A Vow Forged in Shadows

Chapter 1

Clara

“You’re prettier than they said you’d be.”

The man’s voice is thick, slurred by expensive whiskey and a lifetime of getting whatever he wants. He swirls the amber liquid in his crystal tumbler, the ice clinking like a tiny, distant bell. His name is Luca Ricci. My target. He thinks this is a transaction of a different sort. He’s not entirely wrong. A service is being rendered. A price is being paid. He just has the details confused.

“And you’re more predictable,” I say. My voice is even, a calm surface on a deep lake.

He chuckles, a low rumble in his chest. “I like that. A woman with fire.” He leans forward in his leather armchair, the penthouse view of the city glittering behind him like a sea of fallen stars. We’re fifty floors up. Close to heaven. Or hell, depending on your perspective. The air smells of old money, leather, and his cologne, something sharp and citrusy that fails to cover the rot underneath.

“My fire isn’t for you to like,” I tell him, my eyes scanning the room one last time. Heavy mahogany desk. A single, unlocked door leading to a balcony. A bar cart stocked with top shelf liquor. No visible guards. He was confident. Arrogant. The best kind of target. They do half the work for you.

“Is that so?” He takes a slow sip of his drink, his eyes roaming over me, taking in the simple black dress, the way it clings. He sees a high class escort. An expensive night. He doesn’t see the thin, carbon fiber garrote wire woven into the hem of my dress. He doesn’t see the needle thin vial of succinylcholine tucked into my clutch. He doesn’t see Nyx. No one ever does. They call me the Ghost for a reason.

“They said you were discreet,” he continues, setting his glass down with a heavy thud. “That you knew how to handle… delicate situations.”

“I am the delicate situation,” I say, my hand resting on the small, beaded clutch in my lap. It looks elegant. It holds death.

He laughs again, louder this time. The sound grates on my nerves. “Excellent. I have a problem, you see. A business associate who has become… talkative.”

“I know,” I say. “His name is Antonio Moretti.”

Luca Ricci freezes. The smug look evaporates, replaced by a flicker of confusion, then alarm. The shift is subtle, a tightening around his eyes, the way his hand stops halfway to his glass. He wasn’t expecting me to know the name. The intel was good. Luca was selling secrets to the Moretti family’s biggest rival. He was the traitor.

“How do you know that name?” His voice is a low growl now. The predator finally realizes it’s in a cage with something bigger.

“It’s my job to know things.” I stand up, the movement fluid and silent. The dress shifts around me. “It’s what your boss is paying me for.”

His face pales. “My boss? What are you talking about? I am the boss.”

“You’re a captain, Luca. A small fish who thinks he’s a shark.” I take a step toward him. “And your father doesn’t appreciate you selling family secrets to pay off your gambling debts.”

Panic floods his features. Raw, ugly fear. It’s a look I know well. “Wait. Wait. This is a misunderstanding. I can explain. I can pay you more. Whatever they’re offering, I’ll triple it. Five million. Ten. Cash. Right now.” He gestures wildly toward a safe hidden behind a painting on the wall.

“You can’t afford me.” I keep walking, my heels making no sound on the thick Persian rug. I stop in front of his chair, looking down at him. He shrinks under my gaze, the powerful mobster gone, replaced by a terrified man who made a bad bet.

“Please,” he whispers. It’s almost pathetic. “Don’t do this.”

“It’s already done.”

My hand moves faster than he can track. I don’t use the vial. Too messy to retrieve later. I use the wire. It’s out, looped, and around his throat in less than a second. He makes a choking sound, his hands flying up to claw at the invisible line biting into his flesh. His eyes bulge, pleading.

I hold the tension, my grip firm and practiced. I don’t look at his face. I focus on the pressure, the mechanics of it. It’s cleaner this way. Detached. I count the seconds in my head. One. Two. This is for Lena’s tuition at the art institute. Three. Four. This is for the rent on our quiet little apartment, the one with the leaky faucet I still need to fix. Five. Six. This is for the life she deserves, the one I can never have. Seven.

