

But there’s more. There’s blood in this system. There are names that don’t exist anymore.

And if she finds the wrong one?

Someone might decide she’s a variable that needs to be removed.

I rub the bridge of my nose, trying to silence the guilt clawing at the back of my throat.

I should have told her. I should have warned her.

But she wouldn’t have listened.

She would’ve kept digging anyway—because that’s who she is.

And now I don’t know where she is. Or who’s watching her.

Or how close she is to the edge of something that won’t let her come back.

I clench my fist and finally whisper what I’ve been circling around all morning:

“I have to find out what she knows.”

Because if I don’t…Someone else will.

It doesn’t take long.

I hesitate for maybe thirty seconds—then I pull up the internal network access dashboard. Admin override. A little trick I learned from our IT lead years ago. Back when I thought "security" just meant backups and firewalls.

Now I know better.

This isn’t about protection. It’s about prevention. And Zahara’s not just close to the truth—she’s already there.

She’s been flagging files I hoped she’d miss. Accounts tied to logistics fronts we shut down three years ago. Companies that were never real to begin with.

I tap into her metadata trail. She’s been working remotely today—encrypted, of course. But not invisible. I see the audit files she accessed. The timestamps. The pace of her navigation. She’s not just browsing—she’s connecting dots. Creating a pattern.

She’s following the money. The same way she did before. Only now? The end of that trail isn’t a scandal.

It’s a body count.

I pause, hand hovering over one file she viewed three times this morning. A dummy non-profit we used in northern Sudan. The moment I see it, my stomach turns.

She’s too close. I could flag her account. Cut her access. Call her in and demand she pause the review until we “coordinate.”

But she’d never listen.

And if I do that? I tip my hand. And she stops trusting me for good.

So I start following her. Digitally. Not to sabotage. Not to control.

To stay ahead. To stay ready.

I pull every file she’s touched in the last 48 hours and cross-reference it with the internal red flags we buried last year. I trace her path like I’m watching someone hike through a minefield—each step too close to something that’s already ticking.

She’s sharp. Smarter than most of the forensic teams I’ve hired in the past. She sees patterns faster. She questions everything. And that’s the problem—she won’t stop when she finds the answer.

She’ll keep going until she finds the source.

And that’s where people get erased. That’s where legacy becomes liability. That’s where Arthur steps in.

My throat tightens. I lean over the desk and rub my temple, the room dim around me. She has no idea what she’s walking into. No idea how fast people disappear in this world when they know too much.

And here I am—tracking her like a shadow. Not because I want to betray her. But because if I don’t know where she steps next, I can’t protect her when she falls.

My cursor hovers over the file.

Just one. Not the biggest one. Not the most damning. But it’s the one. The file I never wanted her to see.

Not because it names my father. Because it names me.

Buried three layers deep, it’s a logistics memo I signed during my first year as VP. I barely remember it—routine approval, internal authorization for a fast-routed donation cycle. At least, that’s what I thought.

But Zahara knows better. She always has.

I could delete it now. Wipe it clean. Burn the paper trail before she draws a line from my name to the crime. It’d take three clicks. Maybe four.

But I don’t move. Because once I do that, I stop being the man who tried to protect her.

And become the man she’ll eventually have to expose.

My hand trembles on the mouse. I exhale. Slow. Calculated.

Then I highlight the file. Right-click.

Export. Not delete.

I encrypt it. Bury it in a backup server only I can access. And I label it with one word:

ZB.

Because if she brings it up—I’ll have to own it.

And if she doesn’t? I’ll still know she could.

That’s the difference between us.

She hunts for truth. I bury mine in layers.

But I haven’t crossed the line. Not yet.

I close my laptop, turn off the lights, and stare out at the night swallowing the city. Zahara thinks she’s alone in this. Thinks she’s chasing ghosts.

But she’s wrong. I’m right behind her.

13

ZAHARA

Every nerve in my body tenses the second the elevator doors open and that sterile Cross International scent hits my nose—polished wood, recycled air, and quiet corporate rot.

But I’m done hiding behind a screen.

I’ve spent the last three days working remote—coffee shops, VPNs, burner laptops, and two near-panic attacks I didn’t let finish. Every time I started to feel grounded, I’d remember Julian’s face. Or worse—Arthur’s.

But the breakthrough I’m circling? It needs secure access. Internal files. Layers I can’t reach from a sidewalk café, no matter how good the Wi-Fi or cinnamon scones are.

So I’m back.

The office is quiet when I arrive—early enough to avoid the vultures, late enough to not raise suspicion. I swipe my badge, slip into my space, and lock the door behind me like I’m sealing a vault.

No distractions. No interruptions. Just me, my machine, and the gut feeling that I’m one dotted line away from detonating the truth.

I drop my bag, crack my knuckles, and open the master folder.

Time to finish this. My eyes blur from scanning too long, but then—there it is.

A shadow ledger embedded in a flagged archive. One no one bothered to decrypt properly. Sloppy. Confident. The kind of mistake only people at the top make, thinking no one will ever dig this deep.

A Cayman account. Obscure. Barely touched. But still active. I pull the transaction logs and cross-check the beneficiaries. One name matches an old shell Julian’s father “dissolved” years ago after a PR scandal. I remember the headlines—philanthropic misallocation, staff shakeups, quiet resignations. Back then, I believed it was clean-up.

Now I see it was cover-up.

And this is the missing link.

This one bank ties three fake charities to real money—money that was supposed to go to clinics, shelters, schools. Money that’s been laundered, dressed up in purpose, then buried offshore.

My pulse kicks. I sit up straighter. This is it. The whole architecture is exposed now. I can trace the thread from public donation to private fraud—and with one well-worded summary and a forwarded report, I could burn it all down.

Julian. Arthur. The foundation. The fake nonprofits.

Everyone.

But before I move, I take a breath.

Because something about this moment—about the clarity of the connection—feels… dangerous. Like the air right before a thunderclap. Like something just noticed I’ve noticed it.

I’m halfway through my annotation—already planning the sequence of how to present it—when the message flashes.

It appears in the bottom-right corner of my screen like a system notification, but it’s not from any known program. No header. No sender. Just a blank field.

And one line of text:

“Back off. Or your son disappears.”

Everything inside me stops. My lungs forget what they’re supposed to do. My hands freeze, hovering mid-keystroke.

No salutation. No bluff. Just targeted violence, wrapped in digital calm.

I sit completely still, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the rest of the world. They know.

Not just about the audit. About him. I feel cold. Then hot. Then nothing.

I don’t scream. I don’t stand. I don’t even cry.

I just close the screen. Hard. And I back away from the desk like it’s radioactive. Like that message burned through my clothes and sunk into my bones.

Because it did. This is no longer just a job. No longer about Julian. Or Arthur. Or even justice.

It’s about my baby. And if they know about him... they know where I live. Where he goes to school. Who he’s with when I’m not around.

My hands start to shake. I can’t think. I can’t breathe. But I know exactly what I need to do.

I don’t remember locking my office. Don’t remember grabbing my bag.

But somehow I’m walking—fast, heels clicking too loud down the hallway, vision narrowed to one thing: find Julian.

I don’t want to tell him. I won’t tell him. Not about the message. Not about my son.

But I need something from him right now that I can’t explain. Something steady. Something strong.

I reach his office and knock without waiting for permission. He’s already halfway standing when I open the door.

His brows furrow instantly. “Zahara?”

“I just—” My voice cracks. I clear it quickly. “I need a minute.”

Julian crosses the room in two steps. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

It’s a lie. A bad one. But it’s the only one I have right now.

He studies me, eyes narrowing like he’s trying to peel me open with just a look. But he doesn’t push.

He steps aside, gestures to the chair by his desk. “Sit.”

And I do. Because right now? I don’t have the strength to stand.

The second I sit down, I fold my arms—tight, defensive. But it doesn’t stop the shaking. Not all of it. I hate this. Hate the way fear makes my body betray me.

Hate that I came to him of all people.

But right now? I need stillness. I need presence. And Julian is the only person in this building who could anchor me without asking for the chain.

He doesn’t sit behind his desk. Doesn’t retreat behind paperwork or distance.

He moves to the corner of the desk and leans against it, just a few feet away. Close, but not crowding. Watching me. Quietly. Not dissecting. Not demanding.

Just… seeing.

I don’t look at him.

I focus on the floor. On my breathing. On keeping my voice from cracking even though I’m not speaking.

“Was it something from the audit?” he asks, voice low. Gentle.

I shake my head without meeting his eyes. “It’s nothing.”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“Do you want me to leave you alone?”

I finally look up. And for a second, I forget how to breathe again—but not from fear this time.

Because his face isn’t smug. Or curious. Or even guarded.

It’s open. Raw. Like he knows something’s wrong. Like he’s scared for me, and doesn’t know what shape the danger takes.

“No,” I whisper. “Don’t go.”

He nods. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stays right where he is. And in that moment, the weight in my chest loosens by the tiniest degree.

I don’t have answers. I don’t have a plan. And I can’t tell him about the threat—not yet.

But for now? I’m not alone in this storm. And that might be the only thing keeping me upright.

14

JULIAN

I’m three steps from the elevator when my phone buzzes. Zahara’s name lights up the screen.

My thumb’s halfway to swipe when I realize— It’s not her voice.

“This is Cross Tower security,” the man says. I stop walking.

“Is this Julian Cross?”

My heart flatlines. “Yes.”

“There’s been an incident outside our main entrance. Ms. Bryant was targeted—possible gunfire. She’s okay. She’s inside now. We’ve got her with security⁠—”

I don’t hear the rest. My legs are already moving.

I drop the phone into my pocket, pace kicking into overdrive as I push through the turnstiles. The lobby’s normal. That’s the worst part. No alarms. No chaos. Just the muted buzz of business as usual.

Until I see the cluster of uniforms near the security office—and her.

Zahara’s sitting in a chair just inside the glass-walled office. Shoulders tight. Hands clenched in her lap like she’s trying to hold something broken inside her chest.

And I’ve never hated this building more than I do right now. One of the security guards meets me at the door. “Mr. Cross, we⁠—”

“Move.”

I step inside, eyes only on her.

She looks up. Not surprised. Not even relieved.

Just... tired. Like the weight she’s been carrying finally shifted—and crushed her a little on the way down.

I crouch in front of her, resisting the instinct to touch her. “Are you hurt?”

She shakes her head once. Her voice is a whisper. “No. I didn’t see anything. It happened so fast—just a sound. Then a hand on my back. Someone pulled me—got me through the door.”

I glance behind me. A delivery guy, mid-thirties, is leaning against the wall, hands still shaking around his phone. His bike helmet is cracked.

He’s the reason she’s alive. I walk over, press a hand to his shoulder. “Thank you.”

He nods, eyes wide. “It was like... a pop, then she dropped. I just moved. I don’t even remember grabbing her.”

I do. I remember her file folders. The targets in her crosshairs. The things she’s uncovered that could destroy legacies. And now someone just tried to destroy her.

The fury comes slow. Controlled. But when it settles in my chest, it’s nuclear.

Someone made a move. And they missed.

Which means they’ll try again.

I spin toward the head of security. “Where’s the surveillance?” My voice is flat. I already know the answer.

The guard flinches. “Sir, the side entrance isn’t fully covered—we’ve had issues with the angle since⁠—”

“I don’t want excuses.” I’m not yelling. But the temperature drops ten degrees.

“I want footage pulled. Every second from every street cam. Every vehicle within fifty feet. Get me the report within the hour. And if I don’t have eyes on what happened by noon, I’ll outsource this to someone who’ll get it done in ten minutes.”

The guard nods, backing away. I turn back to Zahara. She hasn’t moved. Just sitting there, perfectly still, like motion will trigger something she’s not ready to face.

And it’s in that moment—her silence, her stillness, I know she’s not okay. And she won’t say it.

I drop to a crouch again, meeting her eyes. “You’re coming with me.”

She blinks. “What?”

“You’re not staying here. You’re not going home. You’re coming to the penthouse. Now.”

She looks like she wants to argue. But then she doesn’t. And I know it’s because she’s not just scared.

She’s terrified. Not for herself. For something or someone else.

The car ride is silent. Not cold. Not awkward. Just quiet in that way trauma tends to be.

Zahara stares out the window, one hand wrapped around the other in her lap. She hasn’t said a word since we left the building. I grip the steering wheel tight enough that my hands start aching.

My mind is spinning, analyzing, running every angle: who made the call, who pulled the trigger, who knew where she’d be and when. It wasn’t random. It wasn’t messy. It was targeted.

And that means one thing: she’s getting too close. I replay the timeline in my head. The files she accessed. The connections she’s been drawing. And the message I got last week.

Control her. Or she disappears.

My jaw locks. I thought I had time. Thought I could manage this from the shadows, stay one step ahead of her and the threat.

But I was wrong. They moved. And I didn’t. That can’t happen again.

I glance over at her.

Still silent. Still staring.

But there’s something in her face that wasn’t there before—something cracked. I don’t ask. Because I already know.

And now? Now she stays with me.

This war just got personal.

Back at my building, even the elevator ride is silent.

Zahara stands beside me, arms folded, shoulders tight. She’s still not speaking, but her silence is no longer distance—it’s weight. She’s holding something in her chest that might detonate if she breathes wrong.

When the elevator dings open, I lead her into the penthouse. No speech. No fanfare. Just glass walls, skyline views, and the quiet hum of a space I built to keep people out.

It’s about to become a safe house.

She pauses just inside the door, glancing around. Her eyes land on the bar, the fireplace, the open-plan kitchen. I watch her scan for exits. Assess the layout like a strategist.

She’s always thinking three steps ahead. But not this time.

“Stay here,” I say softly. “As long as you need.”

She doesn’t answer. Just walks toward the windows, lets her fingertips brush the edge of the curtain, and stares out at the city like it might blink first.

“I don’t need protecting,” she says finally. Her voice is calm. But there’s a tremor under it.

“I know,” I reply. “But I’m doing it anyway.”

She turns toward me. And for a second, the tension drops just enough for me to see her—really see her.

And she sees me too. No accusations. No fire. Just two people who’ve run out of reasons to pretend this isn’t life or death anymore.

I walk past her into the kitchen, open the fridge, grab a bottle of water, and set it on the island.

“Take the guest room,” I say. “Security system’s armed. No deliveries. No drop-ins. Anyone tries anything—you’ll know before they hit the lobby.”

She walks over. Picks up the bottle. Opens it. Takes a sip. Then she meets my eyes.

“All right,” she says quietly. “I’ll stay.”

It’s not surrender. It’s not relief. It’s resolve. Because she’s not hiding. She’s regrouping.

And so am I.

15

ZAHARA

We’re still standing in the kitchen, pretending like we’re not both seconds from combustion. The lights are soft. Dimmed. The whole place smells faintly of citrus and leather and something distinctly Julian—like control wearing a designer suit.

I’m leaning against the island, arms crossed, the cold marble grounding me as I try to regulate my breathing. Across from me, he’s rifling through a drawer for something he doesn’t need.

Neither of us says a word.

I’m not sure which part of today I’m trying to outrun—the sound of the bullet, the way the air shifted around me before it cracked, or the emotion in his eyes when I told him I’d stay.

He hasn’t looked at me since we walked through the door. Not directly. And I haven’t thanked him.

If I open my mouth, I’m afraid everything I’ve been shoving down will come up all at once. The fear. The fury. The sheer ache of being this close to him again—this close to safety. And wanting it.

So instead, I focus on the hum of the fridge, the sound of him opening and closing drawers, and the racing thoughts in my head that won’t shut up.

You’re safe. For now. But at what cost?

He closes the last drawer and turns, resting both hands on the countertop. His eyes meet mine, and it’s like flipping a switch.

“You still drink water without ice?” he asks, voice soft. Almost… amused.

It catches me off guard. “I don’t like the clink.”

His mouth twitches. “Still weird.”

“You’re still nosy.”

There’s a pause. But it’s not awkward. It’s familiar. Painfully so. He opens the fridge, grabs another bottle, and sets it down in front of me. “Did you really think you could avoid me forever?”

I raise an eyebrow. “I wasn’t avoiding. I was investigating.”

He doesn’t challenge it. But the look he gives me says he knows better.

“I should’ve checked on you sooner,” he says. “When you started pulling risk files... I should’ve said something.”

I exhale. Not quite a sigh. Not quite forgiveness. Just release.

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to owe you anything.”

There it is. A truth. Raw and half-exposed. His brow furrows slightly. “You don’t owe me.”

“That’s the problem,” I say, eyes fixed on the bottle. “You still make it feel like I do.”

Silence again. But this time, it hums with something heavy. Something neither of us knows what to do with.

“I’m tired,” I say quietly, still not looking at him.

He shifts slightly. “You should sleep.”

I shake my head. “I don’t mean physically.”

That gets him. His hands curl slightly around the edge of the counter, knuckles white. But he doesn’t speak, just listens. And somehow, that makes it worse.

“I’m tired of pretending like I’m okay,” I murmur. “Tired of acting like this isn’t personal when it is. When it always has been.”

He steps closer, not much—just enough that I feel the shift in the air between us.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

I meet his eyes. “But maybe I should.”

We hold the moment there—balanced between too much and not enough.

“I’m not just scared because someone pulled a trigger today,” I admit. “I’m scared because I don’t know who’s behind it. And I’m not sure if I can trust anyone not to lie to me again.”

He flinches at that. It’s subtle. But I catch it.

Julian drops his gaze, jaw tight. “I’ve lied before. About things I thought would protect you. That’s on me.”

Silence again.

“But not this time.”

I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him. I push off the island, intending to leave. This moment—it’s too heavy, too bare. I need walls again. Space.

But the second I turn, he reaches out and brushes my wrist. Barely there.

I stop. And I feel it—every nerve waking up like I’ve just been set on fire from the inside out. I turn to face him, slow, deliberate.

Julian’s standing closer now. Closer than he should. The shadows stretch around us, painting the kitchen in quiet contrast—silver countertops, gold lamplight, dark intent.

His fingers graze up my arm. Not rushed. Not possessive. Just there. Like he’s asking without asking.

I don’t move.

His hand trails higher, up to my shoulder, then along the side of my neck. His thumb brushes my jaw. And my breath catches.

My chest rises. His gaze drops to my lips. I see it—he wants this.

So do I. But that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Because wanting him again feels like betrayal. To myself. To everything I’ve held together these past years. To the secrets I haven’t told. And if I let him kiss me now… I won’t stop there.

His face is so close now, I can taste the space between us. My pulse flutters at the base of my throat, wild and erratic, like it’s trying to warn me—or beg me.

Julian’s hand lingers along my jaw, thumb just beneath my cheekbone. Not moving. Not pushing. Just there, like a tether pulling me in. His eyes search mine, like he’s looking for permission. Or maybe forgiveness.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he says, voice thick with restraint.

“Then don’t,” I whisper. But I don’t move either.

His forehead dips, brushing against mine. Our noses graze. I inhale sharply, and the scent of him—clean, warm, faintly cedar—burrows somewhere beneath my ribs.

He leans in slowly, reverently, and I let him. Let the air between our mouths melt. Let the need simmer just enough to become unbearable.

His lips barely brush mine—featherlight, a ghost of what could be.

And just before he deepens it Just before I tip forward and let gravity do what my heart already decided—I pull away.

Sharp. Sudden.

My voice shakes. “I can’t.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t beg. Just holds that space, eyes burning into mine.

“I know,” he says, quiet as a confession.

I step back. Each inch between us feels like a decision I don’t want to make.

Julian doesn’t follow. He just watches me, eyes shadowed, lips parted like he was this close to saying something that would’ve undone us both.

I swallow hard.

“Goodnight,” I say, voice barely above a breath.

He nods once. Doesn’t try to stop me. I turn and walk toward the hallway. My legs feel shaky, but I keep moving.

I pass the living room. Keep going. Enter the bedroom and shut the door behind me.

Only when I press my back to it do I let my lungs exhale the ache building inside them.

I’m alive. I’m protected. I’m under his roof. And somehow, all of that feels more dangerous than the bullet that missed me. Because what almost happened in that kitchen?

Would’ve hit a lot closer to the heart.

16

JULIAN

She’s awake.

I hear the soft creak of floorboards through the thin layer of wood and memory between my home office and the hallway. She’s barefoot. Light on her feet like always. But I know her gait. Controlled. Deliberate.

She’s not pacing. She’s watching her own back. Same as me.

I try to keep my eyes on the tablet in front of me, but I’ve reread the same sentence three times.

Zahara is under my roof.

After years of silence. After last night’s near-kiss that damn near tore open every scar I swore I’d buried. After someone tried to end her in broad daylight. She’s here.

And she’s quiet.

I should be focusing on vendor trails, falsified board memos, fund movement logs. But instead I’m listening—ears tuned like an animal to the sounds she makes. The way the kettle whistles. The way she pads softly across the marble. The occasional shift in the apartment’s rhythm that tells me she’s near.

It makes me feel better. It also makes me feel insane. But I don’t care.

