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The unwavering strength in her voice as she claimed her truth. The clarity in her eyes as she chose her path. The perfect,uncompromising certainty with which she demanded respect—not as anyone's victim, but as herself.

Luna Laurent. Artist. Survivor. Force of nature.

She turns to me now, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Are you going to stand there all night?"

"I was admiring the view," I reply, moving into the room.

She laughs softly, the sound still rare enough to make something warm unfurl in my chest. "Smooth talker."

"Honest observer," I correct her, crossing to the bar to pour us each a drink.

She accepts the glass of whiskey I offer, taking a small sip before setting it aside. "Thank you," she says, her voice suddenly serious. "For tonight. For being there without stepping in."

"You didn't need me to step in," I point out, leaning against the bar, keeping a careful distance between us. "You handled it perfectly."

"Still. Having you there... it mattered."

The simple admission settles into the space between us, weighted with everything we haven't said. Everything we haven't defined. The dynamic between us has shifted so fundamentally that the old parameters no longer apply, leaving us in uncharted territory neither of us quite knows how to navigate.

I study her in the dim light of the penthouse—the elegant lines of her black dress, the subtle makeup enhancing features that need no enhancement, the quiet confidence she carries now like a second skin. And I know, with sudden, crystal clarity, what needs to happen next.

What I should have done weeks ago.

"Luna," I say, setting my own drink aside. "There's something we need to discuss."

Her expression shifts, wariness flickering briefly before she controls it. "That sounds ominous."

"It's not meant to be." I gesture toward the living room. "Sit with me?"

She follows me to the sleek leather sofa, perching on the edge as if prepared for flight. I take the seat opposite, deliberately leaving space between us for what comes next.

"Tonight at the gallery," I begin, choosing my words with care, "you spoke about freedom. About making your own choices. Living on your own terms."

She nods, watching me with those perceptive eyes that seem to see straight through every defense I've ever built.

"You deserve that," I continue. "Completely. Without reservation or condition."

Her brow furrows slightly. "I'm not sure I understand where this is going."

Instead of answering directly, I reach into my pocket and withdraw a small velvet box. Not the kind that holds a ring—something else entirely. I place it on the coffee table between us, leaving it unopened.

"What's that?" she asks, eyeing it with understandable suspicion.

"A key," I reply simply. "To an apartment in SoHo. Three bedrooms, rooftop access, a studio with northern light. It's yours if you want it."

She stares at the box, then at me, confusion evident in her expression. "You're... giving me an apartment?"

"I'm giving you a choice," I correct gently. "The freedom to go or stay. To live on your terms, not mine."

Understanding begins to dawn in her eyes. "Beckett?—"

I raise a hand, needing to finish before my resolve falters. "From the beginning, this has been about control. Even whenthat evolved into protection, into... something else, the original terms remained. The collar. The claim. The fact that I never gave you a real choice."

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, forcing myself to maintain eye contact despite the vulnerability coursing through me. "You deserve that choice now. Especially now, after everything you've accomplished. Everything you've become."

She's silent, watching me with an intensity that makes it difficult to continue. But I push forward, needing her to understand completely.

"The apartment is yours. No strings, no conditions. You can move in tomorrow if you want. Create your art. Build your career. Live the life you choose."