CHAPTER FOUR
1184 Words
I knew she'd meet him.
Emma was predictable in the way people are when they still believe in good and bad. She wanted to think there was redemption in the wreckage, a middle ground between shadow and light. She wanted to believe I was good—or at least salvageable. That could be explained. Repaired. Loved.
But James Kennedy had always been a problem.
He wasn't dangerous because of what he could do—he was dangerous because of what he knew. About guilt. About softness. He understood how to speak to the broken parts of people and pretended he was offering healing when all he was doing was pulling them apart.
That's what he'd done to her before. And that's what he tried to do again.
Only this time, I was watching.
I didn't need confirmation. I didn't need her to confess or trip over lies.
I already knew she'd gone.
I had people in every corner of this city.
The man sweeping behind the register.
The woman in the window seat with a book she didn't turn.
Even the server who cleared their mugs—he'd been mine for five years.
They told me everything.
"Keep her safe," I'd told Marco before she left.
But I wasn't sure if I meant from James—or from me.
That evening, I arranged a lunch at the lake house. I didn't tell her until the car was already on the highway. Sometimes you have to remove the window people use to make decisions. You don't give them time to think. You give them arrival.
The house sat on the edge of silence.
The lake, still and glassy, reflected the dull gray sky above. Bare trees arched like frozen hands. There was no sound except the breeze and the gravel under the tires. I built the place to feel timeless. Secluded. Beyond reach.
Time was the only thing I didn't control in the city, so I built a space where it would bow to me.
Emma stepped out of the car like someone walking into a test she hadn't studied for. Her posture was tight, deliberate. Her eyes scanned the space the way a professional scans a crime scene—not with wonder, but with wariness.
Not warm. Not trusting.
Suspicious.
Good.
"Missed you," I said, stepping forward and pulling her into my arms.
She didn't resist. But she didn't soften either.
There was no weight in her hug. Just awareness. Her muscles were stiff. Her breath was too shallow.
She was testing me.
Inside, lunch waited. Her favorite salad from a bistro that didn't do takeout. But I made it happen. I always did.
Power is nothing more than knowing which rules bend—and which ones you can break and never answer for.
Over wine, she finally asked.
"How did you know I saw James?"
I didn't lie. Not directly.
"Chicago's a small city, Cara. He's not subtle. "He saw what he had lost, and like most men, he couldn't stay away."
Her fork hovered over her plate. "He said you're dangerous."
"He also said he loved you," I replied. "Didn't stop him from cheating."
That shut her down. Her eyes shifted to the window. She didn't deny it. She didn't defend him.
I hated how easily her guilt became my advantage.
After lunch, we walked the shoreline.
It was cold, the wind biting, but she didn't complain.
I kept my hand on her lower back—not for affection, but as a tether. I could feel her trying to drift away, in her thoughts, in her body language.
I needed her to remember: that she was mine.
I explained to her that I was studying in Milan.
She stayed silent, kept nodding when appropriate, and then turned down the invitation. She said she needed to go to work. I have always believed in the value of a wedding shoot. A commitment.
Generally, I would have been adamant about this. She has rescheduled for her.
Even so, I could tell her no brought her discomfort. Not fear. No disrespect.
Guilt.
She started revealing herself slowly to herself. Attempting to discover how to leave the scene without causing a fight.
Therefore, I gave her a caring smile, I nodded, and I gently kissed her forehead.
"Next time."
During this telephone call, she went off to another area.
The door of the study was open instead of being locked.
The safe had no lock on it.
This situation resulted from my error.
She looked inside the present.
Still, cameras are not necessary to reveal this truth. It was very clear to me right from the start.
Emma was not just curious without a reason. It lasted for a considerable amount of time. The law included methods of enforcing it.
She used her teeth to taste fruit or vegetables. Dug deep. I looked closely at the glass surfaces to find flaws.
I saw her in front of an open safe and as I came in, she turned around like someone who was stealing.
Not panicked. Not apologetic.
Just… caught.
Her murmur started, "Just looking."
"For what?" I asked.
"Nothing. I wasn't—"
"Proof?" I moved myself closer. "James again?"
Her eyes showed a sign of unease when she heard his name.
"We used to trust each other."
She tried to swallow it, yet she held strong and didn't give up.
I don't know exactly what the situation is.
A smile was almost on my face. That experience was real. Whenever she was frightened, it was uncommon for her to open up.
"We can discuss it after we are in Milan," I added. Give them privacy. Some time."
She simply nodded and clearly started memorizing the path she would use to escape.
I could see something was different in her. On the drive back to the city, I told Marco to take the long route. The lake roads were narrow and slow. They gave her time to think, and they gave me time to watch her thinking.
Sometimes silence says more than persuasion.
She stared out the window the whole ride, but I could feel her pulsing with questions.
Not about who I was.
About what she was going to do about it.
That night, I sent her a bracelet.
Silver. Clean. Delicate. With a camera charm. A nod to the part of her I still claimed to understand.
It wasn't a threat. It wasn't a leash.
It was a reminder. Not who she was.
But from what I saw,
You're mine.
I didn't mean it violently. I meant it universally. Like gravity. Like gravity doesn't ask your permission before it pulls.
She could run. She could question. She could delete me from her memories if she wanted.
But I'd still be there—in every click of her camera, in every frame of beauty she tried to capture.
Because I wasn't just a shadow in her story.
I was the thing that made the light look honest.
Some people fall in love with water.
Soft, flowing, easy.
Ours was carved in iron.
Unbending.
Unforgiving.
Unforgettable.
- Writer
