Page 122 of Empire State Enemies

And there it is. The truth I’ve been relentlessly burying, trying desperately to ignore.

“But that’s it, right? You’re not offering anything else, are you, Connor?”

A small, foolish part of me sparks with dangerous hope.

He freezes, his eyes cautious, guarded. “Like what?”

I drop my gaze, hating this weakness, this neediness, but unable to stop the words from tumbling out, from laying my heart at his feet.

“More,” I whisper.

I want fucking more. More intimacy. More trust. More layers of this complex guy to discover and unravel.

More of Connor Quinn in every possible way.

I’d even take the mood swings if it meant getting past those walls he’s built so high.

When I find the courage to meet his eyes again, the silence is excruciating. So thick, I swear you’d need a hacksaw to cut through it.

When Connor speaks again, his voice is cold, sharp like shards of ice—a brutal contrast to the gentle warmth of just moments ago. “I can’t give you anything more, Lexi.”

That rejection cuts deep, but I manage to keep my expression neutral, hiding the sting. Now, all that’s left is to swallow the hurt and maintain whatever shred of dignity I still have.

His phone interrupts the heavy silence, buzzing insistently from his suit pocket.

Muttering a curse, he checks the caller ID and grumbles about being late for something.

He strides past me toward the door, his shoulders tense, and just when I think he’s out for good, he stops short.

Before I can react, his fingers gently grasp my chin, tipping my face up to meet his gaze.

“Take the care home payment,” he murmurs in that gravelly voice. “You’re one of a kind, you know that? Too proud and selfless for your own good. But so damn special, Lexi. You deserve a break for once.”

With a nod, he’s gone, leaving me frozen, staring numbly at Gina Malone’s perfect ass on that awful poster. A brutal reminder of how much I loathe this job.

THIRTY-THREE

Connor

Striding into Dr. Hayes’s office, tucked away in some forgotten corner of Staten Island, I’m already questioning this journey. But if this guy has the power to fix me, then it’s worth enduring the headache of getting here.

My lawyer’s slapped non-disclosures on Hayes and his team, making it clear what happens if details leak. Good thing this medical team is highly vetted for discretion.

I’ve moaned about pointless meetings, torturous charity gigs, and rubbing elbows with slimy politicians. Even the laughable PR stunt with Willow. But that’s just surface level. This thing I’m dealing with now? It’s a whole different kind of hell.

It’s completely foreign, this feeling of helplessness, of being at the mercy of something beyond my control, and I fucking despise it.

I’m not interested in adapting to a “new normal.” I want—no, Ineedeverything to go back to the way it was before.

I need a solution, and fast.

“Got an appointment with Hayes,” I mutter to the receptionist, feeling like a fugitive in my shades and ballcap.

“I apologize for the wait, sir. He’s running about five minutes late. Would you mind waiting?”

Yes, I bloody well mind, I want to snap. I don’t want anyone spotting me in this place. I eye the others in the waiting room warily.

“Sure.” I force a strained smile and choose the most isolated seat far away from the rest of the crowd.