Because if I don’t stay alert—if I don’t track every second she breathes—then someone might try again.

And this time? They won’t miss.

I pull up a file from the private drive I started building the day I stopped trusting the Cross Foundation’s reporting team.

It’s a mess of cross-referenced account data, old financial reconciliations, flagged communications—emails that mysteriously went missing after being read. Logs that were "archived" instead of deleted.

I skim through the most recent ones Zahara touched. Then I dig deeper—past her trail, into mine.

And it’s there. A thread I always suspected but never pulled. Until now.

One account—a shadow ledger tied to a charitable initiative in Eastern Europe—has recurring transfers from a banking entity registered under an alias my father used in the late ‘90s. Arthur always said it was dissolved. “Too messy. Not worth the optics,” he told me.

He lied. Bastard. I scroll further, digging into subfolders I forgot I’d mirrored. This isn’t just one branch. It’s a network. Clean on the surface, rotted at the roots.

And the more I trace, the more I see it—Arthur’s fingerprints.

Small deposits. Strategic withdrawals. Coordinated silence. This is no accident. This is a machine.

And my father’s the one who built it.

My jaw clenches. Because if he’s involved in what almost happened to Zahara…

If he gave the order…Then I’m going to destroy everything he built. Brick by brick.

I hear her before I see her—again. The soft tread of her bare feet. The light click of a mug against a countertop. Then the door creaks open and she steps into the room like a secret.

She’s wearing one of those loose knits—soft, oatmeal-colored, sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Her hair’s pulled back but a few curls have escaped, trailing down her neck like they’re mocking my concentration.

She holds out a cup. “Gratitude offering,” she says, voice light, but her eyes flick briefly to the screens behind me.

I take the cup, fingers brushing hers, and feel that jolt again—electric, too intimate for a morning in silence.

“Thanks,” I manage.

She shrugs, takes a sip from her own. “You looked like you could use it. You’ve been locked in here for hours.”

I nod. Say nothing. Let the coffee cover my silence. She lingers in the doorway for a second longer, then steps inside.

Her presence changes the air. She always has.

She nods toward my screen. “You working the board angle?”

I minimize the window without hesitation. “Something like that.”

She cocks her head slightly. “You always hide things that fast when someone walks in?”

I smirk. “Only when it’s you.” She raises an eyebrow, amused. “Flattering.”

We fall into a brief quiet. Not awkward. Not tense. Just... thick with the things we’re not saying. She sits down in the chair across from me, hands wrapped around her mug. “I know you’re not telling me everything. But I also know you’re not the type to let someone shoot at me and do nothing.”

There’s no accusation in her voice. Which makes it worse.

I shake my head slowly. “I’m not doing nothing.”

“Then what are you doing, Julian?”

I hold her gaze too long. Then I smile—a practiced one.

“Making sure it doesn’t happen again.”

She studies me. I can tell she doesn’t believe that’s all there is. She’s not wrong. But I’m not ready to give her the whole picture yet. Because once I say it—once I say Arthur out loud—I can’t take it back.

And neither of us will ever sleep again.

It’s his own blood.

The moment Zahara leaves the room, the quiet feels different. It’s not the absence of sound—it’s the presence of fear. The awareness that everything I just said wasn’t enough. And everything I didn’t say? Could destroy both of us.

I wait until I hear the soft click of her bedroom door. Then I reopen the minimized file.

It’s all still there. Dates. Wire transfers. Foundations that don’t exist. Memos routed through ghost accounts that disappear after use. An internal message chain from six months ago—harmless on the surface, but coded just enough to make my skin crawl.

And all of it ties back to him. Arthur Cross.

The man who taught me how to read people. How to leverage silence. How to turn a lie into currency.

He taught me to protect the family name.

But what if I’m the last person who still thinks it’s worth saving?

I drag three more files into the encrypted vault I created last week. No labels. Just numbers. I can’t let anyone else see these yet. Not even her.

Especially not her. Because if she knows how close Arthur sits to this— She’ll go scorched earth.

And right now? We don’t need fire. We need leverage.

I press my knuckles tightly to my temples, eyes still locked on the screen.

If my father’s behind this… If he put a hit out on Zahara— If he sees her as collateral damage—Then he’s made one fatal mistake.

He forgot I still love her.

And I don’t lose the people I love.

Not again. Not without taking someone down with me.

17

ZAHARA

The world feels… almost normal again. The breeze brushing against my cheek is cool, sharp, a reminder that I’m still here. Still breathing. Still standing.

I’m wrapped in a soft trench, sunglasses low on my nose, hood up—not because I’m hiding. Because I don’t want to be recognized. Not yet. Not today.

It’s been three days since the attempt. Three days of sleeping behind security codes and reinforced windows. Three days of breathing beside Julian without letting myself exhale. Three days of holding every question like it might explode in my mouth.

I need air. I need coffee. And I need a few minutes that feel like mine.

Café Miro comes into view, and I swear my chest tightens. The bell above the door still chimes the same way. The same woman is by the window with her poetry books. The same soft jazz hums from overhead.

And Luis—blessed, nosy, too-smart-for-his-own-good Luis—spots me before I’ve even pulled the hood down. “Zahhhhhh,” he drawls, walking around the counter with open arms. “Back from the crypt?”

“Back for caffeine,” I murmur, cracking a smile.

He hugs me gently—no questions, just comfort. Then he pulls away and hands me a warm to-go bag without asking.

“Croissant. Cinnamon oat milk. Extra napkins because you spill like you were raised by wolves.”

I laugh. Really laugh. And just like that, I feel… better.

Not safe. But stronger.

Back at the Cross offices, it takes me ten minutes to get in without being noticed, fifteen to bypass the internal tracking on my login, and five more to lock my office door and pull the blinds.

I sit. Unwrap the croissant. Sip the coffee. Let the ritual anchor me.

My laptop hums awake, and the weight of the work ahead hits me like caffeine to the chest.

I dive in—pulling files I flagged but never had time to sort. Supply chain logs. International invoices. Donation intake reports that don’t match output numbers. All the things that felt wrong but not urgent until someone tried to erase me.

My mind tries to wander. To Julian. To the sound of his voice last night when he told me I was safe. To the look on his face when I almost let him kiss me.

I shut it down.

No distractions.

He’s not part of this work. Not until I prove he’s clean. Or not.

I take a bite of croissant, fingers already flying across the keyboard. This isn’t about comfort anymore. It’s about control.

And I’m ready to take it back. I scroll through the third-level invoice folder for the Southeast Asia shipments. It’s routine at first—quantities, routes, vendor codes. All neat. All packaged in Cross’s polished language of benevolence.

But something snags. A line item marked “CMP-Red Type” repeats too often. Identical weight, same routing channel, signed off in clusters.

I frown. CMP. Controlled Medical Product. I’ve seen it before—but never flagged this many times, never in conjunction with this much money moving beneath it.

I check the distribution logs. Something’s off.

The shipment weight doesn’t match the listed supply contents. And it’s always coming from the same off-grid medical distributor. A dummy org I flagged months ago but didn’t have context for.

I chase the lead—open import manifests, cross-reference to local customs reports. CMP is being marked as medical equipment in customs… but that’s a lie. A lazy one.

One click deeper and I’m staring at a memo buried under five years of misfiling. I know the format. Internal use only. Nothing public-facing.

The language is clinical—“redirected emergency assets, scheduled redistribution, authorized controlled flow.”

But I’ve seen this kind of coded sanitation before. I open a separate tab and plug the coded inventory numbers into a DEA database I still have login access to from a prior case.

The match comes fast. Heroin. Labeled. Shipped. Laundered through a humanitarian aid channel.

I blink. My body’s ice. Then fire.

Heroin. Through Cross. Through fake NGOs. Hidden in the name of healing.

I push back from the desk. Hard.

It’s like the room shifts with me, like the truth changed the oxygen.

This isn’t money laundering. This isn’t fraud. This is trafficking. Industrial. Global. Ongoing.

Someone in Cross International has weaponized aid.

I scan the memo again—seeking signatures, hoping to trace this back. But the author field is scrubbed. Sanitized. Metadata’s gone. Except for one name. Tucked into an archived export manifest that somehow didn’t get wiped.

Arthur Cross.

Not a surprise.

Still, I’m breathless.

He was always capable of calculated cruelty. But this? This is a global operation masquerading as charity. This is horror dressed up in humanitarianism.

And worse—he didn’t do it alone. Someone else approved the funds. Someone else covered the backend logistics. Someone with access. Authority. Trust.

My chest tightens.

Julian. It could be him.

It might not be.

But if it is—if he knew—I won’t just be shattered. I’ll be complicit. Because I’ve let him back in.

And the part of me that wants to believe in him? That part is growing every day.

Even when it shouldn’t.

I close the last tab, and for a few seconds I just sit there—motionless, breath shallow, staring at my own reflection in the black screen like it might confess something I’ve missed.

Heroin. Disguised as humanitarian aid. Greenlit by Arthur Cross.

And someone helped him do it.

I lean back slowly, as if any sudden movement might make the whole room shatter around me.

I don’t want it to be Julian.

Every bone in my body says it can’t be Julian. But every thread I’m pulling leads back to his world.

And the closer I get to the truth, the more I feel the walls closing in—on both of us.

I rub my temples, fingers trembling just slightly. My coffee’s long gone cold. My croissant is stale. And I don’t care.

Because I’m staring at a new truth now—a more terrifying one.

I still care about him. Somewhere between the silence and the safety, the fights and the near-kiss, I let him back in.

Not fully. Not foolishly. But enough. And that scares me more than any bullet ever could.

If Julian’s involved—if he’s complicit, or worse, protecting someone who is—I’ll have to expose him.

And if I do? I’ll lose him. Again.

I close my eyes, press my palms flat on the desk, and try to breathe.

Just a few more pieces. Just one more link in the chain. One more signature, one more file, one more crack in the armor. I’ll follow the truth. No matter where it leads.

Even if it breaks me.

18

JULIAN

The meeting request comes through as a one-liner from Arthur’s assistant. No subject. No agenda. No damn time slot—just:

My office. Now. No delays.

I stare at the message for a full thirty seconds, then close my laptop.

I already know what it’s about.

Zahara.

The air in my chest burns as I take the elevator to the top floor—Arthur’s domain. His office smells like expensive secrets and oil-rubbed leather. It’s designed to intimidate. Impress. Control.

And it still pisses me off that it almost works.

He’s sitting in his usual place when I walk in—backlit by the skyline, a crystal glass of scotch in hand, casual like we’re old friends about to talk golf scores and mergers.

"Julian," he says smoothly. “I was beginning to think you forgot who signs your checks.”

I don’t sit. “Let’s skip the warm-up. What do you want?”

Arthur smiles like a shark. “Still blunt. I admire that. It’s quaint.”

I grit my teeth. “You didn’t drag me up here for compliments.”

He lifts his glass. “No. I brought you here to talk about the woman you’ve been getting cozy with.”

I don’t flinch. But my gut twists painfully.

He doesn’t know everything. But he knows enough to start playing dirty.

Arthur stands and moves toward the bar, like this is all just casual conversation. I watch the way he pours another two fingers of scotch—slow, precise, in control.

“She’s poking around places she has no business being,” he says calmly. “Touching files no one’s touched in years. Stirring things up. I thought we agreed this audit was meant to clean up minor discrepancies—not dismantle our foundation.”

“She’s doing her job.”

He turns to me, one brow raised. “Is that what you call it?”

I don’t answer. He’s not wrong. She is dismantling something. Piece by piece. With more accuracy than most men I’ve paid triple her rate. But that’s not what he cares about.

Arthur takes a sip, then rests the glass on the table like he’s about to tell me a bedtime story.

“You know what your problem is, Julian? You’ve always had a soft spot for impossible women. First your mother. Then this one. Women who think their feelings equal facts. Who think justice is a luxury they can afford.” He chuckles. “It isn’t.”

My hands clench at my sides.

Arthur walks closer.

“Don’t lie to yourself, son. You’ve always known what this family is. What it takes to keep our legacy alive.”

I meet his gaze, dead center.

“I’ve known exactly what this family is,” I say. “And I’ve spent years trying not to become it.”

He smirks. “Too late. You’re already there.”

Arthur circles behind his desk again, fingers steepled. That smug calm doesn’t crack—not even for a second.

“I had my team do a little digging,” he says, too casual.

I don’t blink. Don’t move. He wants a reaction. He’ll get silence instead.

“Zahara Bryant,” he continues, as if reading from a script. “Impressive résumé. Tenacious, detail-obsessed, oddly principled. A bit of a liability when she’s emotionally invested.”

He lets the pause hang there like smoke.

“I found something... interesting,” he says at last, slow, deliberate. “Something she didn’t disclose on any of her contracts. Something she’s worked very hard to keep... hidden.”

My pulse ticks up.

“What did you find?” I ask, already knowing he won’t say.

Arthur smiles. It’s a snake’s smile. All teeth. No warmth.

“I’m not telling you. Not yet.” He leans forward slightly. “But I will use it if she doesn’t stop digging.”

I take a step forward, fists tight at my sides. “Don’t touch her.”

“Oh Julian,” he says, almost bored. “I won’t have to. She’ll destroy herself when the truth comes out.”

The air in the room changes. And I realize I’ve never hated him more than I do in this moment.

I slam my palm flat against the edge of the glass table, hard enough to rattle the decanter beside him.

“You’re going to end this,” I say, low and controlled. “No more laundering. No more shipments. No more threats. Shut it down.”

Arthur doesn’t flinch. He just stares at my hand like I’ve smudged his perfect veneer.

“You’re upset,” he says slowly. “That’s cute.”

I step in closer. “I’m not asking.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“Try me.”

The mask slips—just slightly. Arthur sets his glass down and stands, no longer pretending this is civil.

“Let me be clear, son. You want to burn down this company over a woman who’s been in your bed for five minutes?”

“It’s not about her,” I lie.

But we both know it is.

“It’s about this. All of it. I’m done pretending it’s salvageable.”

Arthur folds his arms. “Then be prepared to take the fall with it.”

And that’s the moment I realize—this is no longer about right or wrong. It’s war. And Arthur? He’s not bluffing either.

Arthur adjusts his cuffs like we haven’t just ripped the foundation out from under our family name.

“You walk away from me,” he says coolly, “you walk away from everything.”

He ticks the list off like he’s reading the side effects of some expensive drug.

“Your discretionary accounts. Real estate interests. The trust. Your board vote. The family shares. And don’t forget—your name still carries weight in this city because I allowed it to.”

He steps around the desk, face tightening. The civility in his voice goes cold.

“You think she’s your anchor? She’s a liability, Julian. And when she goes down—she will—there won’t be anyone left to pull you out.”

“You think I care about money right now?” I hiss.

“No. But you will,” he says. “When you realize she won’t survive without you. And when she finds out what I know—what you don’t—she won’t even want your protection.”

He moves in close. Lowering his voice. Delivering the final line like a gun to the ribs:

“She’s not as clean as you think. And when I tell you what she’s hiding... you’ll thank me.”

I don’t respond. Not because I don’t have anything to say. Because if I open my mouth, I might hit him. I stare at him—my father. The man who taught me how to lie, how to manipulate, how to win. And I wonder when the last time was that he actually saw me. Not as an heir. Not as a pawn.

Just me.

But I can’t ask that. Can’t afford to care anymore. So I step back.

“You should be afraid of her,” I say, voice low, steel-wrapped. “Because if you push her too far… she won’t break.”

I turn, walk toward the door, and pause with my hand on the handle.

“She’ll burn the whole damn world down. And I’ll be right there, holding the match.”

I leave without another word. Behind me, I hear the clink of ice in his glass. I know one thing now, crystal clear:

This isn’t business anymore. It’s personal. And the next move belongs to me.

19

ZAHARA

The message is waiting in my inbox when I return from lunch. No subject. Just a meeting request from Arthur Cross’s executive assistant.

"Arthur would like a word. ASAP."

No smiley face. No tone. Just clinical urgency wrapped in thin white font.

I pore over the screen for a full ten seconds, heart thudding low and slow in my chest.

He’s coming for me. I knew it would happen. I just didn’t think it would happen today.

Still, I accept the meeting. Stand. Smooth down the front of my blouse like armor. Check my reflection in the mirror behind the door. Calm. Composed. Queen.

Do not let him see you sweat.

The walk to Arthur’s office feels longer than it should. My heels echo in the marble hallway like I’m walking into a tribunal. I feel eyes on me from behind glass walls—people pausing, sensing something off. They don’t know what it is. But I do.

Arthur Cross has decided to make his move.

His assistant nods as I approach, her face unreadable. “You can go right in.”

Of course I can. Because he’s waiting.

Arthur is sitting at his desk like he owns the city. Sunlight hits the edge of his cufflink, scattering across the walnut wood as he sips something amber in a cut-glass tumbler.

He stands when I enter.

“Ms. Bryant,” he says, voice smooth. “So glad you could make time.”

I nod once. “You asked for me.”

He gestures to a chair opposite him. “Please. Sit.”

I do. Carefully. Not too stiff. Not too relaxed. This is a game now, and posture is part of it. Arthur settles back in his chair, swirling the liquid in his glass like he’s just casually reflecting. But his eyes? His eyes are locked in.

“I wanted to compliment you,” he begins, folding one leg over the other. “You’ve been thorough. Efficient. Sharp, even. I can see why we brought you in.”

I don’t blink. “That’s generous, considering what I’ve found so far.”

His mouth curves upward. “We’ll get to that.” He leans forward slightly, voice softening like he’s letting me in on a secret. “It’s rare to find someone who can sift through so many layers of data and find the... inconvenient truths. But I do wonder—are you sure you’re interpreting those truths correctly?”

“I only follow the numbers,” I reply. “And right now, they’re all pointing in your direction.”

That gets him. Just for a second, the smile slips. A flicker. A crack. Then it’s back.

But now I know—it’s under his skin. And I haven’t even played my ace yet.

The air shifts. Arthur sets his glass down, slow and deliberate, like he’s bracing for the next act. And then, just like that—the warmth drains from his face.

The smile disappears. The facade slips. And what’s left is something cold. Ancient. Predatory.

“I’ve done some digging of my own,” he says. He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t have to.

“I know you have a son.”

The breath catches in my throat before I can stop it. I don’t speak. Don’t move.

But something inside me—something maternal and primal—tightens like a noose.

He sees it. He leans in, elbows on the desk, fingers steepled.

“I wonder what the press would say if they learned how you managed to hide him so well. And who his father is. Or… isn’t.”

He lets the silence settle between us, a sick little pause.

“Now, I have no intention of hurting a child,” he says, feigning civility again. “But custody laws are a slippery thing. Especially when the mother is caught up in corporate espionage and slanderous accusations. You’d be surprised how easy it is to make someone look... unstable.”

My jaw tightens so hard my teeth ache.

He leans back, gaze unwavering. “So. Let’s make this easy. You walk away from the audit. Right now. I’ll make sure your contract ends with a glowing reference. We’ll even toss in a little severance. You take your son, go quietly, and no one ever has to know.”

“And if I don’t?”

His eyes harden.

“Then I make you disappear. Not with bullets. Not with scandal. But in the only way that matters—I erase your credibility. Your access. Your rights. Your child becomes someone else’s responsibility. And you? You become the cautionary tale.”

I don’t react. Not externally. Inside, it feels like I’ve been gutted. My brain is screaming. My heart is sprinting. Every instinct I have wants to flip this desk and lunge across it.

But I don’t move. Because that’s what he wants.

He wants the tears. The begging. The retreat.

Instead, I smile. Soft. Even.

“Noted,” I say.

His brows lift slightly. He wasn’t expecting calm. He was expecting fear. And I give him nothing.

I rise slowly from my seat, smoothing my hands down my sides like I’m adjusting an imaginary wrinkle. My nails are sharp. My spine is steel.

“You’re right, Mr. Cross,” I say. “This could get very messy.”

I turn to go. He doesn’t stop me.

But as I walk out of that office—shoulders square, pace measured—I know two things for certain:

He just threatened the only person who matters to me.

And now? I won’t stop until he has nothing left.

I make it to the restroom before the walls close in. I lock the door. Lean against the sink. Stare at myself in the mirror like I’m trying to remember who the hell I am.

My fingers tremble. My lungs can’t decide if they want to inhale or scream.

He said my son’s name. He knows.

I’ve spent years keeping my child protected—off records, off radar. I built walls around him thicker than concrete. Not because I’m ashamed. But because this world is cruel.

And Arthur Cross just cracked one of those walls like it was paper.

I grip the edge of the sink, knuckles white, jaw clenched. Tears burn the backs of my eyes, but I won’t let them fall. I won’t give him that. Not even in private.

Instead, I breathe. Slow. Steady. Each inhale a sharpening blade.

He wants me gone?

He wants me silent?

Then he’s more arrogant than I thought. Because this isn’t just business now. This is war.

I think of my son’s face. His laugh. The way he holds onto my hand a little longer when he knows I’m pretending to be okay.

I think of Julian. The way his voice dropped when he said I was safe. The way his eyes looked at me like I was more than this job. More than this investigation.

