[POV Sloane]
I didn’t sleep after she did.
Ari’s breath rose and fell beside me, steady, rhythmic, her body tucked against mine like it had always belonged there. One of her arms lay across my stomach, fingers curled instinctively against my skin.
I couldn’t stop watching her.
It wasn’t the aftermath I expected. No regret. No rush to bury what had happened beneath sarcasm or distance. Just quiet. Real.
The kind of stillness that only comes after surviving something together—whether that “something” was gunfire or grief or sex that shattered all your illusions.
For the first time in years, I didn’t feel like I was running.
I felt anchored. I just wasn’t sure what terrified me more—losing that anchor, or never letting go of it again.
By the time the sun had crawled over the Seattle skyline, painting the penthouse in a wash of pale gold, I was in the kitchen, shirtless, barefoot, and trying not to burn scrambled eggs.
Ari padded in fifteen minutes later wearing one of my shirts—white, oversized, sleeves shoved up her arms. Her hair was still tousled from sleep, and she looked infuriatingly beautiful, like she belonged in this space. In my space.
She didn’t say good morning. She just leaned against the counter, watching me in silence. A soft, unreadable expression in her eyes.
“I don’t cook often,” I said, without turning. “Usually I just glare at the food until it gives up.”
Her lips twitched. “You’re a terrifying man, Sloane Wayne.”
“I try.”
I plated the eggs, poured two mugs of coffee, and slid one toward her. She took it with both hands, the way she always did when she needed grounding.
We ate at the kitchen island, side by side. No music. No distractions. Just the kind of silence that wasn’t awkward anymore. The kind that meant something.
I was the first to break it.
“This isn’t just a contract anymore.”
She didn’t look at me right away. But she didn’t argue either.
“I know.”
I took a slow breath. “I told myself I could do it. Keep this clinical. Keep you at a distance. But that stopped working the second you touched me like I mattered. The second you looked at me like I wasn’t just his son.”
She turned to me then. Fully. Her eyes soft, searching.
“You matter,” she said, voice low. “With or without his name. I saw it before I ever saw you.”
I looked down at my coffee. “I’ve built walls so high I don’t even know where the doors used to be. But you… you slip through the cracks like sunlight. And I don’t know how to stop letting you in.”
Her hand found mine under the table. “Maybe don’t.”
“I don’t know how to protect you, Ari,” I admitted. “Not really. Not from all of this. Not from Visconti. Not from the ghosts my father left behind. And especially not from me.”
“You don’t need to protect me from yourself,” she whispered. “You just need to stop pretending I’m not already in this with you.”
I looked at her, throat tight. “I’m scared.”
“So am I.”
I blinked.
“I built my entire life on not needing anyone,” she said. “On being the girl who didn’t cry, didn’t hope, didn’t ask. And then you came along, and all the rules I lived by stopped making sense.”
Her fingers tightened around mine.
“I don’t know how to love without falling apart,” she admitted. “But I think I’d rather fall apart with you than pretend I don’t want this.”
We sat in that stillness for a long moment, our breaths syncing, our fears laid bare between half-empty coffee mugs and forgotten eggs.
Then I squeezed her hand. “So we stop pretending.”
She nodded. “And we start choosing each other. Even when it’s messy. Even when it’s dangerous.”
I leaned in, pressing my forehead to hers. “Especially then.”
By noon, I was back in the office, a sealed folder on my desk marked CONFIDENTIAL.
Ellen stood across from me, arms folded, expression tight. “You’re going to want to read this.”
I flipped the file open. At first, the photos and records didn’t make sense.
Then they did.
My father’s original investigation into the Visconti family wasn’t as clean as I thought. He hadn’t been acting alone.
There were emails. Handwritten notes. Financial transfers traced through shell accounts.
And one name that kept reappearing: Newman Media.
More specifically, Theodore Newman.
I stared at the name like it was poison.
“Ari’s father?” My voice was flat. Dangerous.
“Yes,” Ellen said. “Turns out, before he went fully legitimate, Theodore helped launder media money for Visconti’s father. Used magazine circulation numbers to inflate profits, route funding through ghost operations. They were silent partners—for years.”
“Jesus.”
“The arrangement fell apart when Richard flipped. He gave up Visconti to the feds. Newman cut and ran. And until now, it looked like he got away clean.”
“Until now,” I repeated.
Ellen hesitated. “This isn’t just about revenge against you, Sloane. Visconti blames the Newmans just as much. Maybe more.”
I shut the file. My chest tightened. Ari hadn’t just married into this war—she’d been born into it.
And she didn’t even know it. I found her in the Wayne Publishing’s conference room an hour later, reading merger drafts.
She looked up when I walked in. “Is everything okay?”
I handed her the folder.
She scanned the first few pages, confusion slowly morphing into horror. “This... this is my father. These are our numbers. How did I not know?”
“Because they made sure you wouldn’t,” I said gently. “They built their kingdom on secrets. We both did.”
She sat down hard. Her face had gone pale. “He worked with the Viscontis. My whole life, I thought I was the disappointment. The outsider. But I was just the one who didn’t know where the bodies were buried.”
I knelt in front of her. Took both her hands in mine.
“You’re not your family, Ari.”
She looked at me, something breaking in her expression.
“No,” she whispered. “But I was raised by them. Which means I was built to survive this.”
Her spine straightened. Fire sparked behind her eyes. “We take them down. All of them. My family. Yours. Anyone who thinks they can play puppet master again.”
I smiled, dark and proud. “Together?”
Her fingers tightened around mine. “Always.”