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She doesn’t speak for several long moments, just takes small bites of her food. I feel a tightness in my chest, something unfamiliar—the threat of loss. I’ve faced down presidents and entire governments without flinching, but this silence from her scrapes me hollow.

“Why tell me now?” she finally asks.

“Because you’ve earned it.” I meet her eyes across the table. “Because I want you to know exactly what you’re choosing when you choose me.”

“And if I choose to walk away?” Her voice is careful, measured.

“You won’t,” I growl.

“I might,” she insists. “Answer the question.”

“That’s not an option, Toy,” I rasp. “So you might as well stop pretending you want to.”

The minutes stretch as we finish our meal, drinking more wine, exchanging fragments of conversation that dance around the weight of what I’ve confessed.

I watch her process, that brilliant mind of hers turning over each revelation, examining it from every angle. She asks more questions—about specific elections, about family structure, about how decisions are made. I answer every one. She looks at me differently. Not with fear or revulsion, but with a clarity that feels like being seen for the first time.

“You know…” She leans back slowly, eyes unfocused for the first time all night. “… when you study politics long enough, you start to see the patterns—who gets elevated, who gets erased, what stories are spun. And you start wondering.”

Her fingers graze the puzzle pendant.

“Wondering if there’s more to it than what people let on. If someone’s behind it all. Not just a system or government. But a puppeteer.”

I don’t speak. I let her get there on her own.

“And now you’re telling me it’s you.” She meets my gaze, and the stillness between us sharpens. “You’ve just confirmed every quiet suspicion I’ve ever had about how this country actually works.”

A pause. A breath.

“And somehow,” she murmurs, voice quieter, “that’s not even the most terrifying thing about you.”

“No?”

“The scariest part is that it makes sense. That it fits.” Her lips curve. It’s not quite a smile, but something darker. She leans closer, eyes still fixed on mine. “You’re the only man who could say all that and still make me want to climb into your lap.”

I exhale in relief. My toy’s not scared, and she’s definitely not going to run. I can see it. She’s fucking turned on. By the power, me, or maybe both.

“So you’re not running?” I ask, needing to hear her say it.

The waiter arrives to take our plates and asks if we want dessert. I look at my toy, arching an eyebrow. Instead of answering the unspoken question, she stands, slightly unsteady from the wine. I rise immediately, ready to catch her if she falls. But she doesn’t. She steps toward me, close enough that I can smell the wine on her breath.

“Take me back to your home, Lorenzo.” Her voice drops to a whisper that burns. “And then fuck me all night long.”

My blood ignites, a liquid fire that races from chest to groin. She knows everything now—every shadow, every sin—and still she wants me. Still, she says my name like a prayer.

Chapter 42

Lorenzo

The car door closes and seals us in darkness, in want, in the aftershock of truth. Piper’s mouth finds mine before the driver has even pulled away from the curb—hungry, demanding, tasting of wine and absolution.

Her hands fist in my hair, pulling me closer as if the revelation of who I am has only sharpened her appetite.Mine.The word vibrates through me with each heartbeat. She knows me now—my name, my power—and still she reaches for me. Still she burns.

I slide my hand beneath her dress, finding the wet heat between her thighs. She gasps into my mouth, hips rising to meet my touch. I press my fingers against her, circling slowly.

“Please,” she begs, biting my lower lip. “I need you inside me.”

“Not yet.” I keep my strokes measured, controlled. “Not here.”