But I also think of the files. The signatures. The weight of the truth pressing down on all of us.

And I know what I have to do.

No more hesitating. No more hoping.

Arthur drew a line. Now I’ll erase him with it. One signature at a time.

20

JULIAN

The penthouse is silent. Zahara left for the office an hour ago, her shoulders tense, her eyes unreadable. She didn’t say where she was going. She didn’t have to.

Something’s shifted in her. I saw it in the way she walked—like every step was built on rage she didn’t want me to see. She’s not running anymore.

And neither am I.

I sit at my desk, lights dim, city sprawling out behind me in steel and glass. On the screen in front of me is the shell of the company my father built—a digital carcass dressed up in luxury branding and benevolent PR. And I’m about to rip it open.

Suspicion isn’t enough anymore.

If I’m going to bring him down, I need proof. Real proof. Not gut feelings or Zahara’s fire or even the weight of my guilt. I need signatures. Timestamps. Memos that will turn everything from conjecture to confession.

My fingers fly across the keys. I break past encrypted admin files, strip away layered access codes only Arthur and his shadow IT team thought were invisible.

One by one, folders open. The financial trail is there. Tidy. Hidden in plain sight. But I’ve seen this. Zahara’s probably already ten steps ahead.

I dig deeper.

Below the audits. Below the shell vendors. There’s a hidden directory marked B-SUB 91.

The folder icon is a dead giveaway—meant to look like archived board tax filings.

But I know Arthur better than that. So I open it. At first, it looks like junk. Random filenames. Broken strings. Nonsense.

Then I see it:

ZB-TRAIL.0319.pdf

My blood turns cold.

ZB. Zahara Bryant. I open it, hands tightening around the mouse.

The document loads slow—on purpose. It’s encrypted in layers. This isn’t public audit information. This isn’t even illegal shipment documentation. This is personal.

Line by line, it builds:

March 19, 2019 – Brooklyn, NY

Target spotted outside child-care facility. No direct contact. Photos attached.

April 3, 2020 – Harlem, NY

Subject appears to reside in rental property under false name. Target drops child off three times per week. Surveillance vehicle remained stationary.

My stomach churns.

There are photos. Grainy, long-lens images taken from across the street. Of her. Of her child.

There’s no justification for this. No strategic reason. No business defense. This isn’t about corporate protection.

This is about control. And he’s been watching her for years.

I don’t know how long I’m looking at the screen.

There’s more. So much more.

Voice notes. Internal memos with redacted author names. Logs from third-party surveillance contractors cross-referenced with Zahara’s whereabouts, addresses, routine. Even a line referencing a wire transfer to someone labeled BK-CONTACT, with a note: “discreet monitoring. No tail unless prompted.”

My father paid people—professionals—to stalk her.

And it wasn’t just her. There are photos of playgrounds. Fences. Street signs near schools.

Her son.

I feel something twist in my gut—raw and primal. I can’t breathe right. My hands grip the armrests like I might break the chair in half.

This wasn’t oversight. This was predatory. Calculated. Sick.

And the worst part? I didn’t know.

I thought I was keeping her safe. I thought I was being smart, staying close, stepping carefully while I figured out how to dismantle the empire quietly.

But while I was planning chess moves⁠—

My father was tracking her like prey.

Every moment I let her believe she was crazy for being afraid?

That’s on me.

I stand up so fast my chair tips over behind me, slamming into the floor with a thud that echoes through the room.

My fists are clenched. My jaw is tight. And something inside me snaps.

I thought I could be careful. Thought I could do this with diplomacy, with leverage, with just enough distance to come out the other side intact.

But I was wrong. This isn’t about board seats or inheritance or name.

This is about violence. About violation.

Arthur didn’t just come for the company. He came for her.

And I stood on the sidelines with my goddamn hands in my pockets thinking I could finesse justice without blood.

Not anymore. I grab my phone and take pictures of the entire file—screenshots, metadata, everything. Then I drag it all into a private encrypted vault I created years ago for blackmail insurance.

I lock it with a new name:

FALL-OF-KING.001

Because Arthur isn’t a businessman anymore. He’s a tyrant. And tyrants don’t get warnings. They get taken down.

I sit back down slowly, my chest still tight with rage, but my hands steady now.The kind of steady that comes when the decision is made. The calm before the storm.

I pull out my phone. Scroll to a name I haven’t dialed in three years.

R. Stokes. Investigative journalist. One of the last honest ones. Helped me bury a crisis that could’ve taken down half the West Coast branch a while back. I promised her a real story someday.

Looks like she’s getting it. I press call. It rings twice. Then:

“Julian Cross. Damn. I thought you were allergic to reporters.”

“Things change.”

Her tone shifts immediately. “What do you have?”

“Something big. Financials. Trafficking. Surveillance. All tied to Cross International.”

“You serious?”

“Dead.”

She exhales. “What do you want in return?”

“Nothing public. Yet. You investigate it independently. If it checks out, you do what you do.”

“And if it’s real?”

“It is.”

She’s silent for a second.

Then: “Email me the tip line. I’ll ghost the source ID.”

I hang up and start packaging the files. Encrypted, anonymous transfer.

All of it goes—surveillance logs, financials, wire transfer evidence, and a summary that points straight to Arthur’s shadow ops.

Then I back it up again. On an external drive. Labeled only.

Z.

Because if anything happens to me, she’ll need it. And maybe one day she’ll understand that this? This was the moment I stopped trying to save the legacy.

And started trying to save her.

21

ZAHARA

Camilla’s perched on the guest chair in my office, her laptop balanced on one thigh, a glazed croissant in the other. Crumbs trail across her notebook like confetti. She's scrolling fast, face scrunched in focus, and chewing like she’s got beef with the pastry.

“This sugar bomb is an insult to my blood sugar,” she mutters.

I glance up from my screen. “And yet, that’s your third one.”

She grins without looking at me. “Trauma eats. You triggered me when you walked in here yesterday looking like someone lit a match in your ribcage.”

I stiffen. She doesn’t miss it. She never does.

“Are we gonna talk about that?” she adds, voice softer.

I shake my head. “Not now.”

Because if I open that door—the Arthur door, the my-son’s-not-safe door—I won’t be able to close it again. And right now, I need to be sharp.

Not shattered. She doesn’t push, bless her. Just sips her tea and types faster.

We’re surrounded by files. Two laptops. Three tablets. Six printouts, all spread across my desk like a digital autopsy. The bones of Cross International are right here in front of us, waiting to be named.

I pull up the shipping manifest from Singapore again. My gut says the link’s here. Somewhere in the timing. The routing. The name.

We just haven’t seen it yet. “Hold up,” Camilla says suddenly, voice sharp.

I glance over.

She swivels her screen toward me. A payment record. Offshore vendor. Marked: Moreno Industries.

“You see this name? They’re listed as a logistics partner in three of the smuggling manifests we flagged last week.”

I narrow my eyes. The name tickles something at the edge of memory.

“Moreno…”

Camilla taps her screen again. “I ran it through OFAC—Victor Moreno. The company’s registered under his name. Look at the trail.”

I follow her cursor. Bank accounts in Panama. Cyprus. A closed holding company in Dubai. DEA flagged it once. No formal charges.

“Where’d you pull this?”

“Deep archive. It was buried in a dormant invoice system—not even connected to the active ledger. Someone didn’t want us to find it.”

I start typing furiously. Google. Legal filings. Court transcripts.

And there he is. Victor Moreno. Former logistics director for a cartel-affiliated supply chain front in Venezuela. Acquitted in 2015. Vanished for two years. Reappeared as a “consultant” for global relief networks.

And three months later? He’s hired quietly into Cross International under off-the-books approval.

My pulse jumps. Camilla leans back, smug. “I knew that name was dirty.”

Dirty is an understatement. Moreno isn’t just a contractor. He’s the pipeline. And someone high up gave him the keys.

Camilla and I sit in a heavy silence as the information spills across our screens.

“Okay, here’s what I’ve got,” she says, scrolling fast. “Moreno was arrested in Cartagena in 2015—DEA sting. Smuggling heroin through diplomatic shipments under a humanitarian cover. Charges dismissed due to ‘insufficient evidence,’ which really means someone with deep pockets or dark leverage pulled strings.”

I grit my teeth. “Let me guess… those strings led to Cross?”

“Bingo.” She clicks again. “Three months later, Moreno resurfaces in Dubai. Then Geneva. Then quietly signs on as a ‘logistics consultant’ to Cross International’s global humanitarian relief division. No press. No public-facing employment record. But he’s got clearance on internal shipping manifests and budget reallocations.”

I lean in. “And these budget reallocations?”

Camilla grins like a cat with a murder board. “Exactly where the aid shipments were altered. Five shipments total. One flagged for excessive weight compared to declared inventory. Three routed through Southeast Asia with unconfirmed delivery recipients.”

I scroll down. There it is. “VM” initials in margin notes. Approval code: AC-013.

My stomach drops. AC, Arthur Cross.

It’s not just Victor. He’s the implement. Arthur is the engine.

I sit back, the tension pressing against my ribs like a coiled spring.

Arthur knew. He’s not the kind of man to miss something like this. He doesn’t hire ghosts and give them keys to his empire without knowing exactly what they’re bringing through the door.

Camilla watches me, eyes narrowed. “You think your boss knows?”

“I think he’s the one who brought Moreno in.”

She swears under her breath. “That explains why half of Moreno’s invoices are coded under that ‘emergency response’ label—your father-in-law—sorry, your whatever-he-is—made them bulletproof with charity language.”

I don’t correct her. Can’t.

Because if she’s right, and Arthur not only approved Moreno but shielded him?

Then this isn't just corruption. It's complicity.

The way he threatened me. The way he talked about erasing me, like it was a game of chess and I was just a pawn in the way of his king⁠—

Now it makes sense. This is his legacy. And he’ll burn anyone to protect it.

Including me.

My fingers attack my laptop.

No hesitation. No second-guessing.

Camilla’s already pulling screen captures, flagging metadata, cross-referencing shipping records. I’ve got three email chains open, two spreadsheets, and the beginnings of a draft marked “Formal Submission – Criminal Evidence.”

But this isn’t going out yet. Not until it’s airtight. Not until Arthur Cross can’t weasel out with a donation or a headline.

I’m building a dossier that leaves no room for interpretation. No plausible deniability. I want names. Numbers. Digital receipts. I want the story so well told, the authorities will hear it before I even hit send.

Camilla slides a USB across the desk. “Everything I’ve pulled today is backed up here. Clean. Untraceable. You don’t leave without this in your bra.”

I smirk, but there’s steel in my smile. “You think I won’t?”

“You’re a damn lioness,” she mutters, loading another file. “He doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.”

I pause. Because I think he does. That’s why he tried to break me. That’s why he threatened my son.

He knows I won’t run. And now?

I don’t just want justice.

I want destruction.

But it’s not time to strike yet. Not until I have the last piece—the one name at the top of the hierarchy. The one who signed the final approval for Victor Moreno’s clearance.

I have a feeling I already know who it is. But I want it confirmed. Because when this goes public? I want the sound of the fall to echo.

22

JULIAN

Idon’t knock. I don’t make an appointment.

I walk into Arthur’s office like it’s already mine, because at last—I’m not playing his game. I’m ending it.

He looks up from behind his fortress of glass and wood, unbothered, like I’m a calendar notification that arrived early.

“Julian,” he says smoothly, “to what do I owe⁠—”

I slam the file down. Hard. A thick folder, tabbed and labeled, fresh off my own encrypted server. Inside: timestamped surveillance logs, GPS data, photos. Of her. Of her child.

He glances at the folder. Doesn’t touch it. Doesn’t even flinch.

My voice cuts like glass.

“How long have you been tracking her?”

His eyes flick back to mine—measured, cool. “Long enough.”

I blink. Long enough?

I’m furious. I step closer.

“You’ve had people watching her for years, Arthur. Watching her walk to daycare. Following her through airports. You had her child in your files⁠—”

“I had reason,” he says calmly, cutting me off. “You weren’t thinking clearly. She shows up after years, poking around sensitive contracts, pulling threads that could unravel everything. I needed to know what she was hiding.”

“You think that justifies this?”

He lifts a brow. “Wouldn’t you want to know if a woman you once loved was hiding something dangerous from you?”

His voice is steady. Mine isn’t.

“I was trying to protect her.”

He gives me a tight-lipped smile. “You were playing house with a loaded gun under the mattress.”

I shake my head, my fists tight at my sides.

“You violated her privacy. You endangered her⁠—”

“I protected you,” he snaps. “You think she came back for justice? For some noble audit?”

His tone drops, silk wrapped around poison.

“She came back with secrets. Lies. Loose ends she doesn’t want tied up.”

I glare at him. “Stop talking in riddles.”

He smirks. And then he says it.

“The boy. Roughly six, right?”

Everything in my body stills. Arthur leans back like he’s savoring a fine whiskey. “Interesting timeline. Conception would’ve been… oh, about seven years ago. Around the time you were still playing the noble son and she was packing up her idealism and leaving you behind.”

My heartbeat becomes thunder in my ears.

“You’re lying.”

His expression doesn’t change.

“Am I? I don’t lie, Julian. I gather data. I connect dots. You used to be good at that too.”

I step back, breath sharp, brain scrambling to process. Arthur’s eyes narrow slightly. “You really didn’t know, did you?”

Softly, with venom, “She kept your son from you.”

I take a sharp breath. It’s brief—less than a second—but Arthur sees it. And he smiles.

“You didn’t know,” he says, almost sounding surprised. “God, she really did play you.”

I say nothing. Because I’m trying to hear through the roar in my ears. Through the white-noise panic blaring in my chest.

My son. My son?

“Six years,” Arthur continues, like he’s narrating a documentary. “That’s a long time to keep something like that hidden, don’t you think? You’d think she might’ve mentioned it when she walked back into your life. When she started sleeping under your roof.”

He leans forward now, elbows on the desk, voice low and conspiratorial.

“Or maybe she was waiting for the right time to cash in.”

That breaks something.

“Stop,” I bite out.

“You think I’m the villain here?” Arthur scoffs. “I didn’t hide a child from you. I didn’t use that child to get close to a billion-dollar empire. She did that.”

“She hasn’t asked me for a dime,” I snap.

“She doesn’t have to,” he replies, cool and smug. “She’s already got you by the throat.”

And then, just like that, Arthur softens. Drops the iron glove. Replaces it with silk.

He folds his hands neatly, voice gentling like a lullaby.

“But we can fix this.”

I laugh. Bitter. “Fix this?”

“Yes.” His tone is level. Convincing. Like he’s offering a business plan.

“We protect the child. Discreetly. Quietly. We bring him into the fold. No press. No scandal. We offer Zahara a graceful exit. You stay here. You stay with me. And I ensure your future—and his—is secure.”

“You’re talking about a six-year-old like he’s a stock portfolio.”

“I’m talking about your legacy,” Arthur snaps. “Don’t be stupid, Julian. This child is Cross blood. Whether you planned it or not, he’s part of this. And that makes him a target—unless we take control.”

My fists tighten at my sides. Arthur leans in again, eyes cold and sure. “You want to keep him safe? Then you stay where I can protect him. From Zahara. From scandal. From himself.”

I stare at him. Unfortunately, now I finally understand who my father really is.

Not a leader. Not a strategist. A manipulator. A man who thinks love is leverage. And safety is a leash.

I don’t speak. Not right away. I let the silence sit between us like fog, thick and stifling, a weight Arthur clearly expects me to crack under.

But I won’t. Because in this moment, I see everything clearly for the first time.

I see the games he’s played for decades. The way he weaponizes truth. How he frames destruction as protection and control as loyalty. I see how he’s turned every bond into leverage—and every legacy into a leash.

And I realize:

He didn’t just spy on Zahara.

He prepared to own her. He didn’t just uncover a child.

He saw a pawn.

And somewhere between the rage and the shock and the thousand questions still ripping through my brain like shrapnel, I find something else.

Resolve.

My voice is low. Even. “You had no right.”

Arthur leans back, hands folded again. “I had every right. I’m the only one keeping this family intact.”

“No,” I say softly. “You’re the reason it’s falling apart.”

I turn to leave. No threats. No dramatics.

Just a slow, measured walk to the door, the sting of betrayal burning in my chest like a second heartbeat.

I reach for the handle. Arthur calls after me. “Julian—don’t be emotional.” I glance back, just once.

And my voice is quiet but sharp enough to slice marble.

“This isn’t emotion. It’s clarity.”

And then I’m gone. Out of the office. Out of his world. I no longer feel bound by my name.

I feel free. But freedom doesn’t come clean. It comes with a price.

I’m about to find out exactly what Zahara kept from me—and what kind of man I need to be if I want to stand beside her.

Not as Julian Cross, heir to a kingdom of rot. But as something new. Something worthy.

23

ZAHARA

The burner’s cool and smooth in my hand. No contacts saved. No GPS. No memory. Just a clean, sterile line out of this life and into whatever comes next.

I’m sitting on the bed in Julian’s penthouse—his sheets still smelling like cedar and spice, a scent that still gives me butterflies. But I feel like a stranger here now. I feel watched, even with the cameras off.

The call connects after the second ring. “Z?” Camilla’s voice is soft, alert. “Are you okay?”

“I’m leaving,” I say, no preamble.

There’s a pause.

“Leaving what?”

“New York. The penthouse. All of it.”

Silence again, then: “What happened?”

“Arthur knows about the baby.”

That’s all I say. She doesn’t ask how. She doesn’t need to.

“Oh God,” she breathes. “Where are you going?”

“Someplace quiet. Off the grid. A friend upstate has a cabin. No internet, no cameras. Just enough signal to move the investigation forward without setting off alarm bells.”

“Z, does Julian know?”

“He will.”

Another pause.

“You’re scared.”

“No,” I say. And I mean it.

I’m not scared. I’m furious.

The duffel bag on the bed is half-packed.

Jeans. Hoodies. A burner laptop Camilla modified with secure encryption. A flash drive tucked in the lining of my toiletry case.

My fingers move quickly, almost automatically, but my brain is chaos.

I keep thinking about the way Julian looked at me last night. Like he was starting to see all of me—not just the auditor, not just the ghost from his past. Like maybe he was trying to understand.

And now I’m walking out before he gets the chance to. But this isn’t about feelings anymore. This is about survival.

I zip the duffel shut and glance around the room—clean, sleek, sterile. The kind of place that whispers wealth but never offers warmth. I thought I could breathe here. I was wrong.

I pause by the nightstand, hand resting on the edge. My heart aches for what might’ve been. But my purpose won’t let me mourn. There’s too much left to uncover.

And the boy sleeping in Brooklyn under a fake last name?

He’s worth every ounce of the storm I’m about to bring.

I toss a scarf into the duffel, and suddenly I’m back there. In that tiny walk-up apartment in Philly. The one with the rust-stained tub and the neighbors who yelled at 3 a.m. My fingers were swollen. My ankles hurt. I was twenty-two, pregnant, alone, and more terrified than I’ve ever been in my life.

No job. No degree finished. No plan. But I had resolve.

I remember staring at a baby registry I couldn’t afford and whispering, You’re going to have everything they tried to take from me.

The memory hits hard and uninvited. The smell of old paint. The way I cried into my pillow the night I realized I’d never be able to call Julian.

He didn’t know. And I didn’t tell him.

Because deep down, I couldn’t be sure he’d choose us over them. And if he didn’t? It would’ve broken me.

I zip the bag, swallowing hard. My fingers linger at the edge, gripping it like it might fly away if I let go.

“I’m not that girl anymore,” I whisper into the empty room. “I don’t run. I relocate and rebuild.”

Because this isn’t about fear. It’s about strategy.

And the only thing stronger than a mother’s love… Is a woman with nothing left to lose.

I find a pad in the kitchen drawer—stationery, of course. Monogrammed with a gold JC. Even his notepads are curated.

I grip the pen tighter than I should and write the words before I can second guess them.

This isn’t over. Don’t follow me. That’s it. No “I’m sorry.” No “Here’s what you need to know.”

Because this isn’t a goodbye. This is a boundary. A warning.

I fold the note once and set it dead center on the marble kitchen island, the paper too small for the weight it carries. My fingers hover over it a second too long. Then I step back.

I walk to the bedroom one last time. Grab the flash drive Camilla gave me and tuck it inside the small inner zipper of the duffel. Not in the laptop. Not in anything digital. Just hard, physical truth tucked into canvas and resolve.

Because what I have now?

It’s concrete proof.

And Arthur Cross doesn’t get to write my ending.

The elevator dings softly, and I freeze. My fingers wrap tighter around the duffel strap.

It’s probably nothing—just another tenant, another delivery. But I can’t take that chance. Not with what I’m carrying. Not with what I know.

I slip through the penthouse door without a sound. No heels. Just sneakers and adrenaline.

The hallway outside is still, wrapped in the kind of hush that makes you feel like you’re doing something wrong.

