The next few days moved in careful rhythm—routine wrapped in lies.
I told Serena and Camille exactly what they wanted to hear: that progress was steady, that I was circling the truth, that proof was just around the corner. I sold conviction like it was oxygen. They didn’t notice I was barely breathing anymore.
During the day, I buried myself in other people’s sins. Screens glowed with evidence—men caught in hotel rooms, false alibis crumbling in text threads, wedding rings glinting under neon bar lights. Every photo felt like déjà vu. Proof that my worldview still held true. Men broke things.
And yet, every evening, I kept walking straight into the company of two men who didn’t.
When the sun fell, I traded lies for music or rooftop air. Some nights it was the violin—just me and Mr. Levin, matching notes until silence felt tolerable again.
“You’re too tense,” he told me, correcting the posture of my arms as we stood in the empty rehearsal studio, my violin trembling lightly in my hands.
“I’m not,” I lied.
He didn’t argue, but we both knew the truth—I was tense. I was never truly relaxed or at ease, not really.
Other nights, it was Adrian and Nico. We had grown careful since the blackmailer surfaced. No more public markets or crowded events. Private rooftops, quiet warehouses, fire escapes with no security cameras—those were our sanctuaries now. The rooftop remained the favorite, the one constant in a city made of moving parts. There, everything felt simple. Honest. Dangerous in the best way.
And still the city pressed its ear to our door. I caught the same gray sedan twice in a week, different drivers and the same dent in the bumper. A burner pinged a tower it shouldn’t have reached. On the subway, a woman lifted her phone and smiled like a tourist, lens angled just left of me. Paranoia had a pulse; I could feel it in my wrists.
Sometimes I caught myself staring at Nico longer than necessary. His eyes when he laughed—warm and unguarded, nothing like the art-world narcissists he dealt with daily. He sketched people as if he were trying to remember how humanity looked. And I wondered if he was trying to do the same with me.
And Adrian… God. One accidental brush of his fingers, and my pulse turned to static. He was intensity wrapped in restraint, every word a test of balance. I couldn’t decide if he was saving me from something—or studying me like a code he was dying to crack.
But none of us crossed the invisible line we had built. Respect—or fear—kept us there. For now. It didn’t keep the tension from spreading like a disease I suddenly, and stupidly, didn’t even mind.
We often moved at night, simply to stay out of anyone’s reach—eyes and ears. We would run through the streets of New York, the three of us holding hands, laughing like teenagers sneaking out to meet friends. Sirens wailed in the distance, music blasted from passing cars, and red lights on crosswalks stitched our path. Nothing held me down anymore.
That night we sat on a metal fire escape of a downtown building, the city spilling its heartbeat below us. Burgers, beers, and a half-broken Monopoly set. Grease scented our clothes; sirens floated up from far beneath; someone’s playlist hummed through an open window, soft and low. A helicopter thudded somewhere above, chopping the night into pieces. For a second, I imagined searchlights, my name pronounced like a verdict. I blinked it away and rolled the dice.
Nico threw his hands up. “This game is trash!”
Adrian smirked, leaning back on one arm. “You just don’t know how to gamble. Sometimes you gotta go all in.”
I laughed, my voice lighter than it had been in years. “Yeah, listen to the tech magnate. He’s a real expert at gambling—corporate edition.”
Nico narrowed his eyes at me, playfully bitter. “Oh yeah? And you, Miss Lowell, know just how to go all in, don’t you?”
His tone was teasing, but something flickered underneath—jealousy, maybe curiosity. I glanced at Adrian. He was already watching me. A silence stretched too long for comfort. His eyes held mine like he was saying something without words.
“Maybe I do,” he said quietly.
The world seemed to pause between us. Nico looked away, his jaw flexing. He cracked open another can of beer, pretending not to notice the tension hovering like static. I caught the hint of jealousy in his look—too obvious to stay hidden.
I cleared my throat, breaking the spell. “You’re both terrible at Monopoly.”
Adrian grinned. “Then teach us.”
“I already did. You ignored me.”
“Not true.”
“Yes, it is.”
Nico groaned dramatically. “I’m surrounded by children.”
We laughed. For a while, it felt like the world outside the fire escape didn’t exist—no wives, no blackmail, no danger. Just us, half-drunk on cheap beer and laughter that almost sounded like hope. A warm gust climbed the alley like a promise; somewhere a church bell rang a late, stubborn hour. I wanted to believe the city could keep a secret for once.
By the time I got home, it was nearly morning. My apartment smelled faintly of coffee and exhaustion. I brewed another pot anyway. Sleep felt pointless when my thoughts refused to stay quiet. I stared at my laptop, scrolling through reports I was pretending to care about.
My violin leaned against the wall beside my desk like an old friend waiting to be played, but I couldn’t focus. My hands were restless. A shadow crossed my window—just a pigeon, probably—and my pulse still spiked like a tripwire had been touched.
When the knock came, it was sharp and loud. I nearly dropped my mug.
“Hold on!” I called, grabbing the pen that was still between my teeth and rushing to the door with a grin already forming. “Guys, I told you to stop flooding my office like—”
I stopped. The grin died before it reached my eyes. Standing in the doorway wasn’t Adrian or Nico. It was Steve Wallen, my ex-husband. My first mistake. The last man I trusted before I learned what trust costs.
No, no, no. Anyone. Anyone but him.
He looked almost exactly as I remembered—messy hair, half-tucked shirt, that same smug tilt to his mouth—but there was something sharper now, something older in his eyes.
“Hey, Iris,” he said, casual. “Long time no see.”