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22

LIAM

Vanessa texts back almost immediately.

Café Leclerc. 10 a.m. sharp. Come alone.

Café Leclerc is nothing like Riverwalk Café, where the rich, familiar warmth of coffee lingers long after the cup is empty, where no two chairs match but somehow fit together anyway, where people lean in close, talking too loud, laughing like they have nowhere else to be.

Riverwalk feels like a second home, like mornings that stretch lazily into afternoons. Leclerc is polished silverware, overpriced espresso, and people who order black coffee just to sound impressive.

I don't reply. Let her stew. Let her wonder if I'll show.

With a little sigh, I set my phone down. All of us settle into quietness. After a late meal, Ava decides to go to bed and falls asleep quickly.

The loft has descended into darkness, except for the faint city glow seeping through the floor-to-ceiling windows, washing everything in blue and gold. It's quiet, except for the rhythmic sound of Ava's breathing.

I turn my head, and there she is.

Fast asleep, curled on her side, the sheets tangled around her like she fought them in her sleep. One bare leg peeks out from the covers, her arm draped over the pillow. Her hair spills across the pillowcase, wild and untamed, like her.

She murmurs something, shifting slightly, and my heart beats just a little faster.

If I could, I'd spend the hours just watching her. Ava Bennett doesn't sleep like someone who trusts the world. She sleeps like someone who fights it even in her dreams. Her fingers twitch in the sheets, her brows pulling together like she's resisting something even in sleep.

She's exhausted. And why wouldn't she be? Someone has been watching her, threatening her, keeping her in a constant state of fight-or-flight. And yet, here she is, tangled up in my bed, trusting me enough to let her guard down.

I let my head fall back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling.

This wasn't supposed to happen. Not this way. And not with her.

For years, I told myself I didn't need anyone. That I was better off alone. And maybe I was, for a long while.

Because the last time I let someone in, she ripped me apart piece by piece and called it love.

I close my eyes, and suddenly, I'm back there.

Back in the penthouse I shared with Vanessa, where everything was polished wood and cold marble. Where the lights were too bright, the wine was too expensive, and the walls never felt like home.

She liked things curated. Controlled. If I left a book on the coffee table, she'd move it. If I bought a jacket she didn't like, she'd replace it before I could argue. It was subtle at first. A comment here, a suggestion there.That tie doesn't suit you. You should hire a better tailor. Do you really want to be seen driving that car?

Then it wasn't.

She chipped away at me, piece by piece, until I didn't recognize myself.

I stopped arguing. It was easier.

And maybe I should've left sooner, but leaving wasn't that simple. She was tangled in my life, in my business, in everything.

And the worst part? She made me believe it was love. That control was devotion. That possessiveness was care.

By the time I saw her for what she was, it was too late.

Not too late to leave. But too late to walk away unscathed.

Vanessa didn't let go without consequences.

I inhale sharply, forcing the memories back into the past where they belong.