[POV Ariel]
Sloane stood at the head of the table like a man carved from stone, all sharp angles and impossible calm, but I knew better.
I’d learned to read the subtleties in him — the slight tightening of his jaw when he was thinking too hard, the way his thumb tapped rhythmically against the corner of the table when his restraint was slipping.
He was on edge, and so was I, though neither of us dared speak it aloud. And then the doors burst open.
The sound cracked through the room like thunder, followed by a sudden, unnatural stillness. The kind that blankets a room just before something explodes.
My breath caught as Marco Visconti stepped through the threshold with all the arrogance of a man who believed nothing could touch him anymore — not the law, not the past, not even the walls that were supposed to keep him out.
He wasn’t dressed for business. No suit, no tie. Just a long, unbuttoned black coat, dark eyes blazing with quiet rage and something colder — the kind of hatred that doesn’t burn, but corrodes from the inside out.
His lips curled into a smirk as he scanned the room, eyes settling on Sloane first… and then on me.
“Quite the boardroom,” Marco drawled, stepping further in like he hadn’t just shattered every protocol. “Very Wayne. Very... performative.”
The guards who should’ve stopped him were already unconscious in the hallway, we’d learn later.
And the two men flanking him — solid, expressionless, trained — told me this wasn’t a last-minute act of vengeance. It was planned. Meticulously. He’d been waiting for this.
Sloane’s voice was low, deadly calm.
“You’re trespassing, Visconti. I suggest you turn around while you still have that option.”
Marco tilted his head, eyes glinting.
“You sound so much like your father. Always pretending to be better than the dirt he came from.”
He stepped closer, ignoring the tension that was now thick enough to choke on.
“Richard Wayne thought he could make amends. That he could wash the blood off his hands with philanthropy and mentorship and billion-dollar mergers. But you and I both know he built his empire on the backs of men like my father. Men who bled for him. Died for him.”
I felt Sloane’s breath shift beside me, felt the fury simmering beneath his skin like a live wire. But it wasn’t until Marco’s eyes landed on me again that I truly felt the room tilt.
“And you,” he said softly. “You’re the pretty little piece they married off to tie the families together. Newman royalty, right? Did Daddy tell you how many favors he owed mine?”
I rose to my feet before I even realized I’d moved, my voice sharp and cold as ice. “Take one more step toward me and I swear to God you’ll regret it.”
Marco’s smile widened. “There she is. The fire they talked about. You really do remind me of your mother.”
That was the last straw.
Sloane moved first, lunging forward just as Marco’s hand dipped into his coat. I screamed — not because I was afraid, but because I saw it: the flash of silver. A gun.
The next second erupted in chaos.
A shot rang out, deafening in the enclosed space, the bullet embedding itself in the glass wall behind Sloane with a violent crack.
Shards rained to the floor like falling stars. Security was already swarming the hall, but it was Sloane who reached Marco first, slamming him against the nearest wall with bone-rattling force, the two of them grappling in a blur of fists and fury.
I ducked behind the conference table, heart hammering so hard I thought it might rip free of my chest.
My fingers found the emergency switch beneath the table and slammed it — alarms blared instantly, bathing the room in flashing red light.
By the time I looked back up, Sloane had Marco on the ground, blood smeared across both their faces, rage etched into every line of Sloane’s body.
“You will never touch her,” he growled, voice raw and lethal. “You will never get near her again.”
Marco spat blood, still smiling. “Too late.”
It took four armed guards to drag him out, and even then, he kept talking — making threats, naming names, swearing the war wasn’t over. But it was.
Because we weren’t the ones running anymore.
Later, in my parents’ penthouse, the tension was even worse than the boardroom. My father paced by the fireplace with the restless precision of a man used to control — and now, utterly without it.
Mother sat silently, her fingers twisted around a crystal glass of untouched scotch, her expression unreadable. Sloane and I stood side by side, surrounded by the weight of every secret they’d never told me.
“You should have told us about Marco Visconti,” I said, my voice low, controlled — but shaking just slightly. “You should have told me everything.”
My father’s gaze cut to me like a blade. “We were trying to protect you.”
“No,” I said quietly. “You were protecting yourselves. And you used me to do it.”
There was silence, thick and echoing. Finally, my mother spoke, her voice colder than the ice in her glass.
“You think we didn’t carry our own regrets, Ariel? You think we didn’t lose things when those deals were made?”
Sloane stepped forward then, his tone steady but unyielding.
“Whatever regrets you’ve carried, your daughter is the one who’s faced the consequences. And she deserves more than your excuses.”
For a long moment, no one spoke. Then my father looked at me, and for once, I didn’t see the tycoon or the strategist.
I saw a man who had spent his life hiding his fear behind money and deals and perfectly tailored suits. And in that moment, he finally looked… sorry.
“I underestimated you,” he said softly. “You’re not the girl we raised.”
“No,” I said. “I’m the woman Richard Wayne believed in.”
And for the first time in my life, my father didn’t have a retort.
That night, in the quiet stillness of the penthouse, I stood by the window and watched the city blur beneath the lights and rain.
Behind me, I felt Sloane’s warmth as he approached, wrapping his arms around my waist and pressing a kiss to the side of my neck — not out of lust, but reverence.
“They’re gone,” he said. “The threat is over.”
I nodded, my hand resting over his. “But we’re just getting started.”
He turned me slowly, lifting my chin until our eyes met — and for the first time, there were no walls between us. Just raw truth.
“You’re not what I expected,” he murmured. “You never were.”
“And you’re more than you think,” I whispered.
His kiss was slow and reverent, the kind of kiss that rewrites history — not with power, but with grace.
And when we finally moved together, tangled in shadows and soft sheets and breaths that felt like promises, it wasn’t about safety or strategy anymore.
It was about us.