Poison and Promises

The ring feels like handcuff

We don’t go to city hall. Too public. Too slow.

Instead Damon drives us to a private residence an hour outside the city—his father’s old summer house, all glass and stone and secrets. The lawyer is already waiting, papers spread on a dining table that could seat twenty.

I sign first. My hand doesn’t shake.

Damon signs second. His signature is sharp, angry, like he’s carving his name into stone.

The lawyer leaves with the originals. We stay.

He pours two glasses of scotch. Offers me one.

I take it. Sip. The burn reminds me of champagne. I set the glass down hard.

“You’re shaking,” he says.

“I’m remembering.”

“Tell me.”

I meet his eyes. “Last time you never knew my name. I was just the girl who brought your coffee. I watched you every day for three years. Fell in love with the way you smiled at your phone when Lucas texted you. The way you rubbed your neck when the board meetings ran long. The way you looked at me once—just once—like you actually saw me. Then Victor slipped the poison into my drink at the gala. You were across the room. You watched me fall. You didn’t know why. You still don’t.”

His knuckles go white around the glass.

“I woke up in my old apartment,” I continue. “Same body. Same scars. Every memory. I came back here because I knew you’d be here. I knew Hale would be here. I knew this time I wouldn’t just watch.”

Damon sets his glass down. Steps closer. “You wrote about me.”

“I wrote about us. The version where you notice me before I die.”

He reaches out, brushes a strand of hair off my cheek. His fingers linger. “I noticed you.”

“Liar.”

“Not anymore.”

He kisses me then. Not gentle. Not sweet. Hungry. Like he’s been starving for something he didn’t know existed until right now.

I kiss him back. Hard. Teeth. Fingers in his hair. All the years I waited, all the nights I wrote him into fiction because reality hurt too much—it pours out.

When we break apart we’re both breathing like we ran a mile.

“This is still fake,” I say, voice wrecked.

He laughs against my mouth. “Keep telling yourself that.”

My phone buzzes.

Victor Hale: Lovely ring. But rings don’t stop bullets. See you at the gala tomorrow night. Wear something red. It’s my favorite color on a corpse.

I show Damon.

His face goes cold. Deadly.

“Tomorrow,” he says, “we end this.”