Chapter 25
The afternoon light had shifted by the time I finally stirred from the sofa, the sun slanting lower through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the polished floors.
Cassian’s arm was still around me, his breath steady against my hair, but the quiet between us felt heavier now, laced with the unspoken.
I shifted slightly, and he loosened his hold without a word, letting me sit up. My body ached in that familiar way—sated, marked—but my mind was already pulling away, threading back into the world outside these walls.
I’d have to get back to work soon.
“I need to check my phone,” I said, reaching for where it had fallen onto the rug during our urgency.
He nodded, watching me with that unblinking focus. No questions. No demands for reassurance. Just observation.
The screen lit up with notifications—texts, emails, voicemails. Harper’s name appeared twice more, her messages escalating from concern to insistence: Call me back. This is blowing up. And then: A reporter from the Post and Courier just reached out. They have more on him.
My stomach tightened. I opened my email next.
The inbox was a minefield: subject lines from colleagues (“Quick check-in?”), from my assistant, Abigail (“Urgent: Board Call Request”), from donors (“Concerned About Recent Developments”).
One stood out, bolded and unread, from Eleanor Hayes—the chair of my organization’s board.
Re: Public Image and Funding Implications.
I clicked it.
Lia,
We need to discuss the circulating images and reports.
Several key donors have reached out, expressing discomfort with your association to Mr. Locke.
His business interests appear to directly contradict our mission.
Please call me immediately to schedule a strategy session.
We can’t afford a scandal—not with the spring gala approaching.
Best,
Eleanor
I set the phone down slowly, the words burning behind my eyes. Cassian must have seen the change in my posture because he sat up, his hand brushing my back.
“What is it?” he asked.
“The board. Donors. They know.”
He didn’t look surprised. “How much?”
“Enough.” I turned to him. “The photo’s spreading. And someone’s connected the dots on your properties.”
He exhaled once, short and controlled. “I’ll handle it.”
“How?” The word came out sharper than I intended. “By selling? By disappearing? This isn’t something you can control from the shadows, Cassian. This is my life. My work.”
His jaw flexed subtly. “I know.”
“Do you?” I stood, pacing toward the window, arms crossed over my chest. The walled garden outside looked serene, but it felt a lot like a cage now, beautiful and confining.
“I’ve spent years building this. Speaking at events, writing op-eds, convincing people that violence—any violence, even the kind dressed up as sport—is a choice we can reject. And now …”
Now I was the hypocrite. The woman who preached one thing and slept with the embodiment of another.
I turned back to him. He was still on the sofa, elbows on his knees, watching me without interruption. That patience, usually grounding, felt infuriating now—like he was waiting for me to come to a conclusion he’d already reached.
“What if I can’t fix this?” I asked quietly.
“You will.”
The certainty in his voice made something twist in my chest. “And if I have to choose?”
His gaze held mine. “Then choose.”
Simple. As if it were that easy.
I shook my head, grabbing my phone again. “I need to call Eleanor.”
He nodded. “I’ll give you space.”
He stood, pulled on his jeans, and left the room without another word, the door to the hallway clicking softly behind him.
I dialed Eleanor’s number. She answered on the second ring.
“Lia. Thank God. Have you seen the post?”
“Yes.” I kept my voice even, professional. “It’s a photo. Nothing more.”
She sighed. “It’s more than that. The reporter—Anna from the Post—called me this morning. She’s got records on Locke’s holdings. Preserves in New York, one in South Africa. Guided hunts. High-profile clients. She’s framing it as a conflict with our anti-violence stance.”
I closed my eyes. “It’s personal, Eleanor. Not professional.”
A pause. “Is it? You’re our face, Lia. Donors give because they trust you. If they think you’re compromising …”
“I’m not.”
Another sigh. “Thomas Price called. He’s pulling his pledge for the spring campaign unless you issue a statement distancing yourself.”
Thomas Price. Our biggest donor. Oil money turned philanthropy, the kind that came with strings.
My throat tightened. “Distancing how?”
“Publicly. Acknowledge the relationship if you must, but make it clear it doesn’t reflect on our work. Or end it.”
The words hung there, blunt and final.
I stared at the garden outside, the ivy twisting up the wall like it was trying to escape. “I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t take too long. Anna’s running the story tomorrow.”
We hung up.
I stood there for a long minute, phone in hand, the weight of it all settling like humidity—thick, inescapable.
Cassian reappeared in the doorway, a glass of water in hand. He offered it to me without comment.
I took it, drank deeply. “They want a statement.”
He nodded. “Expected.”
“Is it?” I set the glass down harder than necessary. “You expected this? All of it?”
“Not all.” His gaze didn’t waver. “But enough.”
“And you didn’t warn me.”
“You knew the risk.”
I laughed, bitter and low. “Did I? You’ve been entangled here for years. Properties. Connections. This isn’t just a hunter’s cabin in the woods, Cassian. This is … reach. Power. The kind that rearranges things.”
He stepped closer. “And?”
“And I feel like I’m the last to know what I’m dealing with.”
He stopped just short of touching me. “Ask.”
I met his eyes. “Who are you? Really?”
A pause. Then, quietly: “A man who built what he needed.”
“From what?”
“Security contracts. Land acquisitions. Investments that pay.”
“And the hunts?”
“Part of the land. Not the core.”
“But you profit.”
“Yes.”
I turned away, pacing again. “I need space. Tonight.”
He didn’t argue. “Take it.”
I grabbed my coat, my bag. “I’ll call you.”
He nodded.
I left without looking back.
My condo felt smaller than I remembered. The air was still, the light dimmer. I dropped my things by the door and sank onto the couch, staring at the blank wall.
Guilt came first.
Guilt for the years I’d spent on stages, telling stories of lives ruined by violence—domestic, systemic, recreational. The kind that hid behind tradition or sport. I’d raised millions to fund sanctuaries, lobby for bans, educate kids on empathy over dominance.
And now? Now I was addicted to a man who embodied the very system I fought. Who embodied dominance.
Denial followed.
This wasn’t addiction. It was … temporary. A lapse. I could end it. Walk away. Issue the statement Eleanor wanted. Mr. Locke and I have parted ways. My commitment to our mission remains unwavering.
Simple.
But the thought made my chest ache, like something vital was being carved out.
I stood, paced to the window. The harbor glittered in the distance, boats bobbing like they had no cares. I thought of my letter—the one that started this. Exhaustion from being good. Wanting danger in human form.
I’d gotten it.
And now the consequences were here.
My phone buzzed—a voicemail from Anna, the reporter. Ms. Quinn, I’d like your comment before we go to print. Is it true you’ve been staying at Mr. Locke’s South of Broad residence? How do you reconcile that with your advocacy?
I deleted it.
Another text from Harper: You okay? Luca says give you space, but I’m worried.
I replied: Thinking. Talk tomorrow.
The evening stretched.
I made tea I didn’t drink. Opened my laptop, stared at a blank document for a statement I couldn’t write. Flashbacks came unbidden: Cassian’s hands on me in the snow, his voice in the dark, the way he looked at me like I was the only thing worth seeing.
Addiction.
Yes.
I closed the laptop, went to bed early. The sheets felt cold, empty. I tossed, chasing sleep that wouldn’t come.
By midnight, I gave up. Sat up, phone in hand.
No messages from him.
Of course, not. He wouldn’t push.
But the absence felt like a void.
I scrolled through the photo again, the comments piling up. Hypocrite. Sellout. How much did he pay her?
Tears burned.
This was the cost.
And I wasn’t sure I could pay it.