But I’m not. I’m doing what I have to do. Every step toward the elevator feels like an earthquake under my ribs. My heartbeat is loud in my ears, drowning out everything else.

I press the button. Wait. Breathe.

When the doors open, I step in fast, hit the lobby button, and turn so I’m facing the doors.

If Julian walks in right now, if he calls out my name—God help me, I don’t know what I’d do. But he doesn’t.

And I don’t wait to find out. The doors close. And it’s done.

Down. Down. Down.

I don’t exhale until I’m on the street, the wind slapping my cheeks like it’s trying to wake me up. Manhattan hums like it always does, indifferent to the war I’m walking into.

The rideshare pulls up, dark windows, unassuming.

I climb in. Pull my hood up. Press the USB deeper into the bag like it’s a piece of me.

The driver doesn’t speak. And neither do I. I don’t need to.

Because this isn’t an escape.

This is a detour.

And when I come back?

Arthur won’t be king. He’ll be rubble.

24

ZAHARA

The city blurs behind me like a fever dream I’m finally waking up from.

Outside the tinted window, Manhattan gives way to suburbs, then stretches of open highway—gray and cracked and lined with gas stations that all look the same. The world gets quieter with every mile, but my nerves won’t settle.

I sit curled in the back seat, hoodie up, fingers curled around the burner phone like it’s the last thing tethering me to sanity. My duffel’s beside me, zipped tight, holding the truth like a live wire.

The driver doesn’t talk much. Middle-aged. Friendly in a passive way. He’s got country music on low, and he whistles like we’re on a casual Sunday drive.

I can’t relax. Not yet. Not until I’m gone.

We pull into a gas station—one of those lonely, fluorescent-lit places with a single pump and a dusty convenience store behind plexiglass.

“I’m gonna go pay inside,” the driver says over his shoulder.

I nod. “I’ll wait here.” The engine clicks off. The silence wraps around me instantly, too thick, too still.

I pull my knees up, rest my chin on them, and exhale slowly. Try to focus. Try to breathe.

Almost out. Almost safe. But something about the quiet feels... wrong. At first, it’s just a shift in shadow. Then a flicker in the corner of my eye.

I turn toward the window.

And freeze. Arthur.

Standing there, just outside the car door like he’s been waiting for this exact moment. Like he’s part of the scenery. Polished. Immaculate. Predatory.

I don’t have time to scream. To move. To react. The door opens with a soft click.

He slides into the passenger seat like we’re about to discuss brunch reservations. Like he belongs here.

He adjusts his coat, smooths one cufflink, and turns his head toward me with that ever-present, hollow smile.

“Hello, Zahara.”

Arthur doesn’t look at me right away.

He gazes through the windshield, watching the gas station flicker in the reflection of the glass like we’re parked outside a luxury theater, waiting for the lights to dim.

“You really thought you could just disappear?” he says casually. “Cute.”

I don’t answer. I don’t move.

My pulse is screaming in my ears, but my face? Stone cold.

“You’re smarter than this, Zahara,” he continues, still not facing me. “Running only makes it worse. For you. For your son.”

He turns his head then—slow, deliberate—and his smile is razor-thin. “Did you think we wouldn’t find out?”

I still say nothing. My fingers twitch slightly against the seam of my hoodie.

Arthur leans back like he’s settling into a fireside chat. “He’s beautiful. You know that? He’s got your eyes.”

My throat tightens.

“You’ve been sloppy,” he says. “Too many digital traces. Too many soft spots. And for a woman so determined to protect her child, you left quite a trail.”

He pulls a folded paper from his coat. Holds it up, then tucks it away without letting me see it.

“Custody filings,” he murmurs. “Drafted, not filed. Yet.”

Then he looks at me again—really looks at me.

“I can bury you, Zahara. In court. In reputation. You walk away from this... I let you go. Him too. You keep going? And I’ll make sure he forgets your face.”

The words don’t come like a threat. They come like inevitability. Like a god offering mercy.

I can feel my hands trembling in my lap. I slide them deeper into my sleeves. He doesn’t get to see that.

He doesn’t get to see anything.

I lift my chin, lock eyes with him, and let the silence speak louder than any scream. He’s expecting panic. What he gets is precision.

I study him—the way his fingers twitch with anticipation, the faintest glint of enjoyment in his eyes. He’s not here just to threaten.

He’s entertaining himself.

This is a game to him. The long play. Power layered in quiet. Violence wrapped in civility.

I finally understand the full weight of what Julian lived under.

What he’s still trying to escape.

Arthur smiles again, like we’ve reached some kind of unspoken agreement.

“I don’t want to ruin your life, Zahara. I just want you to know... I can.”

He opens the car door slowly. Smoothly. Pauses just before stepping out.

“Think about what matters to you most. Then ask yourself if it’s worth losing to prove a point.”

Then he’s gone. Just like that. Like he was never there at all.

The absence of Arthur’s presence is somehow louder than when he was sitting beside me.

I stare straight ahead, heart still pounding, fingers still curled so tightly into the fabric of my hoodie I might rip the seams. My body is vibrating with the kind of fear that makes you want to scream. Run. Hide.

But I don’t. I breathe. Once. Twice. Slow. I reach for my phone—but stop.

What would I even say?

“Hey Cam, Arthur popped out of the shadows like the devil in a damn Brooks Brothers suit?”

No.

This moment belongs to me.

The driver returns, slinging the receipt into the dash like it’s just another Tuesday.

“All good,” he says cheerfully. “Need a snack or anything before we get back on the road?”

I shake my head. “No. Just drive.”

He nods and pulls out of the lot, humming to himself like the world hasn’t just been cracked open in the parking space next to the pump.

I stare out the window as we merge back onto the highway. He’s everywhere. Arthur Cross doesn’t just have reach. He has rot.

It moves in shadows, through systems. Legal. Personal. Psychological.

And now I know—He won’t stop.

Not until he owns everything. My child. My voice. My peace.

Unless I burn it all down first.

My fingers twitch again. But not from fear this time. From calculation.

Because now? It’s not about surviving Arthur. It’s about ending him.

25

ZAHARA

The farther we drive, the tighter my chest gets. Trees blur past the window, gray and bare. The horizon stretches flat and featureless. It should feel like freedom—but all I feel is guilt.

And fear. Not the kind Arthur trades in—cold, calculated, strategic.

This is deeper. Personal. Because I know what I’ve done.

I let Julian look at me. Let him hold me. Let him almost kiss me. All while keeping the biggest truth of our lives locked behind my ribs like a secret I couldn’t afford to breathe.

But it’s not just about him anymore. It’s about our son.

If Arthur is willing to show up in a damn gas station, he’s willing to do worse. And if Julian doesn’t know the truth from me? Then Arthur wins. He owns the story.

I lean forward.

“Please turn around,” I say to the driver, voice low.

He glances at me through the rearview, confused. “You sure? We’re almost out of the city limits.”

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

He exhales, clearly annoyed. “Lady, you’re gonna rack up a whole damn fare.”

“I’ll cover it.”

He shakes his head and pulls into the next U-turn, muttering under his breath. But I barely hear him.

Every mile back toward the city feels like walking into a fire I set myself. By the time we pull up in front of the penthouse building, it’s just after seven.

The sky’s turning a dull, bruised shade of gray. The doorman gives me a look—half surprise, half disapproval. I don’t care. I nod once and push through the glass doors, my bag heavy on my shoulder, my steps heavier still.

Elevator up. Pulse pounding. Don’t rehearse. Just say it.

I step into the penthouse—and stop cold. Julian’s already there.

Standing by the kitchen island, hands braced against the marble, head slightly bowed. There’s a tumbler of something dark and expensive sitting in front of him, untouched.

He looks up when I walk in. And I wish—God, I wish—I could unread his face.

There’s no shock. No curiosity. Just quiet fury. I feel my throat close.

“Julian—”

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just watches me, eyes dark, jaw tight. The silence between us is loud enough to shatter glass.

I close the door softly behind me and drop my bag on the floor.

“I came back because I need to tell you something. Something I should’ve told you a long time ago.”

Still, no response. But something in his stillness shifts. A flicker behind his eyes.

I take a shaky breath.

“I came back to tell you about... our son.”

That’s when he moves. One slow step forward. “You’re late,” he says, voice low. “Arthur already did.”

My mouth is dry. Everything I’d planned to say—every carefully chosen word, every explanation I practiced on the way back here—fractures under the weight of that one line.

I blink, trying to process. “He—he told you?”

Julian nods once. Sharp. Cold. My stomach knots.

“I didn’t want you to find out that way,” I say quickly, voice cracking. “That wasn’t the plan⁠—”

“Was there a plan?” His voice cuts across mine like a blade. “Or were you just going to wait until it suited you?”

The accusation lands hard.

“No,” I whisper. “Julian, I swear, I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I just... I didn’t know how.”

“You didn’t know how?” He laughs, bitter and sharp. “You had six years.”

I flinch.

“I thought I was protecting him,” I say, desperate now. “From your family. From Arthur. From this whole world.”

Julian’s eyes flare. “You don’t get to decide what I’m dangerous to.”

I take a shaky step forward. “I wasn’t sure how to tell you. I was scared. I didn’t know if you would’ve stood by me back then.”

His jaw clenches so tight I swear I can hear it creak.

“You should’ve trusted me.”

I open my mouth. Close it. Because I did trust him. I just didn’t trust his world.

And now? We’re both drowning in the aftermath.

Julian slams his glass down on the counter so hard the liquor splashes over the rim.

“I have a son, Zahara.”

The words are low and guttural, not a shout—but worse. The kind of restrained rage that comes from being completely, utterly shattered.

“A whole child. Out there. Living. Breathing. While I was...”

He stops. Runs a hand through his hair.

“I missed everything. His first word. His first steps. I didn’t even know his name.”

I whisper it. Julian flinches.

“I should’ve been there,” he snaps. “And you let me believe you left because we weren’t working out. Because it was too hard.”

“It was too hard,” I fire back, voice rising now. “You don’t know what it was like. I was twenty-two, pregnant, terrified. I didn’t have power. I didn’t have protection. All I had was a choice—to let him grow up in the shadow of Arthur Cross, or to walk away.”

“And you made that choice for me.”

I bite my lip. Because he’s not wrong. But he’s not entirely right either.

“I was trying to survive,” I whisper. “You were still tethered to a man I didn’t trust to babysit a dog, let alone co-grandparent a child.”

Julian’s eyes darken. “So you erased me.”

“No,” I say. “I protected us.”

He shakes his head like he doesn’t know what to do with me—like he wants to scream, but the scream is stuck behind too many other emotions.

Anger. Grief. Love. Loss.

Julian’s pacing now. One hand on his jaw. One fist clenched like he’s trying not to put it through a wall.

“You made me into the villain,” he snaps. “You lumped me in with him.”

“I didn’t know who you’d become,” I shoot back. “You were so far inside your father’s orbit—how was I supposed to believe you wouldn’t choose him over me?”

“You didn’t even ask, Zahara!”

“And would it have mattered?” My voice cracks open, jagged. “Would you have dropped everything? Would you have fought for us?”

Julian stops. Dead still. His eyes burn.

“I would’ve fought for him.” His voice drops, deadly low. “I would’ve fought to be his father. And you didn’t even give me the chance.”

There’s a beat of silence so thick it makes my skin itch. Then I whisper the only thing I know is true.

“I didn’t think you’d forgive me.”

His expression changes—just for a second. Softens, cracks at the edges. But it’s gone just as fast.

“I’m not sure I can, he says.

My chest caves in. I deserve that. I deserve worse.

I nod once, slow and mechanical. Turn away before he can see the tears pooling in my eyes.

“I’m gonna stay in the guest room,” I say, voice hollow.

He doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t say a word.

I gather my bag and walk down the hallway like my body weighs twice what it did an hour ago. I pause at the guest room door, hand on the handle, heart screaming. And I finally let the tears fall.

Not because I told him the truth. But because it might’ve cost me the only man I’ve ever loved.

I sink onto the edge of the bed and bury my face in my hands. I did what I had to do. I protected my son. I survived Arthur.

But I may have just lost Julian. For good.

26

JULIAN

Istand in the kitchen like the walls just caved in. The glass in my hand is warm now, the ice melted into something that tastes like regret. I drain it in one swallow. It doesn’t burn nearly enough.

Zahara’s words loop over and over in my head.

“I didn’t think you’d forgive me.”

And maybe she’s right. Because I don’t know if that’s possible. Six years.

A son.

A whole lifetime I wasn’t allowed into, because she didn’t believe I’d fight for it. For him. For her.

I brace both hands on the counter, staring down into the empty glass like it might give me something solid to hold on to. It doesn’t.

The silence in the penthouse is brutal. Thick with everything we didn’t say—and everything we did.

She’s in the guest room. Hiding, maybe. Or bracing herself for me to leave.

But I’m not leaving. Not yet. Not without answers.

I grab the edge of the counter one more time—dig my fingers into it until the marble bites—and then I turn and stalk down the hallway like I’m heading into a war I already know I’ll lose.

The door to the guest room is cracked. She didn’t even close it. Like she’s waiting.

I shove it open hard enough to rattle the frame.

Zahara jerks upright from where she’s sitting on the bed. Her eyes are red. She’s barefoot. Her shoulders tense, but her chin doesn’t drop.

Good. Let her meet my gaze when I tear this open.

“You were gonna leave,” I say, voice low, dangerous. “After all of that—you were just gonna vanish again.”

“I wasn’t,” she says quietly. “I was⁠—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

She flinches. And I hate myself for the way that makes me feel—sick and satisfied all at once.

“You let me believe you were just doing a job. That this was about business.” My voice is rising now, uncontrolled. “And the whole time, you had a son. My son.”

“I had no idea how to tell you,” she says, shaking her head. “Julian⁠—”

“Bullshit,” I snap. “You didn’t want to. That’s what this is. You didn’t trust me enough to tell me I’m a father.”

She stands now, meeting me eye to eye. “And you think this was easy for me? You think I wasn’t dying every time I looked at you and couldn’t say it?”

I step forward, chest tight. “I think you decided for both of us.”

And I can’t tell if I’m furious because I’m right... Or because she’s crying and I still want to touch her.

“I gave you space,” I snap. “I tried to respect the fact that we were different people now. That maybe there was a reason you walked away.”

Her jaw tightens.

“But you didn’t walk away from me, Zahara. You walked away from him. And you stayed gone.”

“You think I wanted that?” she throws back, her voice rising now too. “You think I woke up every morning thrilled that he didn’t know his father? That I had to explain why other kids had two parents at parent night and he had me?”

I pace. I can’t sit still. I can’t even breathe right. My hands are shaking and I can’t identify if it’s from rage or grief or this sharp, messy thing called loss.

“You said you didn’t trust my world,” I say, my voice dropping like a threat. “But you didn’t just cut out Arthur. You cut me.”

“I didn’t know where Arthur ended and you began!” she shouts. “You were so wrapped up in him—what was I supposed to do? Risk everything on the hope that you’d choose differently?”

“I would’ve.”

The silence that follows that is worse than the yelling. Because I believe it. And so does she.

We’re both breathing like we just ran through a battlefield.

She sinks back onto the edge of the bed, head in her hands.

“I didn’t want this,” she whispers. “I wanted to tell you. A hundred times. But every time I tried, it felt like I was setting fire to whatever we were trying to rebuild.”

“And now?”

She looks up at me.

“I guess we’re already burning.”

I should say something. Should walk away. But I can’t.

In this moment, all I can see is the curve of her shoulder trembling, the way her eyes are glassed over but locked on mine. Like she’s waiting to see if I’ll break next.

And I do. I cross the room and sit beside her—close enough that our knees touch, close enough that I can feel the heat of her skin under all that pain.

My voice is barely a breath.

“We’ve both been broken for a long time.”

She nods once. I reach out. Not because I’m ready to forgive.

But because I’m done trying not to feel.

Her eyes flick to my hand resting between us. Then to my face.

She’s not crying anymore. But she looks wrecked in a way I’ve never seen. Like she’s not holding anything back now. Not the fear. Not the guilt. Not the want.

“I don’t even know what to say to you right now,” she whispers.

“You don’t have to say anything.”

I lift my hand and brush my fingers across her arm, slow and deliberate.

She doesn’t pull away. And that’s all the invitation I need.

I shift closer, our knees pressed side by side, and suddenly the air between us feels too thick to breathe. My fingertips trail the inside of her palm, memorizing the calluses, the warmth, the history.

We don’t speak. There’s nothing left to say. Everything is already between us—raw, open, jagged.

My other hand rises, cupping the side of her face. Her eyes flutter closed for just a second, then snap open again.

Still locked on mine.

“I’m not trying to erase the past,” she murmurs.

“I don’t care,” I whisper. “I just want right now.”

I lean in—slow enough that she can stop me, fast enough that I might not survive it if she does.

But she doesn’t.

Our foreheads touch first. Then her nose brushes mine. Then her lips—soft, velvety, familiar—press against my mouth like a prayer.

And for a heartbeat, we stop being enemies. Stop being broken.

We just are.

Her lips are a slow fire against mine, and I’m already losing myself in the heat of her. My hand tightens on the back of her neck, pulling her closer, and she lets out a breath that’s half gasp, half surrender. Her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt, tugging me toward her like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she doesn’t hold on tight enough.

“Zahara,” I murmur against her mouth, my voice rough, broken. I don’t even know what I’m asking for. More of her? All of her? It doesn’t matter. She’s already giving it.

She shifts, pressing into me, and her hands slide up my chest, pushing my jacket off my shoulders. It falls to the floor with a soft thud, forgotten. Her fingers are quick, impatient, fumbling with the buttons of my shirt. I don’t stop her—I can’t. Instead, I work on her dress, my hands sliding down her sides to grip the hem.

“This,” I say, my voice low and ragged, “needs to come off.”

She laughs, a breathy, nervous sound that makes my chest ache. “You’re not exactly being subtle about it.”

“Subtlety’s overrated,” I growl, yanking the dress up and over her head in one swift motion. She’s sitting there in nothing but a black lace bra and matching panties, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.

“You’re staring,” she says, her voice teasing but her cheeks flushed.

“Can’t help it.” My hands are on her hips, pulling her against me. “You’re…”

“Say it,” she whispers, her lips brushing against my jaw.

“Perfect,” I finish, and then I kiss her again, deeper this time, my tongue sliding against hers. She moans into my mouth, and the sound goes straight to my cock. I tug at her bra, and she reaches behind her to unhook it, letting it fall to the floor.

Her hands are back on me, pushing my shirt off, and I let her. She drags her nails down my chest, and I shudder, grabbing her by the waist and lifting her onto my lap. She lets out a small yelp, but it’s swallowed by my mouth on hers.

I pull back just enough to look at her—really look at her. Her hair is a mess, her lips swollen, her chest rising and falling with each breath. She’s beautiful. God, she’s always been beautiful.

Her fingers find the waistband of my pants, and she looks up at me, her eyes dark. “These too.”

I kick them off without bothering to argue. She’s already reaching for me, her hands exploring, and I let her. For once, I let her take control.

Her lips find my neck, and then my shoulder, and then she’s pushing me back onto the bed, her body pressing into mine. Her skin is hot against me, and I can’t think straight. All I know is her, and this, and the way she’s looking at me like I’m the only thing that matters in the world.

“Zahara,” I murmur, my hands sliding up her back.

“Don’t talk,” she whispers, her breath warm against my skin. “Not tonight.”

And I don’t. Because tonight, there’s nothing to say. Just her, and me, and the heat of us together.

Zahara’s hands slide down my hips, and she pulls my pants off in one smooth motion. I’m completely bare now, lying back on the bed, and she’s staring at me like I’m the only thing in the universe. Her eyes are dark, hungry, and I can feel the heat of her gaze like a physical touch.

“You’re not getting away with this,” she says, her voice low and teasing. “Not this time.”

“Oh,” I growl, but she doesn’t give me a chance to say more. Her hands are on my thighs, pushing them apart, and then her mouth is on me, hot and wet and perfect. I groan, my head falling back against the pillows, and my hands fist in the sheets as she takes me deeper.

She’s relentless, her tongue working magic, and I’m already on the edge before I can even think to stop her. “Zahara,” I manage, my voice rough, “if you keep that up, I’m not gonna last.”

She pulls back just enough to look up at me, her lips swollen and her eyes glinting with mischief. “Good,” she says, and then she’s back at it, her mouth sucking and her tongue teasing until I’m gritting my teeth to keep from coming undone.

Just when I’m about to lose it, she stops, pulling away with a wicked smile. “Not yet,” she murmurs, and before I can protest, she’s straddling me, her body sliding down onto mine, taking me in slow, delicious inches.

I groan, my hands tightening in hers as she rocks against me, setting a pace that’s both demanding and desperate. She’s loud, her cries filling the room, and I don’t care who hears us. All that matters is her, and this, and the way she feels around me, like she’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.

Her body moves against mine, a rhythm that’s as natural as breathing, as inevitable as the tide. I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but feel her. Her hands grip my shoulders, her nails digging into my skin, and I groan, the sound ripped from somewhere deep inside me.