His struggles weaken. His body goes limp, slumping in the chair. I hold for another ten seconds to be certain. Then I release the wire. It coils back into my hand, spotless. I tuck it away.

I take a moment. I check his pulse. Nothing. I close his eyes. A small, professional courtesy. I smooth his suit jacket. The scene needs to look peaceful. A heart attack. A man his age, with his lifestyle. No one would question it. My work is defined by what is not there: no witnesses, no evidence, no trace.

I walk to the bar cart and pour a small amount of his whiskey into his glass, topping it off. I place it on the table next to him, positioning it to look like he was reaching for it when the pain hit. I take a silk cloth from my clutch and wipe down the bottle, my own glass, any surface I might have touched. Standard procedure. Boring. Necessary.

My job here is done. All that’s left is to leave.

I cross the opulent room, my reflection a dark sliver in the floor to ceiling windows. Outside, the city is a vibrant, chaotic splash of light and life. Inside, it is silent and still. I open the door to the hallway, check that it’s clear, and step out, closing it softly behind me. I don’t look back.

The elevator ride down is quiet. A young couple gets on at the thirtieth floor, laughing, their arms wrapped around each other. The girl smells like champagne and something sweet, like strawberries. They’re blissfully unaware that death is riding down with them. I am invisible. A shadow in a black dress.

I walk out of the lobby, nodding politely to the doorman who holds the door for me. He smiles. I don’t smile back.

Outside, the night air is cool. I walk two blocks east, the sound of my heels a steady click on the pavement. I turn into a dark alley, the stench of garbage and stale beer hitting me. I stop behind a dumpster. From my clutch, I pull out a pair of worn sneakers and a gray hoodie. I slip the shoes on, pulling the hoodie over my dress. The glamour of the penthouse is gone, replaced by the anonymity of the street. I am no one.

My burner phone buzzes in my pocket. A single text message. A string of numbers. Confirmation of payment. The transaction is complete. I pull the battery from the phone, snap the SIM card in half, and drop the pieces into a sewer grate. The phone follows. Another ghost, gone forever.

I keep walking, my pace steady, melting into the sparse late night crowds. My mind is already moving on, compartmentalizing the last hour, filing it away in a dark corner where it belongs. I think about the grocery list. Milk, eggs, the weird herbal tea Lena likes. I think about the lie I’ll have to tell her about where I was tonight. A catering gig. A long shift for a demanding client. The lies are exhausting, but they are the walls I build to keep her safe. To keep my two worlds from ever colliding.

My real phone, the one with Lena’s smiling face as the background, feels heavy in my pocket. I resist the urge to check it. Not yet. I need to put more distance between that room and this street. Between Nyx and me.

Clara. My name is Clara.

I catch a late night bus, the hiss of its air brakes a welcome sound. I take a seat in the back, leaning my head against the cool glass of the window. The city slides by, a blur of neon and concrete. Each stop, each mile, is a step away from the ghost and a step closer to home. To her.

Lena. She’s eighteen, all bright eyes and boundless optimism. She sees the world in brilliant colors, paints it in bold strokes on her canvases. She has no idea what I do to keep those colors from fading. She thinks I’m a freelance event planner, working odd hours to make ends meet. She thinks I’m boring. I pray she always thinks I’m boring.

She is the only reason I do this. The only reason I became Nyx in the first place. Our parents died when she was ten and I was sixteen. I was left with a mountain of debt and a little sister who depended on me for everything. The world isn’t kind to orphans. You learn to be tough, or you get broken. I learned to be more than tough. I learned to be invisible. To be a weapon. A man from my father’s past, a shadowy figure named Silas, found me. He saw my desperation, my cold resolve. He gave me a new name and a new purpose. He trained me, honed my anger into a fine, sharp edge. And he paid me enough to give Lena a life our parents would have wanted for her.

