Chapter Twenty-One Dylan
Ethan stands in my living room like a man waiting for the gun to go off.
Sunny is behind him, shoulders drawn tight, breath shallow like she’s trying not to disturb air already too fragile.
The room feels too small. Too bright. Too full of all the words we should’ve said months ago.
He turns on me first.
“What the hell did you do?” Ethan says, voice low enough to hide the earthquake under it. “My sister. Vegas. Fake proposal. Headlines. ”His eyes burn into mine. “I trusted you.”
I’ve been called monster, bastard, devil. But that—that one sentence—cuts deeper.
Sunny steps between us. “Ethan, please. It’s not that simple.”
He laughs—a bitter crack. “No? You wearing his ring looks simple. Your suspension looks simple. The entire world dragging your name through the mud looks pretty damn simple.”
I clench my jaw. “Don’t talk to her like she’s the problem.”
He swings toward me. “She’s not the problem. You are.”
Sunny’s breath stutters. I feel it like a blow. Because even if I don’t fear many things—losing her brother might be the one I can’t afford.
“She needed somewhere safe,” I say. “I gave it.”
Ethan steps closer. “And then what? You took her? You—what—made her fall for you?”
His voice breaks. Sunny flinches. And the truth none of us have said sits in the center like a ticking bomb.
She fell. And I did nothing to stop it.Because I fell first.
The Table Where We Pretend
Dinner is Jenna’s idea.
Because she thinks food equals peace. Wrong. This is war served on porcelain.
We sit: Ethan glaring, Jenna whispering comfort to Sunny, Connor on speakerphone like a hostage negotiator.
No one eats.
Ethan stares at me. “Tell me you don’t have feelings for her.”
Every bone in my body wants to say no. To keep distance. To protect her future.
But Sunny’s breath catches—barely—and it ruins me.
I look at Ethan.
“Yes,” I say. “I do.”
Silence hits the table like shattered glass.
Ethan’s knuckles go white around his fork. “You don’t get to love her. Not after lying to me. Not after dragging her through hell.”
“She walked through hell long before I got here,” I answer, voice too sharp. “I’m the only one who didn’t tell her to survive it quietly.”
Sunny inhales like she’s drowning.Jenna watches us like we’re her favorite TV show.
“This is insane,” Ethan mutters. “This—fake marriage—this publicity circus—”
Jenna cuts in. “Actually the public thinks they’re madly in love, and if any of you would stop yelling, maybe they’d figure it out too.”
Sunny’s eyes lift—wet, uncertain, hurting.
Jenna sighs dramatically and grabs a card from her bag—the kind she uses for silly PR ice-breakers.
“Fine,” she snaps. “If we’re going to fight, let’s do it structured. We’ll play Truth or Dare.”
No one moves.
She looks at Dylan. “Dare: Prove it’s real.”
Sunny’s breath freezes.
Ethan folds his arms. “Go on then. Prove it.”
My pulse slows. Not fast. Slow—like a door closing behind me, sealing fate.
I stand.
Sunny looks up—shock flickering through her eyes.
I take her face in both my hands.
“Tell me to stop,” I whisper.
She doesn’t.
So I kiss her.
Not fake. Not gentle. Not a show. A vow carved into skin and breath and heartbeat.
Her hands fist in my shirt. She kisses me back—and the room vanishes.
There is only her.
Heat. Need. Recognition.
I pull away just enough to hear her gasp—and to see Ethan’s world crumble.
“That,” Jenna says softly, “was not staged.”
Ethan stands abruptly, chair screeching.
“You think that proves anything?” he growls. “That proves you’ve already ruined her.”
Sunny rises—voice shaking. “Ethan—stop.”
He looks at her like she’s a stranger.
“You used to dream about teaching kids, being safe, having a normal life. "He points toward me.“And now you’re wrapped up in him. In danger. Headlines. Scandal—”
Sunny folds—arms hugging her body—but she doesn’t deny it.
Because he’s right.
Loving me costs her things she should never have to lose.
The night ends with Ethan storming out. Jenna leaves—muttering about emotional incompetence. Sunny goes to her room without a word.
I stand alone in the emptied penthouse—hands still trembling from the feel of her.
That’s when I see it.
A folded paper slipped under the door.
No return address. Just two lines in black ink.
SHE’LL NEVER BE SAFE WITH YOU. WALK AWAY — OR I MAKE HER.
The ink bleeds slightly—paper damp from the city’s humidity.
But the meaning? That’s sharp enough to kill.
For the first time in years—
I am afraid.
Not of losing my empire.
Of losing her.