“Zahara,” I growl, my voice rough, broken. “God, you feel⁠—”

“Don’t talk,” she gasps, her hips rolling against mine, her breath hot against my neck. “Feel me.”

I do. I feel everything. The way her body clenches around me, the way her breath hitches when I thrust deeper, the way her hands slide down my chest, leaving trails of fire in their wake. She’s everywhere, all at once, and I’m drowning in her.

Her lips find mine, and the kiss is messy, desperate, all teeth and tongue and heat. I can taste her, feel her, and it’s too much and not enough all at once. My hands slide down her back, gripping her buttocks, pulling her closer, deeper, and she moans into my mouth, the sound vibrating through me.

“Julian,” she whispers, her voice trembling, and I know she’s close. I can feel it in the way her body tightens, in the way her breath comes in short, sharp gasps. “I’m⁠—”

“I know,” I murmur, my lips brushing against hers. “Let go.”

And she does. Her body shudders, her head falling back, and she cries out, her voice raw and unfiltered. I hold her through it, my hands steady on her skin, my own release building, threatening to overwhelm me.

“Zahara,” I groan, my voice rough, desperate. “I can’t⁠—”

“Don’t stop,” she gasps, her hands gripping my shoulders, her nails digging into my skin. “Please, don’t stop.”

I don’t. I can’t. My hips buck against hers, driving deeper, harder, and then I’m coming undone, my body shaking, my vision blurring. She collapses against me, her breath hot against my skin, her body still trembling.

“Julian,” she gasps, her hips rolling against mine, and I can’t hold back anymore. My hands slide up and down her back, gripping her hips as I thrust up into her, meeting her rhythm with my own. She’s close, I can feel it in the way her body tightens around me, and I’m right there with her, teetering on the edge.

Her nails dig into my chest, and she throws her head back with a cry that’s almost a scream. I follow her over, my release crashing through me like a tidal wave, and for a moment, the world ceases to exist. It’s just her, and me, and the raw, unfiltered truth of us.

We stay like that for a moment, tangled together, our breaths mingling, our hearts pounding in sync. Her fingers trace lazy patterns on my chest, and I can’t help but smile, despite everything.

“That was—” she starts, her voice soft, hesitant.

“Yeah,” I finish, my voice just as rough. “It was.”

She laughs, a soft, breathy sound that makes my chest ache. “You’re such a poet.”

“Shut up,” I growl, but there’s no heat in it. I pull her closer, my arms wrapping around her, and she sighs, her body relaxing against mine.

We don’t talk. We don’t need to. For now, this is enough.

27

ZAHARA

The first thing I feel is warmth. Not sunlight.

Him.

Julian’s arm is heavy across my waist, his breath soft against my skin. The sheets are tangled around us, the room still dim with the quiet gold of early morning, and for a second—just a second—I let myself believe that maybe the rest of it didn’t happen.

Maybe it’s just us. Maybe it’s just this. But my heart betrays me. It always does.

Underneath the glow of skin-on-skin and the ache in my muscles from the night before, there's that familiar weight—truth left unsaid. Secrets that won’t stay buried now that we’ve crossed this line.

His fingers twitch slightly against my hip. A sleepy gesture, instinctive. But it steals my breath.

I know what has to come next. The real intimacy. The truth.

And I can’t gauge if he’s ready for it. But I know I can’t keep it in any longer.

Julian shifts behind me, stirs, then exhales a soft groan as he wakes. His arm tightens slightly around me. Lips graze my shoulder.

“You’re still here,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

“I wasn’t going to run,” I whisper.

Even though I almost did. Again. He rolls onto his back but doesn’t move away. I stay on my side, staring at the wall, trying to steady my heartbeat.

“I owe you something,” I say quietly.

Julian goes still. The silence stretches—thick, cautious. He doesn’t speak. So I do.

“I didn’t keep him from you because I wanted to hurt you. I swear to God, Julian. I was scared. Of Arthur. Of what this family does to people. Of what it would do to a child.”

I finally turn to face him. His eyes are open now, dark and unreadable.

“I should’ve trusted you,” I continue. “I know that. But back then... you were still his. You’d have done anything for that man.”

I pause. Let the words land. Let them breathe.

“And I didn’t think you’d ever choose me over him.”

Julian doesn't interrupt. He just watches me, expression carved from stone, but his eyes⁠—

His eyes are shattering. So I keep going.

“I was twenty-two. No support system. No savings. And a pregnancy test that changed everything in the worst and best way possible.”

I sit up, wrapping the sheet around me, clutching it like armor. “And I thought—if I tell him, Arthur will know. He’ll find out. He’ll use it. And I’d watched what your father did to everything he couldn’t control.”

Julian’s jaw flexes, but he stays silent.

“You were loyal to him. Back then, you couldn’t see how far he’d already pulled you in. And I couldn’t put our baby in that orbit. I just... I couldn’t.”

My voice cracks.

“It wasn’t about punishing you. It was about protecting him. From power. From manipulation. From the pressure of being a pawn in a dynasty he didn’t ask to be part of.”

I meet Julian’s eyes again.

“I thought I was doing the right thing.”

I don’t realize I’m crying until my voice breaks mid-sentence.

“I almost told you. So many times.”

Julian’s brows pull together, something deep flickering across his face.

“The first time he smiled. The first time he said ‘Dada’—and it wasn’t to you. When he asked why other kids had dads who came to school, and I couldn’t explain.”

My hands are shaking. I press them to my face.

“I stayed up all night writing letters I never sent. Emails I never finished. I kept thinking I could time it right. That there’d be a moment when it would all make sense and you’d understand why I waited.”

Julian shifts, sits up too. The sheet falls slightly from his chest, but neither of us notices.

“Every birthday,” I whisper. “Every milestone—I thought of you. And I hated myself. But I thought... at least he’s safe.”

I wipe my face. Uselessly. The tears won’t stop now.

“I made the wrong call. I know that now. But I didn’t make it to hurt you. I made it with nothing but instinct and fear. And since then? I’ve just been trying to be enough.”

I take a breath so deep it burns on the way out.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me.”

Julian looks at me—still, unreadable—but something in his jaw loosens, just slightly.

“I’m not asking for grace, or understanding, or to go back to who we were.”

I shift toward him, bare legs tucked beneath me, the sheet still clutched to my chest like it can protect what’s already broken.

“I just needed you to know. All of it. No edits. No deflections. Just truth.”

He still hasn’t moved. Still hasn’t spoken. It almost crushes me.

“I owed you that,” I whisper. “I owed him that.”

I pause. The silence between us buzzes like static.

“What you do with it... that’s your call. But I won’t lie to you again. Not even to protect you. Not even to protect myself.”

I wipe the tears from my face again and force a breath into my lungs that actually sticks this time.

“I don’t expect you to want me in your life after this. I’m not saying I deserve to be. But if you want to meet him... if you want to know your son... I’ll make that happen.”

My voice cracks once more.

“Just... don’t let him grow up thinking his father didn’t care.”

I look down. Hands twisting nervously in the sheets.

Spine stiff. Heart wide open. And for once—I’m not trying to be strong.

I’m just trying to be honest.

I feel him move. His weight shifts the mattress. Then a hand—warm, steady—wraps around mine and stills the shaking. I look up, and what I see in his face undoes me.

His jaw is tight. His eyes are glassy. Red-rimmed. He’s not angry anymore. He’s grieving.

And that’s somehow worse.

But then he lifts my hand to his lips. Presses a kiss to my knuckles like a vow. And whispers⁠—

“I’m in it now.”

My throat closes. He leans in, forehead pressing to mine. His voice is thick, low, shaking in a way I’ve never heard from him before.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. I’m sorry I didn’t see what he was doing to both of us back then. But I’m here now. And I’m not going anywhere.”

A tear slips down his cheek. I catch it with my fingertips, stunned into silence.

“I’ll protect you,” he says. “Both of you. Whatever it takes.”

I exhale. Shaky. Disbelieving.

“Julian…”

He envelops me with both arms, pressing a kiss to my bare shoulder. Looks at me like he’s seeing everything now.

“All this time, I thought I’d lost you. And I had. But you were surviving. You were being a mother. And now... now I get to be a father.”

I let out a broken sound that’s half sob, half relief. He pulls me in, encircling me like a fortress. And now I let myself believe it.

We’re not broken anymore. We’re building something new.

28

JULIAN

The message comes in through a locked thread—one of the encrypted channels I set up years ago for internal whistleblowers. The sender is unlisted.

No name. No signature.

But I recognize the phrasing immediately—old guard, someone who’s been under Arthur’s thumb for years, someone who knows better than to ever put their face on the truth.

The message reads:

“She’s been flagged. An ‘accident’ is being arranged. Not for her alone. Orders not traced to HQ. Tell her to run.”

My entire body goes still. Then cold. Zahara. And—our son. My son.

No.

I close the app. Permanently delete it. Then I power down the burner and smash it against the kitchen counter until the screen cracks and the circuits spark.

She’s not safe.

They’re not safe. And there’s only one person who would give that order.

I move fast—wallet, jacket, keys.

I glance once at the empty bed where she slept, heart still full of last night’s softness, her skin still warm in my memory.

I won’t let him touch her. I won’t let him take my son. He’s made this personal now.

So I’m about to make it war.

Cross International looms in the skyline like a monolith of everything I’ve ever hated and tried to inherit at the same time.

I drive there with the windows down, city wind cutting across my face like a slap. I want the sting. I want the clarity.

The security team waves me through—of course they do. I’m still a Cross. Still the golden boy on paper. Not for long.

I take the elevator alone. Hands in fists. Breathing through my teeth. By the time the doors open onto the executive floor, I’ve burned through any hesitation I had left.

I nod once at the assistant sitting outside Arthur’s office. She rises, confused.

“He’s in a meeting⁠—”

“Not anymore.”

I push the doors open without waiting. Arthur looks up from his desk, halfway through a call. I see the flicker of surprise in his eyes. Then, like always, it calcifies into amusement.

“Julian,” he says smoothly, “to what do I owe the drama?”

I step inside, let the door slam shut behind me.

“You put a hit on her.”

Arthur lifts an eyebrow. “Careful. That’s a heavy accusation.”

“You flagged Zahara. You marked her. And you’re playing the same goddamn games with a child.”

His expression doesn’t shift, but I see the tension settle in his shoulders. He knows I know. I walk to his desk, voice like steel.

“This ends now. Or I burn it all down.”

Arthur rises slowly from his chair, buttoning his suit coat with calm, calculated elegance. It’s a performance, like always.

“Let’s pretend for a moment,” he says smoothly, circling around the desk, “that what you’re implying is true. That I would authorize some clandestine maneuver against a woman who... has become quite the thorn in our side.”

“She’s the mother of your grandson.”

The words cut the air like glass. Arthur pauses. But only for a second. Then, “So it’s true.”

His eyes glitter, and not with joy. With leverage.

I clench my jaw so tight my teeth might crack. “Don’t. Don’t you dare say another word about him.”

Arthur chuckles—a low, dismissive sound. “You always were sentimental. That’s your weakness, Julian. You mistake emotion for action. Legacy requires strategy. Control.”

“This isn’t control,” I snap. “This is terror.”

“It’s order,” Arthur bites back, voice sharp now. “And if that woman continues to unravel the structure I’ve spent forty years building, there will be consequences.”

I step in closer, my voice lowering to something lethal.

“If anything happens to her or to our son, you’ll be the one facing consequences.”

His smile fades. I see fear flicker behind his eyes.

Arthur turns his back to me, walking to the window like he needs the skyline to remind him who he is.

“You don’t understand what you’re walking away from,” he says. “Power. Security. A name that opens doors and silences threats.”

“I don’t want that name anymore,” I growl.

He turns back, face like ice.

“You’re not thinking clearly. She’s using the child—don’t be naive.”

My fists clench. “She didn’t ask for a dime. She didn’t even tell me until it was too late. She was protecting him from you.”

Arthur sighs, like I’m a child throwing a tantrum. “You think this is about some personal vendetta? No. This is about legacy. Optics. Control. She threatens all three.”

“Then burn your empire down trying to stop her,” I spit. “But I’m not part of it.”

His jaw twitches. “If you walk away from this family, Julian... you walk away from everything.”

I smile. Cold. Clean.

“I’m not walking away.”

I lean in.

“I’m fighting.”

I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to.

I lean in across the desk, close enough that Arthur can smell the fury on my breath.

“You’ve always been good at threats,” I say, slow and razor-sharp. “But let me be perfectly clear—if you come near Zahara again, if you so much as breathe in the direction of our son...”

I pause. Let the silence stretch. Let him feel it.

“I will bring this whole place down around you. And I won’t do it loud. I’ll do it quiet. Surgical. Strategic. You taught me how.”

Arthur’s eyes narrow.

“You wouldn’t.”

“You don’t think I’ve already started?”

The flicker of uncertainty in his face is so slight, most wouldn’t notice it. But I do. He knows.

He knows I’ve been collecting data. Watching. Waiting. My loyalty didn’t die overnight—it rotted for years, piece by piece, and now it’s ash.

I straighten, adjust my cuff, and take one last look at the man I used to model my future after.

“You want to keep your empire, Arthur?”

I turn for the door.

“Then stay the hell away from mine.”

The air outside feels different.

Sharper. Brighter. Like the city exhaled the second I stepped out of that building. I walk straight to the car, each step lighter than the last. Not because this is over.

But I’m not stuck inside someone else’s idea of who I should be.

I slide into the driver’s seat, engine purring beneath my hands, and pull out my phone.

One word. Pack. I hit send. No explanation needed.

Zahara will know.

We’re leaving tonight. No forwarding address. No more whispers. No more second chances for Arthur to find a crack in the armor.

Just the three of us.

Together. I glance once in the rearview mirror.

Cross International rises behind me like a cathedral of corruption.

But I don’t look back again. Because what’s waiting ahead of me is the only legacy that matters.

Family.

And I will burn every bridge necessary to protect it.

29

ZAHARA

The silence in this house isn't comforting. It's oppressive.

Every floorboard creak, every rustle of wind outside feels like a warning. Julian said it would be quiet. Said no one knew the location except for him and one trusted contact. Said it was only temporary—just a few days until things cooled down.

But it’s been three. Three days of stale air, a single burner phone, cold showers, and canned soup. Three days of pacing these cramped rooms and trying not to look out the window every ten minutes like a hunted woman in a spy thriller.

The safehouse is tucked back in the woods, miles from any town. The gravel road crunches too loud under tires, and the cell signal drops to zero if I stand in the wrong part of the kitchen.

Still, I haven’t let myself really feel fear. Not until now. Because something has shifted in the air tonight.

It’s too still. Too dark and quiet. I check the door for the third time. Bolt’s still locked. Curtains still drawn. The burner phone is charging in the outlet by the counter—one bar of signal, barely clinging.

I reach for it anyway. Open my messages. Start to type: “J, are you awake?”

Then stop. Delete it. No. I’m not panicking over shadows. I can’t.

But the way my heart won’t settle, the way the hairs on the back of my arms stand up like I’ve stepped into cold water—I know something’s coming.

It starts with the headlights. Just a flicker—far off through the tree line. Then gone. I freeze mid-step on the way to the sink.

A minute later, I hear it. The soft crunch of tires on gravel.

No engine. No voices. Just the slow, calculated sound of someone creeping where no one should be.

I stop breathing. I back toward the drawer by the stove and pull it open—there’s only one knife inside, dull but long.

I grip it tight. Heart pounding.

Another flicker of movement—outside the window, right side of the porch. No shadows. No sound. Just presence.

I grab the burner. The message still half-typed. I hit send.

“J, are you awake?”

No signal.

Of course. Of course it drops now.

I’m halfway to the back hallway when I hear it—a soft scrape against the back door. Someone’s testing the lock. And they’re not alone.

I don’t think. They’re surrounding the house. No warning. No mistake.

They’ve found me.

The back door creaks—just once. Then silence. Then a click.

The lock.

They're in.

I raise the knife, heart thudding in my ears, pulse crashing like a tidal wave through every limb. I’m halfway to the hallway, feet sliding across the wooden floor, when…..

BOOM.

The front door explodes open.

Wood splinters. The force of it echoes down the corridor like a bomb. A man bursts through—black shirt, dark jeans, gun drawn.

Julian.

His eyes lock on mine like he’s been tracking me through fire.

“Zahara!” he barks. Before I can answer, a man lunges through the back door behind me. Julian doesn’t hesitate—he fires once. The figure drops.

I scream. Not from pain. From everything.

He grabs my arm, hauls me behind him, shielding me with his entire body. Another figure tries to come through the side window—Julian fires again.

“Go! Now!” he growls.

We sprint through the front door, ducking low, boots crunching over broken glass and loose gravel as he shoves me into a black SUV waiting down the hill.

He jumps in after me, throws the vehicle in reverse, and hits the gas like a demon’s chasing us.

And maybe one is.

We fly down the back road at near-breakneck speed. The tires kick up dust and panic. My hands are still shaking, the knife still clutched uselessly in my lap.

Julian finally speaks. Low. Controlled. Deadly.

“They sold you out.”

My head snaps toward him.

“What?”

“Arthur found the safehouse,” he growls, eyes locked on the road. “Used Victor to track you. He owns too many people in the security firm. I found out ten minutes ago. I was already on my way.”

My stomach twists. Victor. Julian’s old friend. The man I once thought was just shady, not traitorous.

He presses harder on the gas.

“They were planning to make it look like a burglary gone wrong,” Julian says. “No fingerprints. No survivors. And I wasn’t supposed to know until it was too late.”

I cover my mouth with one hand. Breathe shallow.

“You could’ve died tonight,” he says, voice cracking slightly. “You almost did.”

We sit in that silence for what seems like years. Then I look over at him—and I don’t see fury.

I see devastation. And beneath it, something new:

War.

We drive for hours. Off-road. Dirt trails. Switchbacks deep into the woods where the GPS gives up and even the stars start to feel unfamiliar.

The SUV finally rolls to a stop outside what looks like an old hunting lodge, hidden by overgrowth and time. But when Julian unlocks the front door and steps inside, I see it:

This isn’t a cabin. It’s a bunker in disguise. Steel-reinforced walls. Surveillance monitors mounted inside a cabinet. A safe bolted to the floor. Emergency food, first-aid, bulletproof windows, blackout curtains.

I blink.

“You... built this?”

“Had it built,” Julian mutters. “Years ago. In case I ever had to disappear.”

I walk the perimeter, every step steadier than the last. This place is rough around the edges, but it breathes safety. Intention. Control.

The kind of security I haven’t felt in weeks.

“I can’t believe they found me,” I say softly.

“They won’t find you again,” Julian says. “Not here. Not unless we want them to.”

He’s already moved into defensive mode, setting up a new burner line, checking backup power, resetting surveillance zones.

And this time? He’s not just protecting me. He’s building a fortress for a family.

That night, we sit in front of the fireplace—just a low flicker of warmth and orange light bouncing off metal and exhaustion. Julian spreads files across the floor between us. Names. Transaction trails. Victor’s connections. Photos of offshore accounts and encrypted email headers.

“This is how they move the money,” he says, voice low. “Through charities. Humanitarian fronts. And every road leads back to Arthur and Victor.”

I stare at the chaos in front of us.

“This is enough to bury them,” I whisper.

He nods. “If we hit the right people. At the right time.”

There’s a silence. Then he looks at me—direct, open.

“I want you in this. Not as bait. As a partner.”

My throat tightens.

He reaches across the pile of evidence and takes my hand.

“We finish what you started seven years ago. We end this. Together.”

I nod. Not because I’m ready. But because I’m done hiding. I squeeze his hand back.

“Let’s bring them down.”

And that moment?

Right there?

That’s the fuse being lit. And this time—we’re not the ones running. We’re the ones coming.

30

JULIAN

The smell of coffee hits before I even open my eyes. Rich. Dark. French press—because Zahara refuses to touch instant. A small thing, but it’s hers, and lately, I’ve learned to treasure anything that reminds her she’s not just surviving here. She’s living.

When I sit up, the first thing I see is light cutting across the wooden floor in long golden stripes. The second is her—barefoot in the kitchen, hair tied up in a messy knot, swaying slightly to a tune only she can hear.

She’s humming. Soft. Under her breath. She flips something on the stove. A stack of toast already sits on the counter beside a bowl of scrambled eggs and a jar of that overpriced strawberry jam she smuggled in like contraband.

For a second, it feels normal. Like we’re just two people, in a cabin, making breakfast. Not fugitives building a digital bomb.

She glances over her shoulder, catches me watching her.

“You want coffee or an artery-clogging breakfast plate first?”

I smile. “Yes.”

She snorts, then plates everything without another word. When she sits across from me at the table, we don’t talk much. Just eat. Breathe. Let the silence fill with everything that’s still unspoken—but no longer hiding.

The second round of coffee comes with open laptops and burner phones spread across the table like war maps.

No fluff. No easing into it.

Just go time.

Zahara boots up the dummy account we created last night—complete with fake donation ledgers, offshore ties, and a glossy website that screams “charity front.”