The bus groans to a halt at my stop. I get off, pulling the hood tighter around my face. Our apartment is a third floor walk up in a quiet, unassuming neighborhood. The kind of place where people keep to themselves. It’s small, but it’s ours.

I climb the stairs, my keys already in my hand. Inside, the lights are on. I can hear the faint sound of music playing. I pause at the door, taking a deep breath. I force the tension from my shoulders. I wipe the cold, flat expression from my face. I let go of Nyx.

I turn the key and push the door open. “Lena? I’m home.”

Lena pokes her head out of her bedroom, her face breaking into a wide grin. She has paint smudged on her cheek and her blonde hair is a messy bun on top of her head. She is beautiful. She is everything that is good in my world.

“Aria!” she cheers, using the name I go by in this life. It was a stupid choice, a name I picked on a whim years ago, but it stuck. It’s another layer of the wall between my worlds. “You will not believe what happened.”

“Oh yeah?” I say, kicking off my sneakers and dropping my keys into the bowl by the door. “Did you finally figure out how to paint something that doesn’t look like a depressed blob?”

She throws a balled up sock at me. I catch it easily. “Jerk. No. I aced my History of Pigments final. A ninety eight. Can you believe it?”

“Of course I can believe it,” I say, a real smile finally reaching my face. “You’re a genius. I’ve been telling you that for years.”

“Well, now it’s official,” she says, beaming. “And an official genius deserves an official celebration. I was thinking that new club downtown, ‘Elysium.’ Tonight. We have to go.”

My body aches for a hot shower and twelve hours of sleep. The adrenaline from the job is wearing off, leaving a familiar, bone deep exhaustion in its wake. But then I look at her face, so full of hope and excitement, and I know I can’t say no. This is what I work for. These moments. Her happiness.

“Elysium, huh? Isn’t that place impossible to get into?”

“Not for a certified genius and her super cool older sister,” she says, grabbing my hands and pulling me toward my room. “Now go. Put on something amazing. We are going to have the best night ever.”

I let her drag me along, the weariness fading, replaced by a warmth that spreads through my chest. For her, I would do anything. I would face down the entire Ricci crime family. I would walk through fire. I would even go to a loud, overpriced nightclub on a Tuesday.

“Okay, okay, I’m going,” I laugh.

As I close my bedroom door, I catch my reflection in the mirror. For a second, I don’t see Clara, or Aria. I see the Ghost. Eyes that are a little too old, a little too calm. A stillness that doesn’t belong on a freelance event planner. I shake my head, forcing the image away. Tonight, I am not Nyx. Tonight, I am just Aria. A sister celebrating with the only person in the world who matters. Tonight, I am normal.

It’s a lie, of course. But it’s the most important one I tell.

Chapter 2

Clara

“No. Absolutely not.”

Lena stands in my doorway, holding up a dress that is less a dress and more a whisper of dark red silk. It would not survive a brisk walk, let alone a firefight.

“Oh, come on, Aria. It’s Elysium. You can’t show up in your usual funeral attire.”

“My ‘funeral attire’ is classic. And black is slimming.”

“Everything is slimming on you,” she says, tossing the red scrap onto my bed. “You need to wear color. You need to look like you’re alive and not like you’re on your way to read a rich husband’s will.”

I pick up the dress. It feels like nothing in my hands. Dangerous.

“It has a slit up to my ribcage, Lena.”

“Exactly. It’s perfect.” She grins, that bright, world conquering smile that I pay for in blood and silence. “Live a little. For me? For my ninety eight percent in History of Pigments?”

I sigh. It is a long, drawn out sound of complete and utter defeat. This is her celebration. Her night. I can endure a ridiculous dress for her. I can endure anything for her.

“Fine,” I say, holding it up against me. “But if I trip and flash the entire club, I’m billing you for therapy.”

“Deal.” She claps her hands. “Now, hurry. The chariot of the masses, otherwise known as the C train, awaits.”

