POV Noelle
I wait until Owen is asleep.
Not resting. Not drifting. Properly sedated, pulled under by medication strong enough to quiet even his instincts. His breathing is slow and even, chest rising in a rhythm that no longer belongs to him alone. His lashes rest against bruised skin, dark shadows blooming beneath his eyes, a cruel contrast to the stillness forced onto his body.
The machines hum softly beside him. A monitor blinks green. Another clicks at steady intervals. Wires map his body like a quiet accusation, like proof that even the strongest men can be reduced to stillness when the world decides it’s time.
I sit in the chair beside his bed and watch his chest rise and fall.
“I’m not doing this out of pride,” I whisper, though I don’t know who I’m saying it for. Maybe him. Maybe the girl I used to be, who would have waited and waited and called it loyalty. “I’m doing it because waiting is killing us.”
He doesn’t stir.
His hand twitches once, fingers curling slightly, like muscle memory reaching for something he can’t grab. The movement hits me harder than if he’d woken. Even unconscious, his body searches for agency.
I slide my fingers over his knuckles, careful not to disturb anything, not to wake alarms or nurses or guilt. His skin is warm. Solid. Real.
“You taught me how to survive violence,” I murmur, my voice low, steady. “You just never believed I’d use that knowledge without you.”
The thought doesn’t make me sad. It steadies me.
Michael’s people are everywhere. I know that without being told. Men in jackets who don’t look like hospital staff. Conversations that stop when I walk past. Phone calls taken in stairwells. Plans unfolding above my head like a chessboard I’m not allowed to touch.
That’s the problem. I don’t trust time anymore. Or men’s plans. Or the idea that patience is a virtue when it’s really just delay dressed up as wisdom.
Jamie meets me in the hallway when I step out. “You look like you’ve already decided,” she says quietly, her voice careful, eyes sharp.
“I have,” I reply.
She studies my face. “Michael’s accelerating things. They’re tracking Warren, and it won’t take long.”
“That’s what everyone keeps saying,” I answer. “And somehow he’s still breathing.”
Jamie crosses her arms. “What are you thinking?"
“I’m thinking I don’t want this handled around me,” I say. “I want it handled with me.”
She exhales slowly. “You’re going to do something dangerous.”
“I’m going to do something honest,” I reply.
She shakes her head. “Those are not the same thing.”
“They are when you stop pretending you’re powerless,” I say.
Jamie watches me for a long moment, the silence thick with everything she’s not saying. Finally, she speaks again, voice lower. “You’re going to meet him. Alone.”
“No,” I correct. “On my terms.”
Her jaw tightens. “Owen will lose his mind.”
“Owen is unconscious,” I reply. “And even if he weren’t, this isn’t his decision.”
She nods slowly. “What do you want from me?”
“Time,” I answer. “And silence.”
She sighs. “I hate this.”
“I know,” I say. “That’s how I know I’m not doing it for ego.”
I go back into Owen’s room once more before I leave. I lean down, close enough that my breath brushes his ear. “I’m not asking your permission,” I whisper. “I’m asking you to forgive me later.”
His face doesn’t change. But I swear his grip tightens faintly around the sheet.
Outside, the night is cool and sharp, like it’s been waiting for me to step into it. The city feels wider, louder, more alive than it did inside those walls. I sit in my car and stare at my phone for a full minute before unlocking it.
Warren’s number isn’t saved. I type it in from memory. My thumb hovers, and then I text.
Me: You wanted to talk. I’m ready.
The response comes faster than I expect, a reminder that obsession never sleeps.
Warren: I was wondering how long it would take.
Me: You want money. And closure.
A pause. Long enough to feel deliberate, to remind me he enjoys control.
Me: I want respect. (I almost laugh.) You want leverage. I’m offering you terms.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
Warren: You don’t get to set terms.
Me: Then you don’t get a meeting.
Another pause, longer this time.
Warren: Where?
There it is.
Me: Neutral location. Public enough to keep things civil. Private enough to talk.
Warren: And the money.
Me: I’ll bring what you asked for.
That part hurts. But not the way I expected. It doesn’t feel like surrender. It feels like bait, heavy and deliberate in my hands.
Warren: Alone.
I don’t answer immediately. When I do, it’s careful.
Me: I won’t bring anyone.
True enough. I lock the phone and set it face down on the seat beside me. My hands are steady. My breathing even.
This isn’t impulsive. It’s calculated. Back inside, Michael’s voice carries down the corridor, low and controlled. He’s giving orders. Moving pieces. Hunting.
I don’t interrupt him. I pass him without stopping.
“Noelle,” he says, catching sight of me. “Where are you going?”
I meet his gaze. “For air.”
His eyes sharpen. “Now is not the time—”
“It never is,” I reply. “That’s the problem.”
He steps closer. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”
I don’t flinch. “I already did.”
Something flickers across his face. Recognition. Too late.
“You don’t get to do this alone,” he says.
“I’ve been alone in rooms full of men my whole life,” I answer. “This is just the first time I’m not pretending otherwise.”
I turn and walk away before he can say anything else.
Back at the hospital entrance, I pause once more, looking up at the glowing windows. Somewhere inside, Owen sleeps, restrained by wires and painkillers, still believing control will save us.
I touch the glass lightly. “I won’t wait anymore,” I whisper.
The city hums around me, indifferent and alive. Warren thinks he’s finally drawn me out. He thinks money and obsession have cornered me into compliance.
He thinks this meeting will prove that pressure works. He’s wrong.
I’m not doing this to win. I’m doing it to end something that keeps feeding on delay.
Waiting would kill us slowly. So I won’t wait. And when I step into that room with him, it won’t be as a girl trying to survive men’s decisions.