NINETEEN

The house didn’t feel the same.

It was morning, but it didn’t look like one. The sunlight coming through the windows hit patches of soot on the walls. The air smelled like burnt wires and something sharper, something chemical. Like the aftermath of chaos pretending everything was normal again.

Maids moved around me like ghosts, quietly sweeping up shattered glass, wiping down blackened doorframes, collecting what was left of a painting that had probably cost more than everything I owned. Someone was scrubbing the marble near the staircase. It had blood on it. I didn’t ask whose.

I walked slowly, taking it all in—burn marks curling up the wallpaper, cracks running along the corners of the hallway. One of the chandeliers in the east corridor had collapsed completely. Just a tangle of broken gold and crystal shards now. The kind of damage that felt… permanent. Like even if it got fixed, it’d still be there in your memory, waiting.

“Ma’am.”

I turned and found Roy, already in uniform again. Fresh shirt, gear clipped into place. The man was always composed, like he slept standing up.

He nodded once and gave a short update like he was delivering weather.

“Three of the boss’s cars are gone,” he said. “Garage fire. One of the helicopters too. Debris took it out before it could be moved.”

I blinked. “Wait. A helicopter?”

Roy looked almost amused. “Yeah.”

There was a pause. Then a shrug. “Boss said he’s replacing them. Already made the calls this morning.”

He turned and walked off like he hadn’t just dropped that bomb.

I stood there for a moment, still absorbing it.

A helicopter.

I mean, I knew Wesley was rich. I wasn’t dumb. The house alone screamed money. But “replace-a-helicopter-without-flinching” rich? That was… different. That was a whole other league.

I stared at the cracked wall across from me, half-smiling in disbelief.

What kind of life am I even in right now?

And how the hell did it start to feel like… mine?

I lay on my bed, back flat against the pillows, phone in hand. The brightness of the screen was the only real light in the room. My window was half-drawn, the curtains keeping the sun out. I didn’t feel like facing it.

The engagement was still trending. Top of the feed, just under a celebrity scandal and some political fallout. Our names sat there, bold and full of assumptions.

Wesley Morano and his mystery bride: Power Move or Prisoner Situation?

I sighed and scrolled.

Where is Wesley Morano? Sources say he hasn’t been seen in days.

Has anyone seen his fiancée since the engagement announcement?

Is she dead? Being held hostage? Or something worse?

I clicked one of the posts, half-expecting it to be another wild theory. It was. The comments were even better.

“Girl blink twice if you’re still alive.”

“She probably signed a blood contract.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised if she’s buried under that house.”

My fingers stilled. I locked the screen and dropped the phone onto the bed beside me.

It bounced once and went still, the black screen facing the ceiling.

I closed my eyes for a second.

I didn’t care about the rumors. Or at least I told myself I didn’t. But they wormed their way in anyway. The fact that people believed I could just disappear like that—that I might be locked away somewhere, unseen, voiceless—it bothered me more than I wanted to admit.

I sat up, ran a hand through my hair.

He did take a hit last night, I told myself. You should at least check on the bruises.

Right. That was the reason.

Totally not because I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the way he looked at me in the bunker, or the way his hand almost—but didn’t—touch my face.

I stood and slipped on a cardigan, more out of habit than comfort. The hall was quieter now, the cleanup mostly finished. My footsteps barely made a sound on the floor as I made my way toward Wesley’s room.

Just checking on his wounds. That’s all.

Definitely not looking for anything else.

The door to Wesley’s room was slightly open, just enough for the soft sound of running water to slip through.

He was in the shower. I walked in and stared at his glass bathroom.

Steam curled around the edges like it was trying to escape. I hesitated, unsure if I should go in or come back later.

I could’ve just waited.

I probably should’ve.

But then I saw it.

A red folder sitting on the edge of his bed, right by the pillows. It looked out of place—like it had been dropped there in a rush. The label was smudged, but not enough to make me miss that it was handwritten.

My curiosity kicked in before my sense of boundaries could stop it.

I stepped in, slow and quiet, eyes still on the folder. I didn’t mean to snoop—I just wanted a peek. Something about the color, the way it sat there so exposed, felt deliberate.

Maybe it had something to do with Brooklyn. Or Marco. Or both.

The shower was still running.

I moved closer.

My fingers had just grazed the edge of the folder when—

“And what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

My heart nearly jumped out of my chest.

I spun around fast and nearly dropped the folder altogether.

Wesley stood a few feet away, completely naked. Not a towel in sight. His skin was still wet, water dripping slowly down the sharp lines of his chest, trailing over his abs, vanishing into the V of his hips. His hair was pushed back, dark and damp, and his eyes—

They were locked on me.

Not amused. Not curious.

Just dangerous.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

Caught. Absolutely, completely caught.

He didn’t move. Didn’t try to cover up. Just stood there, letting the silence fill the room like a warning.

And all I could think was:

I should’ve knocked. And definitely not touched the damn file.