An hour later, I am a different person. I am Aria, a woman who wears a ridiculous red dress and stands in line for an overpriced club. The bass from inside Elysium thumps through the pavement, a steady, primal heartbeat. Lena bounces on the balls of her feet next to me, vibrating with an energy I can’t remember ever possessing.

“Can you believe we’re actually here?” she whispers, her eyes wide as she takes in the velvet rope and the bouncers who look like they eat bricks for breakfast.

I scan the entrance. Two men on the door. One watching the line. At least two more inside, visible from here. All wired. I note the exits. The fire escape on the adjacent building. The flow of the crowd. Old habits.

I force them down. I am Aria. I am a freelance event planner. I am here to celebrate my sister’s academic victory.

“It’s just a building, Lena.”

“It’s an experience,” she corrects, grabbing my arm as the line moves. “It’s the beginning of the best night ever.”

The bouncer barely glances at our IDs before waving us through. Inside, it’s a different world. A cavern of sound and light, bodies moving like one single organism under strobing purples and blues. The air is thick with the smell of expensive perfume, sweat, and spilled champagne.

Lena pulls me toward the bar. “First round is on the genius.”

“As it should be,” I say, letting her order for us. She gets herself something pink and sugary and hands me a simple vodka soda. She knows me well. At least, the version of me she is allowed to know.

“Okay,” she shouts over the music, leaning close. “My mission is to find a cute artist type to discuss pigment history with. Your mission is to not stand in a corner and look like you’re plotting a murder. Got it?”

I take a sip of my drink. The irony is a bitter taste on my tongue. “I’ll try my best.”

She gives me a quick hug, her joy infectious. “Be right back. Don’t move from this spot unless you’re being swept off your feet by a handsome stranger.”

She disappears into the dancing crowd, a flash of blonde hair and boundless hope. I stay at the bar, a still point in a swirling universe of chaos. I watch people. A couple arguing in hushed, angry tones. A group of girls taking endless photos. A man in a tailored suit, discreetly passing a thick envelope to another.

This is my world, even when I am pretending it is not. A world of transactions and secrets, just with a better soundtrack.

“You look like you’re calculating the structural integrity of the building.”

The voice is deep. Smooth. It cuts through the noise and lands right next to my ear. I turn my head slowly. He is tall, dressed in a dark suit that fits him like it was custom made. Which it probably was. His hair is dark, his jaw is sharp, and his eyes are a startling shade of whiskey brown. They are also fixed on me with an unnerving intensity.

“Close,” I say. “I was deciding which exit to use in case of a fire.”

He smiles. It is a small, knowing thing that makes the corner of his eye crinkle. He does not look away.

“Always have a plan. I can appreciate that.” He gestures to the bartender, who appears instantly. “Let me buy you a real drink. That water you have there looks tragic.”

“I like my tragic water, thank you.”

“A woman who knows what she wants.” He leans an elbow on the bar, creating a small space around us, an invisible bubble in the chaos. “So, are you here for business or pleasure?”

“Neither. I’m here on parole.”

He actually laughs at that. A real, deep laugh that is more surprising than his sudden appearance. “Then we have something in common.”

“Oh yeah? What were you in for?”

“I own the prison.”

His confidence is a physical thing. It radiates from him, effortless and absolute. It is not the brutish arrogance of Luca Ricci. This is something else. Something refined. Sharper.

More dangerous.

“Well, the decor is a little loud for a maximum security facility,” I say, taking another sip of my drink.

“We cater to a specific clientele.” His gaze drops from my eyes to my lips, then back up. “My name is Ronan.”

He does not offer a hand to shake. He just says his name like it is a fact of life. Like the sky is blue and his name is Ronan.

“Aria,” I say. The lie feels smoother tonight than it usually does.

“Aria.” He tastes the name, rolling it over his tongue. “It suits you. It sounds like a secret.”

“And Ronan sounds like an epic poem full of suffering and damnation.”

“You’re not wrong.” His smile widens. “So, Aria of the secrets, what brings you to my prison tonight?”

“My sister. She’s celebrating.”

