Page 183 of Lady and the Hitman

That startled a small laugh out of me, bitter and surprised. “You’re not a fan, huh?”

Ronan shook his head. “Not even a little. He talks too much. Wears shoes that cost more than he’s worth. And he sees everything in the world as either his responsibility or his right. But worse than that—he genuinely thought he was helping you.”

“He said he wanted me to be careful,” I said, quietly now. “He thought you were dangerous.”

Ronan didn’t respond right away. He just looked at me, his eyes clear, unreadable.

I pressed my lips together. “Were you mad?”

“I was disappointed,” he said simply. “Not surprised. But disappointed.”

“Disappointed in me?”

“No.” He tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “In the idea that anyone would look at what we have and think it needed saving.”

Something splintered softly in my chest.

“He had no right,” Ronan added, “but he took it anyway. That’s what men like him do. They wrap control in concern and call it love. And if I’d been the man I was ten years ago, Trevor wouldn’t be breathing right now.”

I gave him a look.

“I’m not that man anymore,” he said calmly. “But don’t think I didn’t want to be.”

The quiet stretched between us, thick with all the things that had nearly unraveled.

“Are you mad at me?” I asked.

His gaze softened. “For what?”

“For giving him space. Letting him in when I should’ve cut him off.”

“No,” he said again, more firmly this time. “Because it means your heart still works. That you believe people can change. That even after everything, you didn’t let this world make you cold.”

I blinked, my throat thick.

“That’s why I chose you,” he added. “Not because you were easy. Not because you were flawless. But because even when the ground gave way beneath you, you kept reaching for the light.”

I couldn’t speak.

So I did the only thing I could do—I leaned into him then, wrapping my arms around his waist, burying my face against his chest.

We stayed like that for a long time, tangled in silence and the hum of the new world we were about to step into.

I didn’t know exactly what I would write next. What form it would take. What voice I would use.

But I knew this: it would be mine.

Unfiltered. Unsoftened. Unrepentant.

I was tired of asking for permission.

I needed a day to think, but tomorrow—I’d prove it.

37

The next morning, the air was different.

Still humid, yes—it was Charleston, after all—but there was a softness to it. A subtle breeze that threaded through the windows I’d cracked open at my townhouse, rustling the curtains like they were gossiping. It felt like the beginning of fall, the barest hint of it. The kind of morning that made you believe change was coming, even if you couldn’t quite see it yet.