[POV Ariel]
The morning after was quiet. Not in the peaceful, coffee-sipping way. More like the breath-holding-before-a-storm kind of quiet.
I woke up before him. Not intentionally, just... instinctually. Years of self-preservation made me an expert at slipping away before people remembered they didn’t mean to let me in.
His arm was draped across my waist, heavy and warm, and the heat of his body curved along my back. My first thought was that I liked it—too much. My second was that I couldn’t afford to.
So I moved. Slowly. Carefully.
By the time he stirred, I was already in the kitchen, hair twisted into a bun, wearing one of my more intimidating blouses like it might erase the taste of last night from my mouth.
I didn’t look up when he walked in.
“Morning,” he said, voice still sleep-rough.
I poured coffee. “Morning.”
The silence that followed was excruciating. He stood by the fridge for a long moment before pulling out the almond milk I’d finally convinced him to keep on hand. Poured his coffee beside mine. Avoided my eyes.
It was almost funny—how we’d survived six months of living together, fighting, pretending, plotting... but now we couldn’t even survive eggs and caffeine.
“We should probably talk,” he said.
“Later,” I murmured. “We have that board review.”
Right. Business. The thing that was always safe.
We left the penthouse together in silence, but in the elevator, I caught his reflection watching me from the corner of the mirror. Not demanding. Not even pleading.
Just... watching. Like he was hoping I’d say something first.
At the office, everything felt too loud. Every hallway echo. Every keystroke. Every moment we pretended like nothing had changed.
Because we were pretending.
Sloane kept his distance—physically, professionally. He sat at the head of the table during the budget review, arms folded, expression cool. But every time I spoke, every time I leaned forward to present a new set of figures, I felt him.
Watching. Listening. Remembering.
When the meeting ended, he lingered. So did I.
“I’ll have the full report by tomorrow,” I said, gathering my tablet.
He nodded. “Thanks.”
I hesitated. Then: “Last night...”
He looked up sharply. “Yeah.”
“We don’t need to define it.”
A beat. Then two. “Right.”
“It was... natural. Given the tension.”
His jaw ticked once. “Of course.”
“We’re both adults. We can compartmentalize.”
His mouth twitched—something like a smile, but without warmth. “You’re good at that.”
I ignored the sting.
“And we still have a contract,” I said, voice firmer now. “This doesn’t have to change anything.”
He didn’t reply right away. When he did, his voice was low.
“No. It doesn’t.” But it already had.
That night, the penthouse felt smaller.
It wasn’t the walls. It was the memory of his hands on my skin. The echo of breathless gasps in the silence. The way he looked at me like I was something he couldn’t quite stop needing.
And now we were acting like it hadn’t happened.
I hated how lonely that felt. I was curled on the couch with a glass of red wine and a half-read report when the security alert chimed. A dull, digital sound from my phone.
‘Access denied. Executive server. Login attempt #3. Location: External. Flagged.’
I frowned.
We had too many firewalls for anything simple to trigger an alert like that. I tapped in a diagnostic request and cross-checked timestamps. That’s when I saw it.
Three separate access attempts. Three different logins. All tied to top-level clearance. Mine. Sloane’s. Richard’s—deactivated since his death.
I froze. And then I did what I never did lightly—I called Sloane.
He answered on the second ring. “Yeah?”
“Someone’s trying to access our files.”
There was no pause. “Where are you?”
“In the living room.”
“Stay there.”
He was home in fifteen minutes.
No jacket. Tie gone. Sleeves rolled up and eyes sharper than I’d seen them in months. I handed him the tablet and watched his face darken as he scrolled.
“This happened once before,” he murmured. “Years ago. I thought it was over.”
“What do you mean?”
He looked at me, eyes unreadable. “It’s the anniversary.”
My pulse skipped. “Of?”
“My mother’s death. And Zoe’s.” His voice was even. Too even.
A chill crawled down my spine. “You think this is connected?”
“I know it is.”
He poured a drink but didn’t touch it. Just held the glass, staring at the amber liquid like it might give him answers he didn’t want to speak out loud.
“When I was nineteen, Richard told me everything,” he said. “About the family business. The old one. Not publishing.”
My breath caught.
“He was deep with them once. Old Italian families. Power, money, control—everything tied to shadows. When he tried to get out, it didn’t go well.”
He finally looked at me. “Marco Visconti was the worst of them. He saw Richard’s publishing success as betrayal. Said information was more dangerous than bullets. My father refused to launder for them. Turned over documents to the feds. Sent Marco’s father away for life.”
“And Marco?”
“Waited. Planned.” Sloane’s voice hardened. “Zoe and my mom died in a car crash. Officially. But I’ve never believed that.”
My blood went cold.
“You think... they were targeted?”
He didn’t answer.
“I left,” he said finally. “Walked away from Richard. From all of it. Tried to build a life that didn’t include that name or the blood tied to it.”
“And now?”
“There’s been whispers. Marco’s out of prison. Early. And tonight—”
He reached into his jacket and tossed something onto the table. A sleek black invitation with a familiar logo stamped in silver foil.
Rose & Ink. Our biggest donor gala.
“He’s going to be there.”
I picked it up, hand trembling. “Why now?”
“Because I’m visible again. And so are you.”
I met his eyes. “You think I’m in danger?”
He didn’t blink. “I know you are.”
For a moment, the weight of it all—our marriage, the fake names, the real feelings, the looming threats—pressed down like a vice.
And then he said the thing that broke me.
“I need to put distance between us.”
I stood. “No.”
His jaw clenched. “Ari—”
“You don’t get to shut me out. Not after everything. Not after last night. You don’t get to protect me by pushing me away like I’m weak.”
“You’re not weak,” he said. “That’s the problem. You’re stubborn and brilliant and impossible, and I can’t—” His voice broke off. “I couldn’t survive losing someone else.”
My throat tightened. “Then don’t lose me.”