I open the second laptop, pulling up our communication node. A clean VPN tunnel, triple-bounced IPs, and an alert system coded to ping the second Victor or one of his handlers opens the bait file.

“He’ll scan the metadata first,” Zahara mutters, dragging the mouse with surgeon precision. “Then flag the internal routing code. Once he sees how deep it supposedly ties into the Venezuela fund...”

“He’s in.”

I finish her sentence because we’re in sync now—movements, thoughts, motives. What started as survival has turned into a rhythm.

“He’s greedy,” I add. “And paranoid. We give him something that looks like insider sloppiness... he won’t be able to help himself.”

She glances up.

“Message ready?”

I nod. We both lean in over the screen. And together, we press send.

The message is short. Deceptively simple.

Just a breadcrumb about an open loop in a flagged humanitarian fund—the kind of shady asset Victor has a history of laundering through. Embedded in the text is a signature key only someone in his inner circle would catch. Just enough legitimacy to make it irresistible.

Zahara watches over my shoulder as I send it through a proxy looped into a ghost server Victor used two years ago during a southern border shipment laundering op.

She nods. “That’s the one. He’ll remember it.”

“Good. Let’s make it look accidental.”

I scrub metadata, run it through a corruption filter, and inject a deliberate delay—just enough to mimic a nervous, sloppy insider screwing up under pressure.

Then I sit back and wait. We don’t look at each other. Don’t speak. Because we know what’s about to happen.

This isn’t guesswork. It’s muscle memory.

A minute passes.

Zahara leans close, whispering like it’s a prayer: “He won’t be able to help himself.”

The alert system pings exactly 87 seconds later. Ping. Then another. Ping. Ping.

I glance at the screen. Zahara’s already scrolling.

He’s accessed the file. Ping.

Then tried to copy the directory.

Ping.

Then checked the encryption headers on the fake account index.

“He’s hungry,” Zahara murmurs. Her voice is cold. Focused. “He’s scanning deep. Not just skimming. That means he thinks it’s real.”

Victor’s digital fingerprints are all over the file trail. We coded the system to recognize his keystroke cadence—ridiculously paranoid, yes, but it works. It always works.

And now? It’s working for us.

“I’m routing the full trace to the backup node,” she says, tapping commands faster than I can keep up. “We’ll have his location in fifteen.”

I watch her.

The way her jaw tightens when she focuses. The subtle way her fingers flex like she’s drawing a bowstring every time she keys in a code.

She’s a weapon. A force. And tonight, she’s mine.

Ping.

Victor opens the last doc. The one with the false pipeline logistics. The exact kind of document the DEA monitors when laundering intersects with flagged charities.

Zahara exhales.

“Hook’s in.”

I smile. Sharp. Slow.

“Let’s reel him in.”

The alert system fades into silence, background systems humming low as everything pings into motion.

Victor’s in.

The sting has officially begun.

But here, in this dim little bunker with the morning light filtering through high, barred windows, there’s a lull. A breath.

Zahara pulls her legs up onto the bench seat across from me, balancing her laptop on her thighs. She’s chewing the end of a pen, squinting at a spreadsheet like it’s a puzzle she’s five minutes from solving.

And I can’t stop staring.

There’s flour dust on her wrist from breakfast. A crumb clings to the corner of her mouth. Her hair is wild around her face, and her eyes—sharp, unwavering, hers—hold the weight of this entire operation.

She’s unbreakable. I lean forward, reach across the table, and gently swipe the crumb from her cheek.

She freezes—just for a second. Then slowly looks up at me.

“What?” she asks, voice low, cautious.

“You’re kind of terrifying,” I murmur.

“Thanks?”

I smile.

“Terrifying. And brilliant. And the reason this is working.”

A pause. And something passes between us—unspoken, but so loud I feel pain in my chest. She gives a soft little shrug, almost embarrassed.

“I just want to end this.”

I nod. “We will.”

Finally, since this whole war began, I believe it. We start the final phase with a single keystroke.

The second burner phone is set to auto-leak the exact same flagged file Victor just accessed—this time, routed through a dummy tip channel straight to the DEA’s financial cybercrime unit.

No names. No source.

Just the right noise.

Then Zahara begins prepping the next step—a shadow tracker built to mimic Victor’s logins and mirror his movements just long enough to let us see who else is in the circle.

Because Victor’s not working alone. And this? This isn’t just revenge. This is exposure.

I close my laptop with a soft click.

“Tomorrow, we move. Big.”

Zahara turns toward me, eyes sharp, jaw set.

“You ready for that?”

I grin.

“Let’s light the damn fuse.”

31

ZAHARA

The flash drive feels heavier than it should in my hand. It’s small. Plain. Just a standard black thumb drive with a scratched corner and a faint red LED that blinks once every few seconds.

But inside? Inside is everything.

Years of buried corruption, bleeding accounts, shell organizations posing as salvation. Every lie Arthur built into the bones of Cross International. Every betrayal Victor twisted into profit.

And I’ve got the whole damn house of cards on this drive.

I sit at the kitchen table in the safehouse—barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed to my elbows, coffee going cold beside me. The air is thick with silence, Julian pacing quietly in the next room, giving me space.

The laptop’s already running. VPN active. Encryption protocols double-wrapped. I slide the flash into the port. The screen flickers once. Then loads.

The index opens like a digital bomb: over 800 files, each labeled, each mapped to a spreadsheet Camilla built last year in case we ever got this far.

I click the upload key. My hands are steady.

The federal case server opens, hidden behind a nondescript educational domain. One more wall between us and the men trying to kill us.

I hover my finger over the final key. And then I press Enter. The upload begins. And the world shifts.

I grab the burner phone from the counter and hit the contact labeled: C.

One ring. Two. Camilla picks up on the third with a voice like steel and caffeine.

“Talk to me.”

“It’s done,” I say. “Files are uploading now.”

Silence.

“All of it?”

“Everything.”

Her breath hitches once. Then she shifts into gear.

“Okay. I’ll push the whistleblower packet to the feds and blind cc the journalist I’ve been cultivating. She doesn’t need names—just the flow. The moment that data hits, they’ll bite.”

I glance at the screen. 62% complete.

“You ready to blow up a dynasty?” I ask.

Camilla chuckles. “Been waiting for this since the day that man offered me hush money in a wine bar in Midtown.”

We both laugh. It’s not happy. It’s warrior laughter. We’re here now. No turning back.

“Make sure your signal’s clean,” she adds. “Once the feds get their hands on this, every dirty tie in the Cross network will start making calls.”

I nod. “Already running a trace wipe. Julian’s watching the reroutes.”

Camilla pauses. Her voice softens.

“You did it, Z. You made it count.”

My eyes are locked on the screen as the bar hits 84%.

“I’m not done yet,” I say.

And I mean it.

I haven’t worn real clothes in weeks. Not since the sting started. Not since the threats. The ambush. The safehouse. Today, I put on black. A blazer sharp enough to cut.

A blouse I bought when I still worked for firms that hosted galas and drank twelve-dollar lattes.

I braid my hair tight. No lipstick. Just chapstick.

War paint.

Julian stands behind me, adjusting his cufflinks with that calm, cold focus he gets when he’s preparing for a boardroom ambush or a gunfight. Apparently, those aren’t that different.

The SUV idles at the curb outside a federal building hidden behind layers of anonymity—no sign, no label, just a stone wall and a single steel door.

We step out together. Sunlight hits hard. Too bright. Too loud. Somewhere down the block, I hear the hiss of a camera click. Someone’s watching. Maybe press. Maybe Cross’s people. Doesn’t matter.

I don’t flinch. We walk in. Heads high. Hand in hand. Because this time, I’m not afraid of being seen. I want to be seen.

The room is plain. Two chairs. One table. A carafe of lukewarm water.

And two agents, federal financial crimes task force. One man, one woman. Polite, crisp, and waiting to be impressed.

I don’t give them the flash drive. I give them the link. Encrypted, time-locked, mirrored.

They glance at each other. Tap into the file.

I speak without being prompted.

“I mapped the flow of assets across eight years of laundering. Twenty-three fake charities. Seventeen shell companies. All tied to Victor Moreno and Cross International. With multiple pass-throughs involving known trafficking zones.”

They don’t interrupt. I keep going.

“There’s also a file index of whistleblower statements, email logs, and donor discrepancies. Plus an internal memo linking Arthur Cross to a $2.8 million unaccounted ‘relief’ shipment to Venezuela.”

The female agent clicks through fast, eyes narrowing as the screens shift.

Camilla’s voice pipes in over the speaker system. “If you want a warrant, check the file labeled Ice Queen. That one’s timestamped six months ago. I traced it back to Arthur’s personal account.”

The male agent finally leans back.

“You realize,” he says slowly, “what this could do?”

I meet his eyes. Steady.

“That’s why I brought it.”

The agents don’t say much after that. They don’t need to. Their faces tell the story—eyebrows tight, lips pressed, quick glances at each other that say this is bigger than we thought.

I walk out of that room without looking back. Julian’s waiting in the lobby, seated on one of those cold steel benches with his arms folded across his chest. When he sees me, he stands—not with panic, not with urgency.

With pride.

We move toward the exit, shoulders aligned. Then I see him.

One of Arthur’s longtime legal advisors—Whitaker. Gray suit. Skull-thin face. Leaning against the marble wall with a phone in his hand and panic in his eyes.

Our eyes lock. His mouth opens like he’s going to say something slick, maybe something threatening.

But he doesn’t. Because he sees me. Not the intern who left crying. Not the woman who walked away pregnant and silent.

He sees the storm. And he knows.

“It’s done,” Julian murmurs beside me.

I don’t break stride. Don’t look back.

“Not yet,” I say.

“But it will be.”

Back at the safehouse, the silence feels different. Lighter. Electric. Like the space knows something’s shifted.

Julian pours two drinks, whiskey for him, tea for me. We stand by the window, watching the rain dance across the glass.

My phone buzzes once.

A secure alert from Camilla:

“Victor’s gone dark. Three accounts frozen. Inquiry launched. It’s working.”

I read it twice. Then again. It’s surreal. Like the moment after the crash, when the world is still spinning but the danger has passed. Only... it hasn’t. Not yet.

But the first domino has fallen. I set the phone down and exhale slow, steady.

“It’s started,” I whisper.

Julian steps behind me, wraps his arms around my waist, anchoring me against his chest.

“I told you,” he says softly. “You’d win.”

I rest my head against his shoulder.

“No. We’re going to win.”

He presses a kiss to my temple, gentle and solid.

And outside, the storm keeps falling. But in here? The fire’s just beginning to spread.

32

JULIAN

The doors to Cross International haven’t changed. Still glass and steel. Still towering. Still inscribed with that smug-ass Latin motto Arthur had commissioned when I was a teenager—“Strength Through Legacy.”

Fitting. We’re about to rip both of those things apart.

Zahara walks on my right, Camilla on my left. Three across. All dressed for war.

I wear one of my old bespoke suits—tailored to Arthur’s standards back when I still believed he’d pass me the crown. Today it feels different. Not like armor.

Like a funeral shroud.

Zahara’s in deep charcoal—no frills, no weakness. Hair slicked back. Lips bare. She’s got the drive in her handbag and the fire in her spine.

Camilla’s clutching her tablet like a blade. Crisp white blouse, glasses pushed up on her nose, expression pure executioner.

We walk through the front entrance without a word. Reception goes still. A few employees look up. Stare.

Phones freeze mid-scroll. Keyboards stop clacking. It’s like the air thickens the second we enter. Like the building knows.

Security doesn’t move. They recognize me. Of course they do. And they recognize the look in my eyes.

Try it.

No one does.

We ride the elevator in silence.

At the 47th floor, the doors open with a soft ding. We step out—straight into the heart of the beast.

The boardroom is full. Arthur at the head, smug as sin. Ten board members flanking either side, murmuring, checking their watches.

Then we walk in. And the murmuring stops. Arthur’s eyes narrow.

“You’re not on the schedule.”

I don’t sit. I don’t speak.

I just walk to the front of the room and place a leather folder on the table like it’s a loaded pistol.

“Good morning,” I say. “We’re here to conduct a performance review.”

Camilla clicks her tablet. The projector hums to life. The screen flares on.

Zahara pulls up a chair, folds her hands calmly in her lap.

Arthur stands.

“This is out of order,” he snaps.

“No,” I say evenly. “This is overdue.”

I turn to the board. “My name is Julian Cross. My father has kept many things from you. Today, we’re correcting that.”

Camilla swipes once, and the first slide appears:

“Charity or Cartel?”

A chart. A name. A trail. No one moves.

I look at Arthur.

“Let’s begin.”

The first few slides land like a soft breeze—familiar phrases, corporate language, numbers the board has seen a hundred times.

Until Camilla taps the screen again.

And everything changes.

“Here,” she says, voice crisp, “you’ll see a wire transfer from a Cross-affiliated relief fund routed through a Venezuelan development group. That group, in turn, wired $850,000 to a shipping firm in Lagos. Same firm, we found, received regular payment from a known trafficking ring in Caracas.”

Zahara takes over.

“In the following slides, we’ve overlaid corporate travel logs—names, flight records, hotel stays. They correspond with spikes in these accounts. The movement? Not aid. It’s contraband disguised as relief. And the signature on the bottom of those disbursements?”

She clicks. Zooms in.

Arthur’s name, bold and brutal at the bottom of the page.

Gasps ripple around the table.

One board member pushes back in his chair. Another leans forward, eyes wide.

Camilla switches to the next screen.

“I can keep going. There are eighty-two slides.”

Arthur slams his fist down.

“Enough!”

“Don’t sit there and let these accusations stand,” Arthur growls, sweeping his gaze across the room. “This is a hit job. A betrayal. A vendetta from two people with a personal grudge and a spreadsheet.”

He gestures toward Zahara with undisguised venom.

“Her? You’re going to trust her over me? A former employee with an ax to grind?”

“She’s not just a former employee,” I say calmly. “She’s the reason this company didn’t fall apart five years ago.”

“You’re bluffing,” he snarls at me. “This little coup won’t last. I still have⁠—”

“You have nothing,” I interrupt. “Because you already gave it away.”

I reach into my blazer, pull out a folded document, and place it gently on the table. His face pales.

I speak clearly, for the room to hear.

“This is your resignation. Signed. Dated. Witnessed. You drew it up yourself five years ago as part of a succession plan that you never honored. I’ve kept it. Waiting for the moment you forced my hand.”

Arthur lunges forward, face red. “That was private!”

“It’s legally binding.”

The board starts shifting. Phones come out. One member is already texting.

It’s over. He knows it. And the worst part for him?

No one’s coming to his defense.

Arthur is still standing, but he’s not saying a word now. His mouth opens once. Closes. Opens again. He looks around the room like it betrayed him—like these men and women who used to hang on his every word have suddenly gone mute.

Because they have.

One board member clears her throat and says, “We’ll need to vote on this.”

Another replies, “I don’t think we have to. It’s already done.”

The projector flickers one last time, then Camilla kills the feed. The silence that follows is funeral-grade.

Arthur steps back slowly, his jaw clenched, face drawn, as if he might still summon some last gasp of control. But the spell is broken. His empire isn’t just fractured—it’s shattered.

Zahara stands. Calm. Steady. “You used this company to launder pain into profit. You used people. You used your own son. And now, the truth is louder than you.”

Arthur’s hand slams on the table one last time. No one flinches.

Phones buzz, news alerts. One board member lets out a stunned gasp.

Julian checks his watch and leans in, voice a velvet knife.

“You built this company on fear, Arthur. Now it’s afraid of you.”

Arthur doesn't speak again. He just walks out. Alone.

The lobby is chaos. Reporters swarm the glass doors. Flashbulbs pop like lightning. Security guards speak into headsets and glance nervously at the entrance.

And then we walk out. Zahara on one side, Camilla on the other.

Me in the center, still in the same suit Arthur once said made me look “in charge.”

He had no idea.

Microphones push forward. Questions fly:

“Julian, what happened in the boardroom?”

“Is it true your father resigned?”

“What will happen to Cross International now?”

I stop. Just long enough to look at the crowd and say, steady and clear:

“This was never about revenge. It was about truth. And protecting the future.”

Then I walk forward, Zahara’s hand finding mine as we pass through the storm of cameras.

Because the empire’s gone.

But we’re still standing.

33

ZAHARA

The air in Atlanta hits different. It’s heavier—humid with summer, thick with memory. It wraps around me like an old sweatshirt, soft and suffocating all at once.

The airport’s noise fades behind me as I slip into the back of a rideshare, sliding sunglasses onto my face even though the sky’s overcast.

I don’t speak to the driver. I just watch the city blur past the window—block by block, breath by breath. Every turn is familiar. Every corner carries weight.

The coffee shop on Edgewood where I wrote grant proposals while my son napped in his stroller. The gas station that always overcharges, but never judged me when I came in looking like a storm.

The daycare he attended for six months before I decided he was better off with a nanny I couldn’t afford.

It’s all still here. But it’s not the same.

I unlock the door to my apartment, step into the quiet.

The air smells like lavender and dust. The kind of silence that comes from too many unanswered questions and not enough time to unpack them.

I drop my keys on the table. Sit on the couch. Breathe. There’s no plan to execute. No sting to manage. No one hunting me.

Just... me.

And the hollow spaces I thought I’d left behind.

The next day, I walk the neighborhood.

No hood. No burner phone. No alias.

Just me, loose jeans and a tee, coffee in one hand, a pair of oversized sunglasses shielding me from the half-familiar glances of neighbors who aren’t quite sure if they know me.

I stop by the corner market. Pick up a pack of raspberries and a small carton of almond milk. The same cashier is there—the one with the heavy eyeliner and always a different pair of earrings. She smiles. I smile back. Nothing more.

It should feel safe. It does. And yet... I feel off-balance.

Like I’ve been spinning too fast and just stopped. Like my body’s here but my mind is still in a concrete bunker two states away, waiting for an alert.

The world kept moving without me. My apartment. My street. My city. They’ve all carried on. But I’m different now.

I’m not just a mother. Or a strategist. Or a woman who once loved a man powerful enough to destroy her.

I’m all of it. And right now? I don’t know which piece of me I’m supposed to carry forward.

It’s late afternoon when Camilla calls. I almost don’t answer. But I do.

“Z?” she says.

Her voice is low, softer than usual. No edge. No mission.

“Yeah,” I reply.

“You breathing?”

“Trying.”

A pause.

“You want me to come over?”

I nod, even though she can’t see me. “Yeah.”

She shows up twenty minutes later with takeout, a bottle of red wine, and a box of those ridiculous frosted cookies from the bakery that only opens three days a week.

We eat on the floor, backs against the couch, the box of cookies between us like a peace offering. She doesn’t ask right away. Just lets the silence stretch. We talk about nothing: headlines, random TV, how her neighbor’s kid won a spelling bee with the word bravado.

Then she sets her wine down.

“Are you scared because it’s wrong,” she asks quietly, “or because it might be real this time?”

I freeze. That’s the thing with Camilla. She doesn’t dig around.

She just knows where to cut.

“I don’t know,” I say.

“That’s bullshit,” she replies gently.

And I hate that she’s right.

She nudges me with her knee. “Whatever you decide—clean slate or Cross dynasty—you better be honest with yourself. Don’t make it about what’s easier. Make it about what’s true.”

I nod. But I don’t say a word. Because I’m still working on what the truth even feels like anymore.

That night, after Camilla leaves and the apartment goes still again, I walk into the bathroom.

I flick the light on and stare at myself. Not glance. Stare.

The woman looking back isn’t afraid. But she’s tired.

There’s a sharpness in her jawline I didn’t notice before. A new depth behind her eyes. She’s not hiding anymore, but she’s still guarded. Still carrying the weight of decisions no one else can see.

The scar near my collarbone, faint, old, almost beautiful now—catches the light.

I touch it. Run a finger along it. Not out of vanity. Not out of shame. Just to remember.

I whisper, “Do I still want him?”

The question floats into the space between me and my reflection.

There’s no answer. Not yet.

But I don’t flinch when I ask it. And maybe that’s a start.

It’s well past midnight when I pull out a notebook. Not my laptop. Not my phone.

Just a plain, lined page and a pen that still skips if I angle it wrong.

I sit at the little table by the window, legs curled up beneath me, streetlights washing the room in soft gold.

And I write. Not for a report. Not for an affidavit. But for my son.

I tell him everything I couldn’t say when I left.

I write about why I stayed quiet for so long. Why I ran. Why I came back. Why I fought like hell for a truth that didn’t come with guarantees.

I write about Julian. I don’t sugarcoat it. I tell him we were fire and ruin. That we made mistakes that broke things.

But I also write about the way Julian looked at me like I wasn’t just surviving, I was worth protecting.

I write that love isn’t perfect. But sometimes, it’s still possible.

When I finish, my hand aches and my throat is tight.

I fold the letter and place it in the drawer beside my bed.

It’s not for now. It’s for when he’s ready. Or maybe when I am. But just writing it down makes one thing clear:

I want Julian to know all of this, too.

