She wore us without even knowing.
I zoomed in to the necklace. Gold chain. Minimalist.
But not hers.
Ours.
One of the early pieces we had slipped into her stylist’s suite.
On the back of the charm: Property of C.
Engraved so faint you’d miss it in photos. But I never missed anything. Not when it came to her.
Our initials still touched her, even if we couldn’t.
Halfway across the country, we dressed her like we used to undress her.
Every photo, we recognized the details. The brands, the colors—all made by us and pushed to her stylist through dummy accounts.
I zoomed in again. Studied the necklace. Imagined my hand in her hair. My mouth on her throat.
Only for my brother’s name to cover my screen.
Rome.
I stared at it, then I picked up. “What?”
“Eastside enforcement needs backup.”
I waited.
“They botched a recovery. Loud. Civilian side. Two of ours are cornered and the crowd’s heating.”
Just Villain on another Thursday night.
“Media’s circling. Press has already posted half the scene.”
“Send Jordan’s crew in to surround it.” I dropped my head back against the wall. “Blackout cameras in a two-block radius. Feed the council a different timestamp. Say it was handled an hour ago.”
“That’ll hold for now. But you’re gonna want eyes on it before it spirals.”
“Yep.”
He paused. “You good?”
I looked out over the city. Took a slow breath. “Yeah.” I ended the call. For the first time that day, I felt steady again.
Because this reminded me why. The exhaustion of holding a city together. I could bleed for that again. Because one day, she would be here. In this room.
Where she’d pull one of our shirts on and curl up on the couch near the fireplace—legs tucked under her, a book in her lap, hair messy.
And one day—fuck, one day—we’d walk out of the elevator and hear little feet on marble.
Kids.
Ours.
Maybe two. Maybe four. We wouldn’t let the Codex dictate our children.