“And you are her reluctant chaperone?”

“Something like that.”

“Every good party needs a reluctant chaperone. It keeps things from getting too predictable.” He signals the bartender again, and this time a glass of amber liquid appears in front of him. An old fashioned.

“You don’t look like the predictable type,” I say, surprising myself.

“And you look like you could start a war or end one, and I can’t decide which.”

My breath catches in my throat for a fraction of a second. No one has ever looked at me and seen anything close to the truth. Not like that. He sees the fire, not just the ice I use to contain it.

“Maybe I do both,” I say, my voice a little lower than before.

“I have no doubt.”

We are quiet for a moment, the music and the crowd fading into a dull roar. There is a current passing between us, something electric and hot and completely reckless. I should walk away. I should find Lena and tell her I have a headache and go home. Back to my quiet, safe, compartmentalized life.

But I do not move. I am tired of being safe. I am tired of being a ghost.

Tonight, just for tonight, I want to be seen.

Ronan seems to understand this. He does not push. He just stands there, watching me over the rim of his glass. Lena reappears then, her face flushed from dancing. She skids to a stop when she sees him.

“Oh. Hi.” She looks from Ronan to me, her eyes wide with questions.

“Lena, this is Ronan,” I say. “Ronan, my sister, Lena.”

“The reason for the celebration,” Ronan says, giving Lena a charming smile that has her blushing instantly. “A pleasure to meet you. Aria was just telling me you’re a genius.”

“She was?” Lena looks at me, surprised and pleased. “Well, I wouldn’t say genius. Just… exceptionally brilliant.”

I roll my eyes, but I am smiling. “Don’t encourage her.”

“Oh, I think I have to.” He looks back at me. “Brilliance should always be encouraged.”

Another song starts, this one with a slower, heavier beat. Lena grabs my arm.

“You guys should dance,” she says, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. Before I can protest, she adds, “I see the cute artist type. Wish me luck.”

She winks and vanishes back into the crowd.

Ronan raises an eyebrow at me. “An order from the genius.”

“It was more of a suggestion.”

“It sounded like an order to me.” He sets his glass down and offers me his hand. “One dance. As a favor to your parole officer.”

My mind screams no. Don’t touch him. Don’t get closer. Don’t lose control. My hand, however, has other ideas. It lifts and settles into his, his fingers closing around mine, warm and strong.

He leads me to the edge of the dance floor. The lights are dimmer here. He pulls me close, his hand resting on the small of my back, right on the bare skin exposed by the cut of the dress. A jolt, sharp and hot, goes through me.

We move to the music. It is not really dancing. It is just swaying. Breathing. Existing in this small circle of space that feels like the only place in the universe. His suit smells like expensive wool and something clean, like citrus and cedar. He smells like power.

“So what do you do when you’re not supervising convicts, Ronan?” I ask, my voice barely audible.

“I’m in the family business,” he says. “Imports and exports.”

It is a vague, classic answer. The kind of answer that means anything but what it says. I should care. I should press him for details, analyze the lie. I do not.

“And what about you, Aria? What do you do when you’re not planning fires?”

“I plan parties,” I say. The lie is so practiced, but it feels flimsy in his presence. As if he can see right through it.

“I would come to one of your parties,” he murmurs, his lips close to my ear. “I bet they’re unforgettable.”

His other hand comes up to cup my jaw, his thumb stroking my cheek. My carefully constructed walls, the ones I have spent years building and reinforcing, begin to crumble. The vodka must be stronger than I thought. Or maybe he is.

I don’t know how long we dance. One song blends into the next. The club disappears. Lena disappears. All that exists is the thrum of the bass and the heat of his hand on my skin.

Eventually, the music fades into a temporary lull between songs. We stop moving but we don’t pull apart.

“I should find my sister,” I say, but I make no move to leave.

“She looks like she’s having a good time.” He nods his head toward the bar, and I see Lena laughing with a young man with paint-splattered jeans. She is safe. She is happy.

