PART 15:

He withdrew his hand slowly, the way you set something down carefully because you know what happens if you don’t. He looked at her for a moment without speaking. His eyes dropped briefly to the black lace, then came back to her face. There it is, she thought. Whatever this is. I owe you an apology.

His voice came quiet. I couldn’t keep you safe in my own house. He looked away first, toward the open balcony door. Mhm. I’ll make sure this doesn’t happen again. Her teeth caught her lower lip. There were things sitting in her chest. The cameras, Grant, the arms deal Preston had laid out in the dark, and none of them were ready yet.

How did you know he was here? Her eyes held his. How did you know to come? Nolan rose from the bed. He moved to the window, his back half turned to her, one hand resting on the frame. The city below was still and dark. I don’t sleep well. His voice was even. I heard something. Mara was looking at him.

The screens in his study. Every feed running simultaneously. Or did you put a camera in here, too? Preston’s voice, the theatrical glance around the room. Nolan’s answer had come smooth, unhesitating, almost certainly untrue. She could still feel the place on her throat where his fingers had been. She didn’t ask again.

Mara lay in the dark for 20 minutes before she gave up on sleep entirely. She sat up. The room was quiet. She reached for the lamp. The light came on. She sat still for a moment, then did what she’d been stopping herself from doing since Preston’s voice in the dark. She looked. Every corner, the smoke detector, the frame of the window, the molding above the door.

She didn’t know what she was looking for exactly. She wasn’t a security expert, but she looked anyway, the way you check a room you’ve just been told might not be entirely yours. She couldn’t find anything. That didn’t mean there was nothing. She wrapped the robe over her nightgown and went downstairs.

The house was dark and quiet. Her bare feet found the marble of the staircase. She moved carefully, one hand on the rail. She was passing the study when she stopped. The light was on, not bright, the lamp on the far side, the one near the window, just enough to outline a man standing with his back to the door, a glass in his hand, looking out at the dark grounds below.

Mara pushed the door open. You’re still awake. Nolan turned from the window. His gaze moved over her robe, bare feet, the hour, and came back to her face. So are you. I came down for water. She stayed in the doorway, her shoulder against the frame. He nodded once and turned back to the window.

Instead, she came into the room and the door swung half closed behind her. She found the wall across from him and leaned against it, arms crossed over her chest, watching the side of his face. The grounds were dark through the glass. The iron gate at the end of the drive was just visible, a silhouette against the city lights. Mara looked at it, then at him.

She kept her voice even when she spoke. Can you not go outside? Nolan’s grip shifted on his glass. He didn’t answer immediately. Is that why your hand trembled yesterday morning at the press conference? He lifted the glass and drank. His eyes stayed on the window. This is not a conversation I want to have. His voice was measured.

But since you’re my fiance He turned and looked at her. That look the one from the first night, the one that moved through her before she could stop it. You deserve to know. She kept her arms where they were and waited. Five years ago He turned back to the window. My wife died in front of those gates. Mara’s feet went cold against the marble.

She kept very still. I was 20 ft away. His voice was steady in the way that required effort. Close enough that I ran toward her. Too far to do anything that mattered when I got there. He swallowed. She was watching his throat move. The scar She kept her voice quiet. Her eyes moved to his forearm before she could stop them.

The pale healed line she’d seen that first night and filed away without asking. That was from I was in the hospital for a week. He didn’t look at her. Burns from trying to pull her out. Then I came home. The glass turned in his hand and every time I tried to go back outside, my body refused. Reactions that came close to making me faint.

Mara’s arms tightened across her chest. She pressed them inward. That’s called agoraphobia. She kept her voice even, clinical enough not to make it an accusation. A lot of people develop it after traumatic events. The body remembers the threat and tries to prevent you from I’m not a lot of people.

His voice didn’t rise. It just landed differently. I’m probably the last person who should be experiencing something like this. Mara looked at him, at the controlled posture, the glass in his hand. You’re still just a person. Everyone has something that can break them. That’s not a flaw. That’s just how it is. His jaw shifted.

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