Jake’s POV
Something breaks in her when she says the word.
"Okay." Adison's voice is flat. Hollow. "I'll keep it secret."
Then she reaches for her left hand. Slowly. Deliberately. Her fingers find my grandmother's ring—the one I almost gave her mother, the one that finally found its rightful owner—and she slides it off.
The motion is theatrical. Pointed. She makes certain her father sees every second of it before the ring disappears into her pocket.
Richard's expression doesn't change. He's already won. He knows it.
The gesture hits me like a blade between the ribs. Sharp. Deep. The kind of wound that doesn't bleed immediately but promises to hurt for a long time.
"You should rest now, Dad." Adison's voice carries no warmth. Just exhaustion. "We'll talk more tomorrow."
We leave him there—surrounded by machines and monitors and the weight of everything he's demanded. The hallway outside feels like a different country. Quieter. Colder.
Zachary materializes beside us with unsettling precision.
"I'll have detailed instructions prepared by morning, Miss Ward." His tone is professional, appropriate, infuriating. "The transition process requires careful coordination."
"Fine." Adison doesn't look at him. Doesn't look at me. "I need time alone tonight. To think."
"Of course." Zachary nods toward Maria, who's appeared from somewhere down the hall. "Maria will show Mr. Sullivan to his room."
His room. Not their room. Separate accommodations, already prepared, because this assistant anticipated the exact humiliation Richard would require.
I watch Zachary retreat down the corridor. Watch how he moves through this penthouse like he owns every square inch of it.
This one needs watching.
Maria leads me to a guest suite that costs more than my entire house. Crystal fixtures. Silk everything. The kind of luxury that feels like accusation rather than comfort.
"Is there anything you need, Mr. Sullivan?" Her voice is kind. Careful.
"No. Thank you."
She leaves. I shower because I don't know what else to do. The water is perfect temperature, perfect pressure, everything designed for maximum comfort by people who've never had to wonder if they could afford hot water.
I fall into the obscenely soft bed wearing my jeans. Too exhausted to look for other clothes. Too wired to actually rest. Sleep takes me anyway, dragging me under like a current I can't fight.
My phone wakes me sometime after midnight.
Adison's message glows in the darkness: Didn't want to wake you. I needed to think.
Sleep is impossible now.
I wander the penthouse looking for the kitchen. Wrong-turn into a study instead—leather chairs, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the smell of old money and older ambition. A minibar holds whiskey that probably costs more than a month of ranch expenses.
I pour myself a glass. Take a long sip. Examine the spines on Richard's shelves like they might explain how I ended up here.
"Couldn't sleep either."
I turn. Adison stands in the doorway wearing silk pajamas that make my mouth go dry. The fabric clings to curves I've memorized with my hands, my mouth, every part of me that belongs to her.
"Figured the kitchen was this direction." I hold up the whiskey. "Found something better."
She moves into the room. Stops near the window where Manhattan glitters below like scattered diamonds. Her reflection looks haunted.
"You can still walk away from this." The words come out rougher than I intend. "Take nothing. Refuse him. Come home with me tomorrow."
"Jake—"
"I mean it." I set down the glass. "The ranch is ours. Your research is waiting. We don't need his money or his approval or any of this bullshit."
"I can't." Her voice cracks on the word. "He's dying."
"I know."
"He's manipulative and controlling and he's spent my whole life treating me like property." She turns to face me, and her eyes are wet. "But he's still my father. And I love him. Despite everything. Despite knowing better."
The grief hits her in waves. I watch it shake through her body—shoulders trembling, breath catching, the sound of someone breaking apart in slow motion.
"I lost my mother." The words come out ragged. "I was twelve and she was just gone and I never got to—" She stops. Swallows hard. "Now I'm losing him too. And I hate him. And I love him. And I don't know how to feel both things at once."
Tears spill down her cheeks. She doesn't wipe them away.
I set down the whiskey. Cross the room in three strides. Kiss her like it's the only true thing left in this entire goddamn city.
She melts against me—still crying, still shaking—and I back her against the bookshelf because I cannot fix this. Cannot save her from any of it. Cannot make her father a better man or rewrite twenty-one years of damage or take away the grief that's already settled into her bones.
But I can remind her that this is real.
We are real.
Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer. My fingers tangle in her hair, tilting her head back so I can kiss her deeper. She tastes like salt and sorrow and everything I'd burn the world down to protect.
"Tomorrow we perform," I murmur against her mouth. "Separate rooms. Professional distance. Whatever games they want us to play."
"I know."
"But this—" I kiss her again, harder, desperate. "This doesn't change. No matter what masks we wear out there. This stays ours."
She nods against my lips. Her tears are slowing now. Her breathing steadier.
The engagement technically erased for public consumption. But I feel her pressed against me, feel her heart hammering against my chest, feel every inch of connection between us that no corporate strategy can touch.
Richard can demand his performances.
Manhattan can have its secrets.
But Adison is mine. And I'm hers. And no amount of dying-man manipulation changes that fundamental truth.
We stand there in his study, surrounded by his books and his whiskey and his empire of control, and we hold onto each other like the world is ending.
Maybe it is.
But we're ending it together.