Morning comes quiet. Gentle.

I brew a pot of coffee, take my time with the dishes. Let the sun touch the walls before I even think about what’s next.

And then, I pack. Not everything. Just enough. A few pieces of clothing. My passport. A flash drive. The letter, tucked into my journal.

As I zip the bag, my phone buzzes.

Julian. Not a call. Just a message.

“How are you?”

I stare at the screen. And for once, I don’t overthink it.

I just reply.

“Still figuring that out.”

But as I head for the airport, a question keeps circling me like a warm current: What if we’re not broken? What if we’re just... unfinished?

I don’t have the answer yet. But I want to find out.

And that means I’m not done. Not with him. Not with us.

Not even close.

34

JULIAN

The lights are too bright. But I don’t squint.

I sit in the back of the studio while they prep the camera angles—quiet, still, hands folded. No publicist. No lawyer. Just a man in a charcoal suit, waiting to burn down his last name on live television.

I refused the teleprompter. Didn’t want a speechwriter. No earpiece, no PR team whispering what’s safe to say.

This isn’t about strategy. This is about truth.

A small glass of water rests beside me. Untouched. In the inner pocket of my suit jacket, I carry a folded note—creased at the corners from years of survival. A Post-it Zahara left on my desk back when she still thought she could fix things from the inside.

“Truth doesn’t shake. It stands.”

I unfold it. Read it one more time.

Then the stage manager gives me the signal.

I walk toward the podium.

Slow. Steady.

The studio is full now—journalists, analysts, two camera crews, and a live stream broadcasting across every major financial and political network.

I take my place behind the mic. And breathe. This isn’t about revenge.

It’s about letting go.

“My name is Julian Cross.”

I pause. Let it settle.

And then, without flinching, I speak:

“I am the son of Arthur Cross. Heir to the Cross International legacy. Until today.”

A flicker of movement among the press pool. Pens hover. Cameras zoom.

“For decades, the name Cross has been associated with power, profit, and philanthropy. But names can be misleading. Legacy can be manipulated. And what looks like impact can mask corruption.”

Another beat of silence. Then I continue.

“For too long, I stayed quiet. I convinced myself that silence was strategy. That distance was enough. That I could watch the machine turn without touching the gears.”

I lean forward, hands flat on the podium.

“I was wrong.”

The air in the room shifts. Press members glance at each other. Phones vibrate under the table.

“I came here today not as a Cross, but as a man tired of carrying a name that no longer matches my values.”

My voice doesn’t shake. Because truth stands. Just like she said.

I clear my throat.

Not because I’m nervous. Because what I’m about to say carries weight—and I need every word to land with purpose.

“In the past six months, evidence has surfaced implicating Cross International in multiple financial irregularities, including laundering through shell nonprofits, strategic tax fraud, and material support to front organizations posing as relief groups.”

I hear the flurry of keystrokes, the whispered curses between reporters.

I keep going.

“These are not accusations made lightly. They are supported by forensic documentation, whistleblower testimony, and internal memos signed by Arthur Cross himself.”

The screens behind me change. Receipts. Signatures. Flowcharts. The visuals play like a silent movie behind my words.

“I will not shield myself from accountability. I was complicit by omission. I suspected wrongdoing. I chose the easier path. And in doing so, I betrayed the public trust.”

I let that sit.

“I am not here to protect the brand.”

I look up.

“I’m here to protect the truth.”

And I mean every damn word of it. I reach into the inside pocket of my suit jacket. Not for the Post-it this time.

For the resignation letter. Typed. Signed. Dated today.

“I hereby resign from Cross International,” I say, voice low but unwavering. “Effective immediately. I will no longer be affiliated with the operations, subsidiaries, or strategic decisions of this corporation in any form.”

Murmurs ripple across the room.

I lay the letter flat on the podium and slide it toward the camera.

“For those who see this as self-destruction,” I say, “understand this: I am not walking away from something. I’m walking toward something better.”

I pause.

And smile. Just slightly.

“For years, I lived inside a legacy I didn’t choose. Today, I choose my own.”

The silence after I resign is thick. But I don’t let it last. Because this press conference wasn’t just about dismantling something corrupt.

It’s also about what comes next.

“I’ve spent months working with a team of ethical investment advisors, nonprofit strategists, and community leaders to build a new model—one centered on transparency, restorative funding, and actual service.”

I nod to the screen behind me.

A logo appears—clean, minimalist, nothing flashy. A new name. A new mission. The anti-Cross International.

“This isn’t about rebranding. It’s about rebuilding. We’ll be launching within the next quarter, fully transparent and under federal scrutiny. By choice.”

I exhale. Now comes the part that isn’t for the boardrooms.

This next part... is for her. I look straight into the camera. I know she’s watching.

“Before I close, I want to say this—to someone out there who’s given more than anyone should ever have to...”

A pause. Not for drama. For gravity.

“For years, I thought power meant control. But you taught me that real power means truth. Integrity. Choosing better.”

My voice softens.

“And if you’re still out there, still wondering if any of this was worth it... I want you to know—I’m ready.”

Another pause. Not scripted. Just real.

“I’m ready to build something clean. Something right. Personally. Professionally. All of it. From the ground up.”

I let that hang.

No name. Just heart. Just us. I step away from the podium.

No questions. No commentary.

Just me, slipping through a side door before the chaos swallows the building whole.

Outside, the air is cool. Crisp.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, already lit up with press requests, investor reactions, social media firestorms.

But I don’t check any of them. Not yet. I walk to the black sedan waiting at the curb, and finally, I don’t feel like I’m leaving something behind.

I feel like I’m heading toward something.

I take a deep breath, slide into the back seat, and finally pull out my phone. I open the message thread.

Hers.

There’s no new message.

Not yet.

But I type anyway.

“I meant every word.”

Then I set the phone down. And wait. Because this isn’t a chase anymore.

It’s an invitation.

And I’m all in.

35

ZAHARA

New York greets me with that same chaotic indifference it always has—horns, bustle, grit, and that undercurrent of ambition humming beneath the sidewalks.

But this time, I’m not hiding behind sunglasses or burner phones. This time, I came back on purpose.

No games. No smoke. Just me.

I step off the plane with one small carry-on and no plan beyond the next hour.

The press conference replayed in my head for days. Every word. Every pause. Every look in Julian’s eyes like he wasn’t speaking to the world—he was speaking to me.

And he was. I felt it.

He didn’t say my name. But he didn’t need to.

It was in the tremble of his voice when he said he wanted something clean. In the way he framed it like an invitation, not a demand. The way he said he was ready—if I was.

And now? I can’t tell if I’m ready for everything. But I’m ready to find out if what we once had… still lives somewhere between us.

I picked the spot. Somewhere neutral. Familiar. Quiet.

Not a restaurant, not a penthouse, not his glass-encased empire.

Just a small café with mismatched chairs and exposed brick walls, tucked into a sleepy street two blocks off the edge of Chelsea.

I used to come here when I worked for Cross International—on the days I couldn’t breathe. I’d sit at the window, sketch ideas, sip overpriced espresso, and imagine what life might feel like if I’d chosen differently.

Now I’m walking into that same space.

Except I did choose differently.

And I survived it.

He’s already here.

Sitting at a corner table by the window, wearing a simple button-up with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. No tie. No show. Just him, hunched slightly forward, both hands wrapped around a ceramic mug like it’s keeping him grounded.

His hair’s a little longer than I remember. His eyes lift as I enter.

And I see it. The tension. The hope. The restraint. He stands when I approach. Nervous.

Not in a charming, polished way. In a real, don’t-know-if-you’ll-stay kind of way.

“Hi,” he says, voice low.

I nod.

“Hi.”

I don’t sit right away.

I want to see if this still feels like anything.

I take a breath. Then slide into the seat across from him. And wait.

Because this time? He needs to be the one to speak first.

He’s nervous. I can see it in the way his fingers flex around the coffee mug, the way his mouth moves like he’s rehearsing sentences he’s now too scared to say.

“Thanks for coming,” he starts.

His voice is low. Careful.

I nod. “I almost didn’t.”

“I know,” he says. Then adds, “You didn’t owe me this.”

No denial. No defenses. Good.

I sip the tea I ordered—chamomile, because it calms the riot in my chest.

He watches me. Not like I’m fragile.

Like I’m holding something that could break both of us.

“Why now?” I ask. “Why say all that in front of the world?”

He meets my eyes, and this time, they don’t flicker. They hold.

“Because I couldn’t keep pretending I didn’t love you.”

Just like that. No buildup. No apology first. Just truth. And it hits me harder than I thought it would.

Julian leans forward, setting the mug down with both hands.

“I didn’t know how to fight for you back then,” he says. “I thought protecting you meant disappearing. Being quiet. Letting my father dictate everything because I didn’t believe I could survive outside of his shadow.”

I say nothing. Just listen.

He swallows hard. “And when you left? When you didn’t tell me about him?” His voice cracks slightly. “I wanted to be mad. I was mad. But mostly... I was ashamed. That you couldn’t trust me.”

A beat.

“You were right not to.”

That shakes something loose inside me.

Because I never expected him to say that.

“I watched you burn bridges I didn’t have the courage to walk across,” he continues. “And when I thought I’d lose you for good—when I found out what they tried to do to you—everything in me snapped.”

He pauses. Takes a breath. And speaks softer.

“I want to build something different now. Not for the world. Not even for the company. For you. For him. For me.”

He meets my eyes again.

“I’m not the same man I was. But I still want the same woman.”

And suddenly? It’s hard to breathe.

Because I didn’t come here expecting hope. I came to find closure.

But this? This is something else entirely.

I let his words settle. Not because I don’t know what to say. But because I need the quiet. I need a second to let my body catch up with the emotion cracking through my chest.

“I had to choose him over you,” I finally say.

My voice doesn’t shake. It’s not soft. It’s clear.

Julian flinches, just slightly. Like the pain still lives close to the surface.

“And after that,” I continue, “I had to choose me.”

He nods. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t beg. Just listens.

“Do you know what it’s like,” I ask, “to tuck a child into bed and wonder if today was the day the past would find you?”

He lowers his gaze. “I do now.”

“I didn’t just survive without you, Julian. I built something. I became someone. And when I saw you again…” I shake my head. “I hated you for how easy it was to want you back.”

He closes his eyes for a moment. Just one.

“And then I hated myself for still loving you.”

He whispers, “Z…”

But I hold up a hand.

“I’m not here for forgiveness. Or fairy tales. I’m here because something you said stuck with me.”

I lean in, voice lower now.

“You said you’re ready—if I am.”

His eyes find mine. “I meant it.”

I nod once. Not a promise. But not a refusal either. I rise slowly. Slip my coat on, loop the scarf around my neck.

Julian doesn’t move.

He watches me like he’s memorizing every motion in case this is the last time.

I walk to the door. Pause. Turn back. He’s still there.

Still waiting. Still hoping.

“You’re not the only one who changed,” I say.

He straightens just slightly. Like those words mean more than a yes ever could.

I glance outside, snowflakes beginning to fall in the streetlights. Then look back at him.

“Text me the name of that new company,” I say. “Maybe I’ll invest.”

And with that, I walk out.

But this time? I leave the door open behind me.

36

JULIAN

Iget there early. Too early actually.

The park is quiet, one of those tucked-away green spaces just far enough from the buzz of the city to feel like a secret. Trees line the path in soft arches, casting dappled shadows over the benches and walkways. There’s a playground in the center—bright red slide, yellow monkey bars, a sandbox shaped like a pirate ship.

It smells like cut grass and warm earth. My hands won’t stay still.

I keep checking my phone even though there’s no message coming. No countdown. Just time ticking slow and thick in my ears. I don’t know how to breathe for this.

There’s no manual. No script. Just the weight in my chest and the knowledge that in a few minutes, I’m going to meet a human being I helped create.

And he has no idea who I am. The thought makes my stomach twist.

I sit on a bench under a tall oak and grip the edge like I’m trying to anchor myself to the planet. My heart pounds too fast, too loud. I’ve made deals in rooms with billion-dollar implications and my pulse never cracked like this.

This? This is everything I can’t buy or fix or out-strategize. This is fatherhood.

And I’m walking in years after I should have.

I spot them before they see me.

She walks like she always has—measured, unhurried, all self-contained fire. Her braid is tucked under a navy baseball cap, sunglasses low on her nose. Her posture’s sharp, but I know that walk. She’s scanning. Calculating. Watching everything.

And beside her…

God.

He runs ahead.

A blur of denim, sneakers lighting up as he bounds toward the playground like joy’s been poured straight into his bloodstream. He’s laughing. His voice cracks across the air—high and bright and totally unbothered.

My throat closes. I recognize him. I know him.

Not just the shape of him—but me. He’s got my shoulders. My exact chin. The same damned determined bounce in his step like he’s on his way to conquer something.

He doesn’t know I’m here. And I’m not ready to move yet.

Because this… this moment—watching them like this—it hits harder than I thought it would.

I’ve never known someone and missed them at the same time.

But I do now. He climbs the ladder to the slide like it’s Everest.

Zahara settles onto a nearby bench with a bottle of water, her gaze flicking to mine once, just briefly. No smile. No warning. Just acknowledgment.

And then she looks back at him. Isaiah. My son. And I just sit there.

Ruined.

He’s fearless. Climbs the monkey bars like he was born to defy gravity. Falls. Laughs. Gets up and does it again.

Isaiah—my son—is everything I never imagined and exactly what I needed to see.

He’s not just a reflection. He’s his own little storm.

Zahara sits still, just like me, watching. Her eyes flick between the other kids, the moms chatting near the swings, and Isaiah as he flings himself across the playground like every second is the best one he’s ever lived.

She catches my eye again. Still no smile. Still no movement. But something in her softens. Just a hair.

I don’t move either. I can’t.

I feel like I’m watching someone else’s life. Like I accidentally wandered into a movie I was never cast in—but the scene’s too good to walk away from.

He starts building in the sandbox. Tiny hands patting wet sand into towers, sticking a red plastic flag on top like it’s a mission complete.

I’ve built empires.

Watched buildings go up under my signature. But none of them matter now. None of them look like this.

The guilt hits hard. Too hard. Almost suffocating.

I think of birthdays I wasn’t there for. First steps I never saw. Bedtime stories I didn’t read. Flu nights. Little league. Crayon masterpieces I didn’t hang on a fridge I never stood in front of.

All the moments that make up a childhood. Gone. Because I was protecting something that never protected me back.

Because I was afraid of my father’s grip, afraid of what it meant to break away and become something other than his shadow.

Because I believed, somewhere deep and ugly, that maybe I wasn’t ready.

Wasn’t worthy.

And now this boy—this little human who looks like me and smiles like Zahara—he’s here. And he doesn’t even know me.

I grip the bench. My throat’s burning. My eyes sting and I can’t blink fast enough to stop it.

I missed everything. And he doesn’t even know what he was missing.

But I do. And it’s wrecking me.

I don’t know how long I sit there—watching, unraveling, trying to hold it together with shaking hands and fractured breath.

Then Zahara stands. Walks toward me slowly.

She’s got her arms crossed, but her shoulders are relaxed now—less soldier, more mother. She stops at my side. Doesn’t speak right away.

“Come meet Isaiah.”

I close my eyes. The name settles like it’s always belonged inside me.

She continues. “He’s five. He likes space stuff. Thinks dinosaurs are overrated. And he doesn’t eat crusts.”

I almost laugh. Almost cry. Instead, I nod, still clutching the edge of the bench like it’s the only thing anchoring me to this moment. I can’t trust myself to speak past the lump in my throat.

Zahara glances toward the sandbox. “He’s smart,” she adds. “And stubborn. And yeah… he’s got your walk.”

My throat tightens even more, if that’s possible. She looks back at me.

“And your need to act like you’re fine when you’re falling apart.”

I smile—broken and grateful. Then she says it. The line that slices me open and glues something new in its place.

“He’s ready… if you are.”

No pressure. No guilt. Just an open door.

I rise. My legs don’t feel like mine. The walk from the bench to the sandbox is maybe thirty feet. It feels like crossing continents.

Isaiah’s crouched down, sticking a twig in the middle of his sandcastle like a tower. He hums to himself—some little tune I don’t recognize, but want to memorize forever.

I stop a few feet away. He looks up.

Big, curious eyes. That same tilt to his head I see in my own reflection sometimes.

I swallow hard.

“Hi,” I say, voice rough. “I’m… Julian.”

He stares at me. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t run.

Just looks—like he’s trying to figure out if I’m real, or another adult trying to tell him not to eat dirt or feed squirrels cereal.

Then he says, “Do you want to help me build the other side?”

And just like that.

The world shifts.

I drop to my knees in the sand.

“Yes,” I say. “I’d like that.”

37

ZAHARA

The sun’s moved higher now—casting longer shadows, softening everything it touches.

I sit on the same bench I occupied earlier, my coffee cupped in both hands like it’s holding me up. Lukewarm now. Doesn’t matter.

Because I can’t stop looking at them.

Julian’s crouched in the sand beside Isaiah, knees bent, elbows braced on thighs. He’s wearing those perfectly tailored slacks, which I’m sure were not meant for sandbox duty. And yet there he is—hands covered in damp grains, brushing them gently into a makeshift wall like it’s a delicate science experiment.

Isaiah’s beside him, narrating the entire architectural process with the kind of seriousness only five-year-olds can pull off.

“And this part’s the lookout tower, okay? ‘Cause sometimes dragons come and try to steal the gold.”

Julian nods, totally in it. “Right. And we need something to protect the drawbridge too.”

Isaiah gasps. “YES. Spikes!”

They both lean in to brainstorm this critical security feature like it’s a Fortune 500 strategy meeting. And I just sit there, watching. Like if I blink too long, it might disappear. Like if I breathe too deep, I might feel too much.

I’ve pictured versions of this moment for years—vague fantasies, blurry dreams, sometimes bitter, sometimes desperate.

But this? This is real.

And somehow, it’s better than anything I imagined.

Their voices drift to me like music layered over the soft rustle of the trees and the distant squeak of a swing set.

Julian asks questions I didn’t expect.

Not “What’s your favorite color?” or “Do you like school?”

He asks things like,

“Where do the castle guards sleep?”

“What happens if the moat fills with lava?”

“What do you do if the queen forgets her crown?”

And Isaiah answers without hesitation, like he’s been waiting his whole life for someone to take his imagination seriously. Julian doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t redirect. He listens. He listens like Isaiah’s words matter.

Like he matters. I feel something tug in my chest—soft but insistent.

It’s not relief.

Not forgiveness.

Just… ease.

The world doesn’t feel like it’s pressing down on just me.

There’s another heartbeat in this story now. Another pair of hands holding up the sky. And God help me… it feels like coming home to a place I wasn’t sure I’d ever see again.

I don’t realize I’m smiling until I feel the stretch in my cheeks.

It’s not the careful kind I’ve worn the last few years—the one I’ve perfected for courtrooms, daycare pick-ups, tense elevator rides, and polite company.

This smile is real. Soft. Unscripted.

It rises without warning, brought on by the sight of Julian dramatically toppling their half-finished turret with a loud “Nooo! The dragon breached the wall!” and Isaiah falling into a fit of belly laughter that echoes across the park.

And just like that… something inside me shifts. The tension I’ve worn like armor? It loosens. The suspicion I kept close as a shield? It thins.

I’ve been waiting—braced—for Julian to disappoint me. To show cracks. To act.

But he’s not performing. He’s not proving. He’s just being. And somehow, that’s more powerful than any apology could ever be.

Because he’s not fighting for redemption anymore. He’s showing up for connection.

And I don’t know what that means for us.

But I know it means something.

The old ache flares up like muscle memory. It sneaks in through the quiet. Slides into my chest like it never left.

Because I remember. I remember every night I held Isaiah alone, humming lullabies I didn’t believe in.

I remember whispering, Your dad loved you once. Maybe he still does, and not knowing if that was truth or hope or a straight-up lie.

I remember walking into job interviews with spit-up on my blouse, pretending I hadn’t cried in the parking lot.

I remember learning how to fix a leaky sink, patch up scraped knees, and pretend I wasn’t exhausted—because I had no one else to take over.

The cost of surviving was high.

I look at Julian now, crouched in the sand, drawing battle plans in dirt beside our son. And I feel something else rise beneath the ache.

Grace.

Not the kind they write about in church bulletins. The quiet kind. The earned kind. The kind that doesn’t erase what you went through—but wraps around it like light through stained glass.

I survived. Isaiah thrived.

And now… there’s space for more.

Maybe not forgiveness.

Not yet. But room.

That’s enough.

“Mom!”

His voice cuts through the sound of traffic and laughter and the rustle of wind in the trees.

I blink.

Isaiah’s waving at me, sand up to his elbows, face lit with pride.

“Look what we built!”

His eyes are electric—wide, gleaming, free.

I stand slowly, walk toward them across the grass, past the swing set, past two toddlers chasing bubbles. Each step feels heavier than it should. Like my heart’s catching up to my body.

