Chapter Two

I folded the document and slipped it back into the envelope. "A friend is getting divorced. And she wants to open a gallery and asked me to invest."

"She needed you to look over the divorce papers?"

"She wanted my opinion on the terms." I lifted my gaze. "Her husband cheated for five years, hid assets, and got his mistress pregnant. The final agreement left her with nothing."

Sebastian's eyelashes fluttered slightly.

"Sebastian, tell me," I took a step forward, "how can someone be that cruel? To consume someone's trust, their family, their youth, and then leave them with no way out?"

He slid his hands into his trouser pockets. "It's not uncommon in business."

"And in matters of the heart?" I neatly folded the envelope and put it in my own pocket. "If you were my friend, what would you advise her to do?"

He stared at me for a long time.

"I would tell her," he said slowly, "to make him lose what he cares about most."

"Like what?"

"Home." Sebastian's voice dropped, low like a vow. "If I ever betrayed you, then I would no longer deserve a home. Burn this house down, Zoey. Or, be more merciful—let me burn it down myself."

I smiled. "You're harsh on yourself."

"With you, I could never be truly harsh." He reached out as if to touch my face, and I turned my head away.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced at the screen and silenced it with his thumb.

"François?"

"Yes. Details about the acquisition." He loosened his tie and draped it casually over the back of the sofa. "I need to reply to some emails in the study. Don't wait up."

"Alright."

As he turned to leave, I called his name.

"Sebastian."

He looked back.

"If you ever lie to me," I said softly, "I might take your eyes. So that everyone you see from then on reminds you of me, yet no one IS me."

He stood frozen. Then the corner of his mouth twitched into a smile, as if processing a joke.

"You'd have to learn to use a knife first." He walked into the study and emerged a moment later with a deep blue velvet box. "Consider this a belated birthday gift. You didn't like the last watch I got you, so I thought about it—a former gang boss's daughter ought to have something more unique."

He opened the box. Resting on the black velvet lining was a dagger.

The sheath was inlaid with the Blackwood family crest of thorns. The hilt was engraved with my name—the final stroke of the letter ‘Z' trailed off into a sharp, fierce tail, like a scar.

"Guns are for soldiers," he said, taking out the dagger. The blade gleamed coldly under the light. "But a dagger like this is for a ruler. It's for close range, for seeing the fear in your opponent's eyes before you end it."

He ran his fingertips over the sharp edge of the blade, his tone was flat, "The Blackwood family's knives never stain with innocent blood, but for those who deserve reckoning, we never let them live a second longer."

He offered me the dagger. The hilt felt cool to the touch, yet carried the residual warmth of a hand that had held it often.

"You've tried it?" I asked.

"Spent three months sharpening it." He rolled up his shirtsleeve, revealing a faint, fresh scar on the inside of his forearm. "The first time a blade draws blood, it should be your own."

I held the dagger, my fingertips tracing the engraving on the hilt.

He suddenly moved closer, his breath brushing my ear. "Do you like it?"

"Yes," I said.

His kiss descended, his hand sliding from my waist to my back, his knuckles pressing into the dip of my spine. I caught the scent of lingering perfume on his collar—Layla's usual brand.

The body is more honest than memory. When his tongue pushed past my lips, a soft, shameful gasp escaped my throat. Seven years of muscle memory betrayed every clear warning in my mind.

His hand slipped under my shirt, his palm flat against the skin of my lower back. At that exact moment, his phone buzzed again in his pocket.

Sebastian froze, resting his forehead against my shoulder with a ragged breath. "…Sorry."

He pulled out his phone, glanced at the number, and turned toward the floor-to-ceiling window.

"Baby?" He answered, his voice hushed.

French flowed from his lips again. I remained where I was, my grip on the dagger tightening slowly.

"Don't be difficult, I can't come over now."

"Be good. I'll go with you for the check-up tomorrow."

"Alright, fine. I'll come now. I miss you too, darling."

I understood every word.

Sebastian hung up and turned around, his expression already schooled into calm. "A client has an urgent situation. I need to go to the hotel."

"A French client?"

"From Paris." He walked over and kissed my forehead. "Get some sleep. Don't wait for me."

The front door opened and closed. The sound of his car engine faded into the night street.

I set the dagger down and walked into the study. I opened my laptop. The screen split into four live surveillance feeds: the villa's front gate, the garage, our bedroom, and—Layla's apartment.