He looks back at me. “Let her have her night.”

“And what about my night?”

“I think it’s just beginning.” His eyes hold mine, and there is a silent question in them. A proposition. An invitation to a place where there are no secrets, no lies, just this raw, undeniable pull between us.

I have spent my entire adult life making calculated decisions. Every move is planned. Every outcome weighed. I live by a strict set of rules designed for one purpose: survival.

Tonight, I break them all.

I nod. Just a small, almost imperceptible movement.

It is all the answer he needs.

He leads me away from the dance floor, his hand never leaving the small of my back. He retrieves our coats, tips the attendant an obscene amount, and guides me out into the cool night air. The city sounds muted, distant. My head is swimming with vodka and the scent of his cologne.

A sleek black car, the kind that costs more than my apartment, waits at the curb. A driver holds the door open. Of course.

Ronan helps me in before sliding in beside me. The door closes, shutting out the rest of the world. The leather seats are soft. The interior is silent.

“Where are we going?” I ask, my voice sounding strange to my own ears.

He looks at me, the city lights sliding across the sharp planes of his face.

“Home,” he says.

And I go with him.

Chapter 3

Clara

A jackhammer is trying to break through my skull. From the inside out. My tongue feels thick, coated with the stale residue of vodka and bad decisions. The light filtering through my eyelids is a searing, unwelcome white. I try to roll over, to bury my face in a pillow, but the sheets are wrong.

They’re too smooth. Silk, or something pretending to be. I don’t own anything made of silk. My sheets are cheap cotton, slightly frayed at the edges. My apartment doesn’t have light this bright. My bedroom window faces a brick wall.

My eyes snap open.

The ceiling is at least fifteen feet high, white and ornate with crown molding. To my left, a wall of glass showcases a sprawling cityscape still waking up under a hazy dawn. I am very, very high up.

This is not my room.

I push myself up slowly, my head protesting with a violent throb. The silk sheet pools around my waist. I am naked. A quick, frantic memory search yields flashes of the night. The club. The pulsing music. A deep voice. Whiskey brown eyes. Ronan.

I turn my head.

He is there. Sleeping beside me, lying on his stomach, one arm thrown over his head. His dark hair is a mess against the white pillowcase. In sleep, the sharp, confident edges of his face are softer. He looks younger. Almost peaceful. He is a stranger. A dangerously beautiful stranger I brought back to… where?

I slide out of the bed. The cool air hits my skin, raising goosebumps. The floor is polished marble, cold under my bare feet. The room is enormous. A penthouse suite, by the looks of it. A sitting area with a sleek leather couch, a fireplace that looks like a piece of modern art, and that breathtaking view of the city.

My clothes are in a heap on a velvet armchair. The red dress looks cheap and garish in the morning light. My clutch is on the nightstand.

I need to leave. Now. Before he wakes up. I tiptoe across the marble, my movements silent by instinct. Every assassin knows how to walk away from a scene. This is no different. Just another room to vanish from.

My left hand feels heavy. Wrong.

I stop halfway to the chair and lift it into a sliver of morning light. A band of gold sits on my ring finger. It is not delicate. It is a thick, substantial piece of metal, intricately carved with what looks like a roaring lion’s head. It looks like something a king would wear. Or a kingpin.

A cold dread, heavy and metallic, settles deep in my gut. Where did this come from? I tug at it. It doesn’t budge. It feels like a shackle.

My eyes dart back to the nightstand, to my clutch. There is something next to it. A folded piece of paper. It is thick, creamy, official looking. My heart starts to beat a frantic, panicked rhythm against my ribs.

I snatch the paper. My hands are shaking. I unfold it.

The words swim before my eyes, the legal jargon a blur until two names snap into focus. Two signatures at the bottom.

Aria.

My name. The lie.

And below it, his.

Ronan Moretti.

Moretti. The name echoes in the silent penthouse. A cannon blast in a library. The Moretti crime family. The family that owns this city. The family my last target was betraying. The family whose orbit is a black hole that pulls everything in and crushes it.

