I told you, Emilia. I’m focusing on Eleanor this month.
Eleanor. His wife. His family. I had an hour lecture about how negotiations had costed him time with his wife. I understood that he felt the time was wasted now all those heirs were dead. I wasn’t rude and told him I was grateful they were.
I typed faster than I should have.Ten minutes, please.
The dots appeared. Paused. Disappeared.
When the message landed, it was sharper than the last.Eleanor has asked for this time. I won’t disrespect my wife. You can wait for once.
My throat closed. I typed again, hands trembling.Please Alec. This is important.
This time he made me wait. Long enough for guilt to climb its way up my throat. When the words finally appeared, they were cold, final.I’ll try to call later.
I locked the screen, the sound too loud against the counter. My chest felt tight, like I was stealing air from someone else’s lungs.
Alexander had told me not to sign anything. Nothing moves forward without me, he had said. But the Liria Accord advisors weren’t waiting. They were circling me every day with fresh contracts, pushing, pressing, demanding signatures. Refusing to deal with dynasties or syndicates while merger negotiations dragged on.
And I couldn’t tell anyone.
Not Bastion. Not Luca. Not when my family had made it clear: if I told a soul outside the circle, I would die.
That was the part that scared me the most.
Only Alexander and the immediate advisors knew. If it spread, if the twins found out, the Adams name would decide I was no longer an asset. Just a liability. They wanted the Accord back—not me.
The thought made my stomach hollow. I wanted to tell them.
But this wasn’t theirs to carry. If I broke, it wouldn’t just be ruin. It would be death.
Then there was the thought that kept me up all night. Alexander wouldn’t risk his future or his families for mine.
He tried to secure three heirs to get the Accord back. What if he had decided to get it back another way… a way that involved my headstone.
The bathroom door opened.
“Angel.”
Bastion’s voice filled the space before he stepped in. Rolled sleeves, collar open, shadows under his eyes.
My fingers fumbled. I locked my phone, too fast.
His gaze landed on it anyway. He didn’t ask what I’d been doing.
He just crossed the tiles, slow, and took it from my hand. His palm was warm, his grip steady, and when he set it aside on the counter.
Then his eyes came back to me. My hair dripping, towel slipping.
“You’re cold,” he muttered.
Before I could answer, his hands slid around my waist. He lifted me down from the counter, setting me on my feet as though I weighed nothing, steadying me when my knees wavered.
He reached for the towel and pressed it against me, slowly drying me.
He bent as he dried me, pressing a kiss to my shoulder before sliding the towel further down my arm. Another kiss at my wrist. My breath caught, though his mouth was softer than the towel.
When he dropped to one knee, dried my legs with the same patience. His lips brushed my knee, then the back of my calf, and the steam wasn’t the reason I shivered.
He looked up, eyes dark. “You okay, angel?”