Julian shifts to the side instinctively, patting the spot next to him on the side of the sandbox.

I crouch. Lower myself beside them. Feel the warmth of Isaiah’s body between us. Julian’s presence just beyond.

The sandcastle is a glorious mess. Lumpy towers. A moat that only half-circles. A plastic spoon stuck in the top like a flag.

“It’s perfect,” I say. And I mean it. Isaiah grins like I just handed him the moon.

Julian doesn’t speak.

But when I glance sideways, he’s already looking at me. Not pushing. Not pressing. Just… there.

And for once, I don’t feel the need to move away.

Later, we walk toward the car. Isaiah skips a few feet ahead, pausing every so often to point out something deeply important—ducks on the pond, a bug on a leaf, a tree that looks “exactly like a dragon.”

Julian walks beside me.

Close, but not touching.

I catch glimpses of him watching Isaiah. And then watching me watching Isaiah.

We don’t speak. We don’t have to. Because this silence feels different.

Not strained. Not empty.

Full. Of history. Of breath.

Of what we’ve been through and what we might still become.

And in the space between footfalls, in the hush of stroller wheels and city birds and little-boy babble, a word forms in my chest.

Not a decision. Not a promise.

Just a single, soft echo, maybe.

38

JULIAN

Time doesn’t move like it used to. Not in boardroom clocks or market bells. Not in schedules packed with power plays and jet-lagged flights.

Now it moves in little things.

Isaiah’s laugh when he figures out a joke before the punchline. Zahara’s footsteps across the hallway floor at night. The way her voice gets softer when she’s tired. The way she lets it stay soft around me now.

We’ve done… normal things.

Park visits. Movie nights with popcorn stuck in couch cushions. Dinners that don’t end in silence or slamming doors.

There was a Wednesday night when Isaiah fell asleep on my chest during a storybook—and she didn’t rush to take him. She just watched us. Quiet. Her eyes soft.

We’ve even had a few nights to ourselves.

A rooftop dinner in Brooklyn. A jazz club in Harlem. Her hand in mine under the table. Our conversations don’t orbit the past anymore. They touch the future. And in that future… I don’t see myself alone.

But I know it’s not about promises or rings or redemption speeches.

It’s about something steady. Something that doesn’t have to heal her—but can hold her.

So I made a plan. Not to win her.

To offer her something solid. Something safe. Something hers.

“You’re being weird,” Zahara says as she buckles her seatbelt, side-eyeing me like I’ve already failed some unsaid test.

“I’m always weird,” I reply, starting the car.

“Not this kind of weird.” Her brow arches. “This is… suspiciously quiet Julian.”

I smirk. “Maybe I’m maturing.”

She snorts. “God help us.”

The banter is easy now. Light. There’s tension still, yes—but it’s layered over trust now, not trauma.

We drive in near-silence for a while, save for the hum of tires on asphalt and the occasional song bleeding softly through the speakers. She asks twice where we’re going. I shake my head both times.

“Dress code appropriate?” she asks, glancing down at her fitted jeans and oversized cardigan.

“You look perfect,” I say without thinking.

Her eyes flick to mine. Quick. Surprised.

But she doesn’t deflect. She just looks out the window, lips pressed together in the smallest, quietest smile.

We pull off the main road into a tree-lined street that feels like it belongs in a snow globe. Old maples arch overhead. White picket fences. Lawn flamingos. Porch swings.

“This is… nice,” she says slowly, eyes narrowing with curiosity.

“Mhmm.”

“And definitely not a restaurant.”

“Nope.”

“Julian.”

I turn the wheel and pull into a quiet gravel driveway in front of a house that makes something in my chest expand.

“It’s just a stop,” I say, shifting the gear into park. “Come see.”

She steps out of the car slowly. Cautious. I don’t rush her.

The house rises in front of us like something from a storybook—Victorian style, soft dove gray with white trim, wraparound porch, ivy curling up one side like it grew there just to make a statement.

She doesn’t speak. Just takes it in.

The front yard is small but private, surrounded by a low white fence. The grass is freshly cut. There’s a swing hanging from the old oak near the porch, gently swaying in the breeze.

Her eyes narrow slightly, trying to place this in her mental files. It doesn’t fit. Because it’s not a Cross estate. Not a penthouse. Not something big for the sake of being big.

It’s home-shaped.

I watch her breathe it in.

The hesitation.

The awe she tries to hide.

Her fingers curl tighter around her purse strap.

“What is this?” she finally asks, voice just above a whisper.

I walk to the porch steps, stop halfway up, and glance back.

“It’s just… a house.” I wait. Let that sit. Then: “One I hope you’ll want to see.”

She doesn’t say anything right away. But she follows me.

We walk in through the front door—painted a soft, welcoming blue. The inside is quiet, sunlit, still empty. Hardwood floors stretch beneath high ceilings. Fresh paint. Crown molding. It smells like lemon oil and possibility.

I walk ahead a bit, gesturing with one hand.

“This would be the living room. I pictured one of those big couches Isaiah can leap across when he thinks no one’s watching.”

She lets out the smallest laugh.

I point to the left. “Formal dining, I guess. But I figured… you’d make that call.”

We step through the arched doorway into a kitchen that makes her pause.

Not massive. But warm. Functional. Wide windows above the sink. An island with two stools. Cabinets the color of vanilla.

Her fingers trail along the countertop. I don’t interrupt. I just keep showing.

A sunroom at the back—glass-paned, perfect for reading or quiet mornings with coffee and cartoons.

A hallway leading to two bedrooms, both simple but with little built-in touches. One already painted a soft green. One filled with light from a skylight she stands under without saying a word.

No pitch. No persuasion. I just open the doors.

Let her see. Because this isn’t about the house. It’s about giving her the space to imagine choosing this life—not surviving it.

We end up back on the porch. It’s quiet now. The kind of quiet that’s full, not empty.

Zahara sits beside me on the wide wooden swing, the slats groaning faintly beneath us. She’s looking out over the yard, but I can feel the questions humming just beneath her skin.

I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out a slim folder and a single silver key. I set both on the space between us.

Not pushing them toward her. Just placing them down. Gentle. Deliberate.

“It’s in your name,” I say.

She turns, brow tightening. “What?”

“The house. The deed. The paperwork. All of it.” I pause. “If you want it.”

She doesn’t speak. Just stares at the folder like it might detonate.

“I didn’t build this as a bribe. Or an apology,” I say carefully. “And I’m not asking you to decide anything today. I just…”

I look out at the swing. The sandbox in the back. The sunlight catching in the corner window where I imagined her reading Isaiah bedtime stories.

“I just wanted you to know,” I say, “that I’m ready to build something real. Something slow. Steady. Quiet.”

She’s still staring. So I add, softer now, “It’s not a mansion. It’s not a kingdom. It’s just a home. Yours—if you ever decide you want it.”

She doesn’t touch the key.

Doesn’t touch the folder. But she doesn’t get up either.

She leans back slightly on the swing, fingers tracing the wood grain beside her thigh.

The breeze kicks up. Leaves rustle. Somewhere nearby, a wind chime tinks softly—like a song that hasn’t found all its notes yet.

And still she says nothing.

I glance over. Her face is unreadable. But her eyes are wet.

And I know enough now to let the silence hold.

This isn’t a no. And it’s not a yes. It’s a maybe suspended in sunlight.

So I sit beside her. Quiet. Still. Hopeful.

Because the man I used to be would’ve demanded closure. But the man I am now?

Knows that sometimes, waiting is the grandest gesture of all.

39

ZAHARA

The key is warm in my palm. Small. Unassuming. Quiet. But it’s the heaviest thing I’ve ever held.

We don’t speak on the drive back. Julian keeps his eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel, stealing glances at me like he’s trying to read something I haven’t written yet. I stare out the window, the blur of trees and buildings and people making space in my mind.

And all I can think is: He didn’t ask me to stay. He gave me the choice.

Not once did he say please. Not once did he try to fix it, bargain, convince.

He just offered me a door. One I could open if—when—I was ready.

And that, somehow, is what breaks me. Not the swing in the yard. Not the breakfast nook or the light in that perfect room.

But the silence. The trust. The fact that he’s finally letting me choose, without conditions.

The key presses into my skin. I don’t flinch. I just hold it tighter.

The apartment is still when we enter. Isaiah’s at Camilla’s. There’s no sound but the quiet hum of the fridge and the soft click of the door behind us.

Julian steps in, turns to face me—but doesn’t move closer.

He waits. Always waiting. Always patient.

I set my purse down slowly, the key resting on top like it belongs there.

And then I face him.

“You didn’t have to buy me a house,” I say, voice low.

His brow furrows just slightly, lips parting to respond, but I hold up a hand.

“You already have me.”

That stops him cold. His shoulders sink. Like everything in him exhales at once. I walk closer, until I’m in front of him. Inches away.

“I’ve always loved you, Julian.”

He blinks. Breath catches.

“I just stopped believing we could survive it.”

Now it’s all there—between us. History. Pain. Forgiveness. Love that never left, just hid beneath the rubble. And right now, I want nothing more than to pull it all to the surface.

Julian’s still staring at me like I just rewrote the sky.

But I’m not done. Not yet.

I take his hand—his right one, the one that trembles ever so slightly when he’s unsure—and place the key in his palm.

His fingers close around it like muscle memory.

“I’m not giving this back,” I say, holding his gaze. “I’m telling you I’m ready to use it.”

His breath hitches. I step even closer. Our chests nearly touch. I rest my hand on his heart, feel it pounding beneath my palm like it’s trying to break free.

“Not just the house,” I whisper. “All of it.”

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. Everything’s written in the heat rising between us, in the air thick with waiting, wanting, and all the days we never got to spend together.

I slide my fingers up to his jaw, cupping it gently.

“I want this, Julian.” My voice doesn’t shake. Because I’m not afraid anymore.

I’m ready.

He kisses me like I’m the answer to every question he stopped asking years ago. Slow. Reverent. Then deeper.

Hungrier.

My fingers thread into his hair. His hands slide to my waist, pulling me closer like he’s trying to memorize every curve, every breath, every break in my voice.

I gasp into his mouth as he backs us toward the bedroom, his touch no longer hesitant—but certain. Claiming me the way I’ve longed to be claimed.

There’s no more pretending.

No more fear. Clothes fall away. Words dissolve.

His hands grip my hips, lifting me with a strength that makes my pulse spike. I’m pinned against the wall, legs wrapped around his waist, the heat of his body searing through the last shred of restraint.

“Julian—” His name spills from my lips, half a plea, half a warning.

“No.” His voice is low, graveled with need. “Shhh. Just feel me.”

His mouth crashes into mine, swallowing any protest. There’s no gentleness now, no hesitation. Just raw hunger, years of pent-up longing finally unleashed. His teeth graze my bottom lip, drawing a gasp from me.

“Always overthinking,” he mutters against my skin, his breath hot as it trails down my neck. “Always holding back.”

“I’m not⁠—”

He cuts me off with a sharp nip at my collarbone, and my back arches into him.

“Yes, you are.” His hands slide up under my shirt, calloused palms rough against my ribs. “But not anymore.”

He pulls my shirt over my head in one swift motion, leaving me bare to the waist. His gaze rakes over me, dark and possessive, and I feel like I’m unraveling under it.

“Julian—”

“Shut up, Zahara.” He steps back, stripping off his own shirt, and the sight of him—all sinew and scars and raw power—stops my breath.

He closes the distance again, his hands firm on my waist as he lifts me and carries me to the bed. I’m beneath him in seconds, his weight pressing me into the mattress, and I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but feel.

His hands are everywhere, rough and desperate, mapping every inch of me like he’s relearning my body. His mouth follows, hot and demanding, leaving marks that I know will linger.

“You’re mine,” he growls, his voice a low rumble against my skin. “Always have been.”

I can’t argue. Not when his hands are sliding down, fingers hooking into the waistband of my jeans, pulling them off with a single tug. Not when his mouth is on me, consuming every inch of my resolve.

“Julian—”

He stops, looks up at me, and there’s a fire in his eyes that burns through every wall I’ve built.

“Tell me you’re mine.”

I swallow, the words catching in my throat.

His fingers dig into my hips, his voice a command. “Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

He smirks, a flicker of triumph in his eyes, and then he’s on me again, his touch searing, his mouth claiming.

No more words. No more hesitation. Just us. Finally us.

His fingers slide inside me, and I gasp, arching into his touch. The heat of his hand, the way he moves—slow, deliberate, maddening—sends sparks racing up my spine. My breath hitches, and I clutch at him, my body trembling on the edge of something I can’t name.

“Julian—” His name comes out as a plea, a broken sound I barely recognize.

He leans over me, his breath hot against my ear. “Tell me what you want.”

I shake my head, words failing me. His fingers curl, and I cry out, my hips bucking wildly toward him. He chuckles, low and dark, and the sound sends a shiver through me.

“You’re so close,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my neck. “I can feel it.”

I can’t think, can’t breathe. Every nerve in my body is on fire, every touch sending me closer to the edge. His fingers move faster, deeper, and I’m unraveling, falling apart in his hands.

“Julian, please⁠—”

He pulls back, and I whimper at the loss. But then he’s on me, his body moving me toward the bed, his mouth claiming mine with a hunger that leaves me breathless. His hands grip my hips, lifting me, positioning me as he lowers me down, and then he’s inside me, filling me completely.

I cry out, my nails digging into his back. He moves with a rhythm that’s both familiar and new, each thrust driving me closer to the edge. His breath is ragged against my skin, his hands gripping me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.

“Look at me,” he growls, his voice rough with need.

I open my eyes, meeting his gaze. The intensity in his eyes is overwhelming, and I feel it—the connection, the bond that’s always been there, even when we were apart. He moves faster, harder, and I’m lost in the sensation, in the way he makes me feel.

“Zahara—” His voice breaks, and I know he’s close.

I wrap my legs around him, pulling him deeper, and then I’m falling, shattering, my body convulsing around him. He follows me over the edge, his body shuddering as he spills inside me.

We collapse together, our breaths mingling, our hearts pounding in unison. He pulls me close, his arms wrapping around me, and I bury my face in his chest, inhaling the scent of him.

“I’m not letting you go,” he murmurs, his voice soft but firm.

I smile against his skin, my fingers tracing the scars on his back. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He kisses the top of my head, and I feel it—the weight of everything we’ve been through, the promise of everything to come. At last, I feel whole.

40

JULIAN

The house looks different now. Not because anything’s changed on the outside—the paint’s the same soft gray, the ivy still curling up the side like a secret, the swing still swaying lazily in the breeze.

It looks different because she’s standing next to me.

And Isaiah’s bouncing behind her like a spring-loaded firework.

And I’m holding the key that doesn’t just open a door anymore—it opens a life.

Zahara’s hand is in mine, warm and solid. The thin gold band on her ring finger catches the morning light. No diamonds. No theatrics. Just us.

We didn’t tell anyone. No announcements. No registry.

Just a courthouse, a signature, and a kiss that left the city spinning behind us.

And now, here we are.

She looks at me with that wry smile I’ll never stop chasing and says, “You’re stalling.”

“I am not.”

“You are one thousand percent stalling.”

Isaiah’s already halfway up the porch. “Daaaad, can I open it?!”

Dad. I’ll never stop tearing up at that word.

“Come on, Jules,” Zahara says, nudging me with her hip. “You promised me a house full of squeaky floors and kitchen dancing.”

I slide the key into the lock. The door swings open.

And just like that—we’re home.

The house explodes with movement.

Cardboard towers, crumpled packing paper, sharpie labels written half-legibly in my handwriting: KITCHEN STUFF, HER BOOKS, TOYS, MISC DAD JUNK.

Isaiah drags a box twice his size down the hallway like he’s on a rescue mission. “This one goes in the secret base!” he yells.

Zahara’s in full take-command mode—barefoot, leggings and tank top, her hair piled on top of her head with a pencil stuck through it. She’s directing box traffic like she’s running air traffic control, pausing only to toss me a bottle of water or a raised eyebrow when I try to sneak in a break.

She’s glowing. Not the polished, made-up glow of a gala or a press conference. The real kind.

Sweat-slicked skin. Laugh lines. A contentment that lives in her limbs now instead of just her smile.

I pass her in the hallway with a nightstand over one shoulder, and she grabs my shirt, pulls me in for a kiss that’s quick but loaded.

“You’re dangerously good at this domestic husband thing,” she murmurs.

I grin. “You say that like it’s news.”

She laughs and spins away, shouting for Isaiah to stop unboxing the Christmas decorations in the laundry room.

And I just stand there for a second, watching. Breathing.

Everything I want is right here inside these walls.

And it’s just getting started.

“Okay,” I say, standing in the middle of the chaos. “So where does the moon base go?”

Isaiah doesn’t hesitate.“There!” he points triumphantly to the corner with the angled window. “So when the aliens land, they can see it from space.”

Zahara raises a brow at me as she hands me the box labeled Isaiah’s Galaxy Gear. “You better not be encouraging him.”

“I am absolutely encouraging him.”

The room is a whirlwind of spaceship decals, superhero bedsheets, a nightlight shaped like a rocket, and enough Lego to require a structural engineer.

Zahara’s laugh floats through the air as she wrestles with the twin-sized duvet cover, her voice muffled as she says, “I swear this thing is fighting me.”

I sneak over, catch her waist mid-struggle, and kiss her neck just once before she squeals, elbowing me away. “Not while I’m mid-mission, Cross.”

Isaiah is now organizing a line of action figures on the window ledge. “Mom, look! They’re guarding the launch site.”

Zahara freezes for just a second—staring at him.

At the light hitting his curls. At the life bursting from him in a room he gets to call his own.

I see her eyes well, just slightly.

She sets the pillow down. Clears her throat.

Then walks over, hangs the final piece—a framed photo of the three of us. A candid. One Camilla took at the park. Zahara and me on the bench, Isaiah leaning across both our laps mid-laugh.

It goes up right above the toy shelf. She stares at it. And I step behind her. Wrap my arms around her waist.

“Home,” I whisper. She leans into me. Doesn’t say a word.

But her silence answers everything.

Dinner is grilled cheese and tomato soup—nothing fancy, just comfort.

Music plays low from the Bluetooth speaker on the counter—some jazz-laced soul track with a beat that makes Zahara sway while she stirs the soup.

She’s barefoot again. I can’t stop looking at her.

Isaiah’s in the living room building an “intergalactic stronghold” out of moving boxes, occasionally shouting questions like “Can aliens use forks?”

Zahara laughs every time. She turns toward me, eyes dancing, and holds out her hand. “Come on. You owe me a dance.”

I take her hand.

We move in the middle of the kitchen, surrounded by drying dishes, an open box of silverware, and a half-hung curtain rod.

And I swear I’ve never felt more alive. I pull her close, hands at her waist. Her cheek rests against my shoulder. We don’t say anything. We don’t have to.

Her fingers tighten in the fabric of my shirt.

I tilt my head down. She lifts her face to meet mine. And for a moment, everything else fades.

No smuggling scandals. No boardrooms. No bodyguards or burner phones. Just this.

Us.

Laughing. Loving. Living.

In a house that finally feels like forever.

“Once upon a time,” I begin, the book open across my lap, “there was a rocket ship that got lost in a galaxy full of peanut butter planets and jellybean moons.”

Isaiah cackles. “Nooo! That’s not how it goes!”

Zahara’s on the other side of the bed, tucked into the space between stuffed animals and spaceship pillows. She’s doing the voices—badly, I might add—but Isaiah eats it up.

“The peanut butter planets were STICKY!” she adds in a high-pitched alien voice.

He gasps like he’s hearing this for the first time. “They had to call for backup!”

“And who did they call?” I ask.

Isaiah thinks. “The Sandwich Commander!”

We all break down laughing. Eventually, the giggles fade. The story winds down. The room glows with soft starlight from the rocket-shaped lamp on the shelf.

I tuck the blanket up to Isaiah’s chin, and Zahara kisses his forehead.

He’s almost asleep when he whispers, “I’m glad we’re all here now.”

I freeze. Zahara reaches for my hand.

And in that moment—nothing else matters.

Later, when the house is still and soft and filled with the kind of quiet that hums with peace, we sit on the porch swing.

Just the two of us.

The wine glasses are half full. The night is crisp, scented faintly with pine and the last breath of summer. String lights stretch across the porch beams, their glow reflecting in Zahara’s eyes.

She’s curled into me, her head resting against my chest, her fingers laced with mine.

We don’t speak for a long time. Just breathe. Just be.

“Think he’ll ever stop talking?” she murmurs eventually, grinning into my shirt.

I laugh. “I hope not.”

She shifts to look at me. “You know we’ll have to tell him the real story one day.”

“Yeah. But not tonight.”

“Not tonight.”

I kiss her. Slow. Grateful. The porch creaks gently beneath us, the swing moving in time with the quiet rhythm of a life we nearly lost—but found again.

And as the wind carries the sound of distant crickets and faraway laughter, I glance up at the porch light glowing soft and golden.

Like it was never really off.

Just… waiting.

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