The paper is a marriage certificate. Signed and dated for last night.

“No,” I whisper. The sound is swallowed by the cavernous room. “No, no, no.”

My training wars with pure, unadulterated panic. Assess the situation. You are in the private residence of the heir to the most powerful criminal organization in the country. You are wearing his ring. Your fake name is on a legal document binding you to him. You have no weapon. You have no exit strategy.

This is not a one night stand gone wrong. This is a catastrophe.

My breath comes in short, shallow gasps. I have to get out. I have to get to Lena. I have to disappear. I can do that. I am a ghost. I can become a ghost again. I grab my dress, my hands fumbling with the thin fabric. I have to run.

“Good morning.”

The voice is low, gravelly with sleep. It slices through my panic and freezes me in place.

I turn slowly. Ronan is sitting up in the bed, the white sheet pooled around his waist. He is watching me, his whiskey brown eyes clear and alert. He is not smiling. He is not smug. He looks… calm. Resigned.

He takes in my stance, the wild terror in my eyes, the certificate crumpled in my fist. He nods toward it.

“I see you’re an early riser.”

“What is this?” My voice is a harsh whisper. I hold up the paper. It shakes.

“It’s exactly what it looks like,” he says, his voice even. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead.

“This isn’t real,” I say, backing away toward the door. My dress is still clutched in my other hand. I need to get out of here. “We were drunk. This can be undone. Annulled.”

“It’s real,” he says, and his certainty is terrifying. “And it cannot be undone. Not yet.”

I look at him, at his calm demeanor, and a cold rage starts to burn through my fear. He did this. He planned this.

“You drugged me.” The accusation is sharp, venomous.

For the first time, a flicker of emotion crosses his face. His eyes narrow. “No. I would never do that. We were both drunk, yes. Stupidly, ridiculously drunk. But we both signed it. Willingly.”

I search my memory, through the fog of vodka and champagne. I remember laughing. A lot of laughing. A trip to an all night chapel. A man who looked like Elvis. It felt like a joke. A stupid, drunken adventure.

“This is a mistake,” I say, my voice flat. My eyes dart around the room, mapping the distance to the door, calculating.

“No,” he says, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He stands, completely unselfconscious in his nudity. He is lean but powerfully built, his skin covered in a roadmap of old scars that his suit had hidden. He is a warrior. Not a businessman. “It wasn’t a mistake. It was… an impulse. A necessity.”

“A necessity?” I almost laugh, the sound brittle and hysterical. I’ve reached the door to the suite. I don’t even know if it’s locked.

I turn the handle.

“Aria, wait.”

His voice is not a command. It is not a threat. It is a plea. It stops me cold. I have dealt with killers, thugs, and monsters. I know how to handle commands and threats. I don’t know what to do with a plea.

I look back at him. He has not moved closer. He stands by the bed, giving me space. His hands are held up, palms open, a gesture of peace.

“I know how this looks,” he says, his voice low and steady, trying to anchor me. “I know it’s insane. You have every right to run. Every right to hate me.”

“I’m leaving,” I say, my voice shaking less now. The anger is a better shield than the fear was.

“Just… don’t,” he says. “Not yet. Please. Before you go, just let me explain everything. I swear to you, this is not what it seems. Just give me five minutes. Hear me out. If you still want to leave after that, I won’t stop you.”

I stare at him, my hand frozen on the doorknob. My instincts are screaming at me to run. To disappear and never look back. To grab Lena and be on a bus to another country by nightfall. That is what Nyx would do.

But he is looking at me with an intensity that strips away all my layers. He is not looking at a ghost. He is looking at me. And for the first time in a very long time, I don’t know what to do.

He holds my gaze, his expression earnest, waiting for my answer.

The city is waking up behind him, the sun catching the glass towers and setting them on fire. My old life, the one I so carefully built, feels a million miles away. It feels like it burned down last night in a haze of vodka and a stranger’s laughter.