Liam
The door closes behind her and I stand in the middle of my office with the taste of her still on my lips and the weight of what I have just done pressing down on my chest like a stone I cannot lift. I kissed her. I kissed her knowing the camera was watching, knowing Evelyn would see, knowing that every second of it would be delivered to her like proof that her plan is working. But when my lips touched Zoe's, I forgot about the camera, forgot about Evelyn, forgot about everything except the way she felt in my arms, the way she kissed me back like she meant it, the way her fingers gripped my jacket like she was afraid I would disappear.
I walk to the window and I press my forehead against the cold glass and I close my eyes and I let the city blur beneath me. I should not have kissed her. I should have kept my distance, should have let the photograph be enough, should have remembered that she is not mine to want, not mine to hold, not mine to keep. But she looked at me with those grey eyes, and I saw the fear in them, the exhaustion, the hope she is trying so hard to hide, and I wanted to take it all away, wanted to be the one who made her feel safe, wanted to be the man she deserves and not the man I have become.
My phone buzzes on the desk, and I know it is Evelyn before I look. I know that she has already seen the footage, already tasted the victory she thinks is coming. I pick up the phone and I look at the screen and the message is short and cold and final. The photograph is excellent. But I need more than a photograph. I need the file. The one your father died for. You have one week to get it for me, or your mother goes back to Westbrook Medical Centre, and this time, she does not leave.
I stare at the words and I feel the anger rise in my chest, hot and familiar, the same anger that has been burning there since my father died, the same anger that has driven me for two years, the same anger that has made me cold and hard and untouchable. I want to throw the phone against the wall, want to drive to wherever she is hiding and wrap my hands around her throat, want to make her pay for every life she has taken, every family she has destroyed, every moment of peace she has stolen from me.
But I do not, because that is what she wants, what she has always wanted, for me to lose control, to make a mistake, to give her the opening she needs to destroy me the way she destroyed my father. I type back, my fingers steady even though my hands are shaking, and I say, I will have the file. One week. Do not touch her mother.
I send the message and I put the phone down and I stand by the window and I watch the city and I wait. The reply comes a minute later, one word, the only word I have been waiting for since my father died. Good.
I close my eyes and I let the darkness take me, and I think about Zoe, about her grey eyes and her steady hands and the way she kissed me like she meant it, and I know that I am going to lose her, that I have already lost her, that I am losing everything I have ever wanted, and there is nothing I can do to stop it.
I did not leave the office that night. I sit at my desk with the lights off and the city glowing below me and I wait, because I told her to come back, told her we would plan the next move, told her that I would be here when she was done with Evelyn. I do not know if she will come. I do not know if she will walk through that door or if she will disappear into the night and leave me standing here with the taste of her on my lips and the weight of her in my chest.
The hours pass and the city grows quiet, the lights flickering off in the buildings across the street, the streets below emptying until there is nothing but the distant sound of traffic and the hum of the building around me. I think about calling her, about sending a message, about telling her that she does not have to come back, that I will find another way, that I will protect her mother even if she walks away and never looks back.
But I do not, because I am a coward, because I have been a coward since my father died, because the only thing I know how to do is fight and destroy and I do not know how to let her go.
The elevator dings at the end of the hall and I am on my feet before I can stop myself, my heart pounding, my hands clenched, and I watch the door open and she steps out, her face pale, her hands steady, her eyes finding mine across the empty floor. She walks toward me and I watch her move, the way her hips sway, the way her arms are wrapped around herself, the way her shoulders are straight even though I know she is tired, I know she is scared, I know she is carrying a weight that would break most people.
She stops in front of me and she does not speak, and I do not speak, and we stand there in the silence with the city spread out below us and the weight of everything we have not said pressing down on us like a hand on my chest.
"She wants the file," Zoe says, and her voice is steady, the steel back in place, but I see the cracks, the places where the mask slips, the woman underneath who is tired and scared and trying so hard to be strong. "She wants it in one week. She says if I do not get it, my mother dies."
I reach out and I touch her face, my fingers tracing the line of her jaw, the curve of her cheek, the soft skin beneath her eyes where I can see the shadows of sleepless nights and endless worry. She closes her eyes and leans into my hand, and I feel her breath against my palm, warm and steady, and I want to hold her, want to pull her against me and never let her go.
"She will not touch your mother," I say, and my voice is low, rough, the way I feel when I look at her. "I will not let her. I have people watching the hospital, watching your mother's room, watching every door and every window. If Evelyn tries to move her, my people will be there. She will not get to her, Zoe. I will not let her."
Zoe opens her eyes and looks at me, and I see something in them that I have not seen before, something that looks like trust, like hope, like the beginning of something I am not sure I deserve. "Why?" she asks, and her voice is barely a whisper. "Why do you care what happens to her? To me?"
I want to lie to her, tell her that it is strategy, that I need her mother safe to keep her focused, that I am doing this for the same reason I do everything, for revenge, for justice, for my father's memory. But I cannot lie to her, not about this, not about the one thing that has made me feel alive in two years.
"Because you are the first thing that has made me feel something since my father died," I say, and my voice is raw, the words pulled from somewhere deep, somewhere I have kept locked away for so long I forgot it existed. "Because when you walked into my office with your lies and your fear and your mother's life in your hands, I saw something I thought I had lost. I saw someone who would do anything for the people she loves. And I want to be that person again. I want to be the man who protects, who saves, who holds people close and keeps them safe. I want to be that man for you."
She is crying now, silent tears sliding down her cheeks, and I wipe them away with my thumb and I pull her against me and I hold her, her face pressed against my chest, her hands clutching my shirt, her body shaking with the weight of everything she has been carrying alone. I hold her and I do not speak, because there are no words for this, for the way she fits against me, for the way my heart beats against her cheek, for the way the world falls away when she is in my arms.
We stand there for a long time, and the city glows below us, and I hold her, and I know that I will do anything to keep her safe, anything to give her the life she deserves, anything to be the man she sees when she looks at me. And when she pulls back and looks up at me with her grey eyes and her tear-streaked face and her walls finally down, I know that I am hers, that I have been hers since the moment she walked through my door, and that I will spend the rest of my life proving that I am worthy of her.