"You're not staying in some roach-infested sublet while a psychopath sends you decomposing flowers."
Rhys leans against Tessa's kitchen counter, arms crossed, jaw set in that stubborn line I'm learning to recognize.
He showed up twenty minutes after I texted him—which means he either broke several traffic laws or was already nearby waiting for an excuse.
"I can find my own place. I have savings, I don't need you to—"
I have a furnished apartment in a building with twenty-four-hour security, a doorman who actually checks IDs, and cameras on every floor."
He crosses to where I'm standing with Milo on my hip.
"Three months, already paid. You'd be doing me a favor by using it."
"A favor. How exactly is giving me a free apartment doing you a favor?"
"Because I bought the place as an investment property and I've been too lazy to list it. Because—"
Something vulnerable flickers behind his eyes before he locks it away.
"Because I need to know you're safe, Elara. And that's not negotiable."
Tessa clears her throat from the doorway.
"For what it's worth, I think you should take it. Not because I want you gone—I'd let you stay here forever if it meant keeping you close—but because whoever sent that box knows this address. They know my schedule, my building, probably my goddamn coffee order."
"She's right."
Rhys's voice softens.
"Your friend deserves to feel safe in her own home. And so do you."
I look at Milo, his storm-gray eyes blinking up at me with trust I haven't earned, and feel my resistance crumble.
"Fine. But this is temporary, and I'm paying you back every cent as soon as I can afford to."
"Whatever helps you sleep at night, firefly."
***
The apartment is everything he promised. The nursery has a white crib still in pieces against the wall.
"I had them deliver the furniture this morning, but the instructions are in Swedish and I apparently don't speak Swedish as well as I thought."
Rhys rolls up his sleeves and drops to his knees beside the scattered parts.
"Go feed him. I'll figure this out."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to."
He looks up at me, and something in his expression makes my chest tighten.
"Let me do this, Elara."
I settle into the rocking chair by the window to nurse Milo. He latches on with desperate hunger, and I watch Rhys work—methodical, patient, checking each screw twice before moving on.
"By the way," he says without looking up, "Harrison and Associates landed three new clients this week. Major accounts, the kind that will keep Tessa's father's firm in business for years."
"How do you know that?"
"I made some calls. Suggested to a few acquaintances that Michael Harrison's operation was worth their attention."
He shrugs like it's nothing, like he didn't just neutralize half of Rowena's threats with a handful of phone conversations.
"Consider it a bonus to the apartment arrangement."
"Rhys, you can't just—"
"I can, and I did. Your friend stuck her neck out for you when nobody else would. The least I can do is make sure she doesn't lose her family business for her trouble."
Milo pulls away and lets out a thin wail that escalates into full-blown fury. I fumble with my nursing bra, trying to soothe him, but he's overtired and nothing helps.
Then Rhys starts humming.
Low and soft, some melody I don't recognize, and he doesn't stop working. Just hums, steady and calm. Milo's cries taper off into hiccups, then silence.
"There." Rhys sits back on his heels. "Want to test it?"
I lay Milo in the crib, and he settles with a contented sigh, already drifting toward sleep.
"Thank you. I don't know how I'm supposed to repay you."
"You're not." He rises, brushing sawdust from his knees. "But if you really want to thank me, get some rest."
He leaves me alone in the apartment that doesn't feel like mine, surrounded by furniture chosen by a man who shouldn't care this much.
That night, my phone buzzes.
Rhys: Can't stop thinking about you in that apartment.
I stare at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard. I know where this is going and I should shut this down.
I should tell him this is inappropriate, that I'm still legally married, that whatever happened at the masquerade was a mistake I can't afford to repeat.
Instead: I'm trying to sleep.
Rhys: Are you in bed?
My heart hammers against my ribs.
I think of Caspian's soft kiss at the house with the blue shutters. I think of Rhys humming to my son like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Yes.
Rhys: What are you wearing?
I should stop.
I should put the phone down and pretend this conversation never happened.
A t-shirt.
Rhys: Just a t-shirt?
The masquerade haunts me—the taste of champagne on his tongue, the way his hands learned my body like a language he'd been waiting his whole life to speak.
Just a t-shirt.
Rhys: Nothing underneath?
My face burns.
I type and delete three different responses before settling on the truth.
Nothing underneath.
The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Rhys: You can't just say things like that and expect me to behave.
Something loosens in my chest. This feels less like a game now.
Who said I wanted you to behave?
I hit send before I can stop myself.
The masquerade floods back—the scratch of his mask against my cheek, the taste of champagne on his tongue, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise.
Rhys: Tell me to stop and I will. I mean it.
My thighs press together.
Don't stop.
Rhys: If I were there right now, I'd start at your collarbone. That spot where your pulse jumps when you're nervous. I can picture it—you lying in those white sheets, still trying to decide if you should tell me to stop.
I'm not touching myself. But my body doesn't know that. Heat pools low in my stomach, spreading outward like a fever I can't break.
Rhys: I'd work my way down. Slow. I've thought about this more than I should—what sounds you'd make if I took my time.
My breath comes shallow now. The t-shirt feels like too much fabric, too much barrier between my skin and the cool air.
Rhys: That night, you came apart so fast. I want to know what happens when I make you wait.
I press my palm flat against my stomach, holding myself still. The ache between my legs is impossible to ignore.
Rhys: I want to hear you say my name. Not because I told you to. Because you want to.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard. He's handed me power and we both know it.
What if I don't?
Ten seconds pass. Twenty. I've made him hesitate, and something dark and satisfied uncurls in my chest.
Rhys: Then I'll make you want to.
How?
Rhys: I won't let you finish until I hear it.
The image hits me like a punch—Rhys in his own bed, phone in one hand, the other... I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn't help.
You're not playing fair.
Rhys: I never play fair.
What happens if I say it?
A long pause. Then:
Rhys: Say my name and find out.
I type three letters and hit send before I can talk myself out of it.
Rhys.
His response comes instantly: That's my girl.
I fall asleep with my phone still in my hand, his last message glowing against my palm like a brand I've chosen to wear.