But.
There’s that treacherous word. But.
I turn my head on the pillow, studying his profile in the dim light filtering through the curtains. The straight nose. The strong jaw, now softened in sleep. The mouth that can deliver both cruelty and devastating pleasure.
If I’m being honest—truly, painfully honest with myself—there’s an equally compelling case against my mother.
I’m trapped between two equally plausible and horrifying truths, with no definitive proof either way. Of the two people who claim to protect me, one is almost certainly responsible for destroying my family.
And I have no idea which one.
A small, treacherous voice whispers in the back of my mind: What if it was neither of them? What if my father’s death really was an accident—a cruel, random tragedy that I’ve spent years trying to make sense of by assigning blame?
No. I shut down that thought immediately. The evidence of foul play was there in the police report, even if it was quickly buried. The brake lines were cut. Someone wanted him dead. Someone made it happen.
I just don’t know who to believe anymore.
My logical debate dissolves into emotional chaos. My body is still humming from the intimacy I just shared with him. My skin remembers his touch—possessive, yes, but also desperate, almost reverent.
I look at the man sleeping beside me. This monster. This potential murderer. How can I feel this way? How can his touch ignite a fire in me that no one else ever has? I want to feel nothing but cold, righteous hatred. It would be so much simpler.
But I can’t deny the truth that’s been growing inside me like a cancer: a part of me is drawn to his darkness, to the intensity that makes me feel more alive than I have ever been.
Nico stirs, his arm tightening around my waist, pulling me closer against the solid warmth of his chest. He murmurs something indistinct, his lips brushing my temple in a gesture so tender it makes my throat tight.
I close my eyes against the burn of unshed tears, hating my weakness, my confusion. I’ve committed to a path of betrayal, built on a lie I’m not even sure is true, aimed at the man now holding me as if I’m precious.
I came here to destroy a monster. But in the darkness of this room, with his warmth against me and his scent in my lungs, I’m terrified by the truth I can no longer deny.
I’m starting to love him.
And I have no idea how this story ends.
The lake ripples,a sheet of gray steel under a matching sky. I’m in an oversized armchair, a book in my lap, its words a meaningless blur. It has been two days.
Two days of living in the eye of a hurricane. Two days since Isabel Vega stood on the deck of Nico's yacht, slipped a tinyburner phone into my hand, and promised to call with proof that the man I might be falling for is my father's killer.
Every time Nico enters the room, my body betrays me with a jolt of awareness. Every time he touches me, his hand a casual brand on my waist or the small of my back, I have to fight the urge to either recoil in horror or melt into his touch.
I watch him across the dinner table, studying the way he holds his fork, the calm, the calm way he dissects his food, and I wonder:Are these the hands that signed my father's death warrant?
The burner phone from Isabel is a cold, hard secret hidden in a drawer in the master bedroom, a constant reminder of the choice I have to make.
Blake stands near the kitchen entrance, a silent statue. He’s been my shadow since Nico left for a meeting in the city this morning.
“Would you like some tea, Blake?” I ask, setting my book aside. I stretch, a slow, languid movement I’ve practiced until it feels real.
“No thank you, Ms. Song.” His response is polite, distant.
I stand, smoothing the soft cashmere of the lounge pants Nico provided. “I think I’ll take a bath then. My back is still sore from…” I let the sentence hang. Blake knows what happens behind closed doors.
For a moment, his professional veneer cracks, and something like concern flickers in his eyes. “Of course. Take your time.”
I head upstairs to the master suite. It's immaculate, the bed made by a staff that materializes and vanishes like ghosts. Irummage through a drawer, my movements casual until my fingers brush against the burner phone.
With forced nonchalance, I gather clean clothes and head for the adjoining bathroom, the phone a hard, cold secret in my hand. I lock the door. The rush of blood is deafening. The bathroom is a monument to wealth—Italian marble, a shower large enough for a small party, and a deep soaking tub. More importantly, it’s one of the few places in the house without cameras.
I turn on the faucets full blast, the rush of water filling the room with white noise. As the tub fills, I sink to the floor, back pressed against the cold wall, and pull out the phone. The screen shows a missed call. I dial it back, pressing it to my ear.
