CHAPTER 31
AUDREY
The ceiling of the safe house is a grid of exposed steel beams and ductwork.
I stare up at it, tracking the lines of gray metal, listening to the quiet, rhythmic sound of Malcolm breathing next to me.
The mattress we are lying on is pushed against the far brick wall of the loft, sitting directly on the concrete floor.
It lacks a frame, a headboard, and the high-thread-count sheets of the penthouse.
We are tangled in a heavy wool blanket that smells faintly of dust and industrial cleaner.
It is the best I have slept in a month.
I turn my head slowly against the pillow. Malcolm is lying on his stomach, his face turned toward me. One of his arms is tucked beneath his head, the other draped heavily across my waist, pinning me to his side.
In the pale, gray light of the Chicago morning, the sharp, terrifying edges of the CEO are completely gone.
His dark hair is a mess. The faint stubble along his jaw makes him look older, rougher, and entirely human.
Without the bespoke suits and the calculated posture, he just looks like a man who has finally stopped fighting a war he never wanted to be in.
I carefully slide my hand out from under the blanket. The air in the loft is freezing.
I look at my left hand. The vintage diamond catches the muted light filtering through the frosted windows.
Marry me, Audrey.
My chest tightens, a sudden, overwhelming wave of emotion hitting the back of my throat. I press my lips together, fighting the urge to wake him up just to hear him say it again.
I don't. He needs the sleep. He spent the last sixteen years carrying the weight of his family’s corruption, and he spent the last forty-eight hours dismantling it.
I carefully lift his heavy arm, sliding out from underneath it.
He makes a low, protesting sound in the back of his throat, his hand grasping blindly at the empty space on the mattress.
I grab one of the extra pillows and push it against his chest. He wraps his arm around it, his breathing evening out again.
I stand up, my bare feet hitting the freezing concrete floor. I pull on the oversized sweatpants and the black t-shirt I wore yesterday, shivering as the cold fabric touches my skin.
I walk quietly toward the kitchen area at the other end of the loft.
My cracked phone is sitting on the stainless steel counter, right next to the empty pasta bowls from last night. I pick it up. The battery is at twelve percent.
I press the side button. The shattered screen lights up, displaying a terrifying number of notifications.
Thirty-four missed calls. Eighty-two text messages. Four news alerts.
I ignore the calls from unknown numbers and tap the notification from the Chicago Tribune.
The page loads slowly over the cellular network. When the headline finally appears, I have to lean my hip against the edge of the counter to steady myself.
VANCE EMPIRE CRUMBLES: PRESTON VANCE DENIED BAIL AMID MASSIVE FEDERAL PROBE.
There is a photograph below the headline.
It isn't a glamorous society shot. It is a picture of Preston Vance being escorted out of the federal courthouse in an orange jumpsuit, his hands cuffed in front of him.
He looks pale, disheveled, and completely stripped of the arrogant armor he wore in the dining room.
I scroll down, reading the bullet points.
Simon Vance cooperating with authorities in exchange for leniency.
Federal authorities freeze all assets associated with Vance Holding Company.
Vance Security division officially dissolved; CEO Malcolm Vance unreachable for comment.
I set the phone down on the counter.
The silence in the loft feels different now. It isn't the tense, suffocating quiet of a bunker waiting for an attack. It is the absolute, ringing silence of an aftermath.
The dragon is dead. The castle burned down.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, taking a long, shaky breath. I thought I would feel a massive surge of vindication. I thought reading about Simon’s downfall would fix the hollow space in my chest where my company used to be.
It doesn't.
Simon is going to prison, but my firm is still gone. The blueprints, the client lists, the late nights I spent building my reputation—none of it comes back just because the men who took it are in handcuffs.
"You are overthinking."
I drop my hands and turn around.
Malcolm is standing at the edge of the kitchen. He is wearing the dark sweatpants from yesterday, his chest bare. The pale, jagged scar on his neck stands out sharply against his skin. He looks sleepy, his eyes heavy, but his focus is entirely locked on my face.
"I'm not overthinking," I say, crossing my arms over my chest to ward off the cold. "I'm just reading the news."
"The news is irrelevant." He walks toward me, his bare feet silent on the concrete. "The threat is neutralized. The rest is just paperwork."
He stops in front of me, reaching out to pull me into his chest. I uncross my arms, wrapping them around his waist, and rest my cheek against his bare shoulder. His skin is incredibly warm.
"Preston was denied bail," I murmur against his collarbone.
"I know." Malcolm rests his chin on the top of my head, his hands sliding slowly up and down my back. "The federal prosecutor is not going to risk letting him secure a private flight out of the country."
"And Simon is cooperating."
"Simon is a coward. He will tell the FBI everything they want to know, and he will still serve five to ten years in a minimum-security facility." Malcolm’s voice is completely flat, devoid of any sympathy or regret.
I pull back slightly, looking up at his face. "Are you okay with that?"
He looks down at me, his dark eyes steady. "I am okay with the fact that you are standing in this kitchen, and I do not have to look over my shoulder to see who is standing behind you."
He drops his hands from my back, turning toward the coffee maker. He starts the machine, the mechanical hum breaking the quiet of the loft.
"Vivian called me four times this morning," I say, picking my phone back up. "She probably wants to know if we are still alive."
"Call her back," Malcolm says, pulling two mugs from the cabinet. "Tell her we require her services at the penthouse at two o'clock this afternoon."
I frown. "The penthouse? Are we going back there?"
"The safe house is a tactical location, Audrey. It lacks adequate heating, the plumbing is temperamental, and the mattress is currently residing on the floor." He pours the coffee, sliding a mug across the counter toward me. "We are going home."
Home.
The word hits me right in the center of my chest.
"And why do we need Vivian?" I ask, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic.
"Because we have a contract to draft." Malcolm picks up his own mug, leaning against the counter. "I told you last night. You need a legal entity to begin taking on clients. Vivian will draft the incorporation documents for your new architecture firm."
I stare at him. The lingering anxiety from reading the news completely evaporates, replaced by a sharp, sudden spike of adrenaline.
"Malcolm, I don't even have a name for the firm yet. I don't have a business plan. I don't have a portfolio."
"You have a brain," he corrects smoothly. "You have the talent. The portfolio was stolen, not erased from your memory. You will build a new one."
"It takes months to incorporate a business. It takes capital."
"I have the capital." He takes a sip of his coffee. "And Vivian is highly motivated. If I offer to double her standard hourly rate, she will have the paperwork filed by the end of the business day."
I let out a short, breathless laugh. "You can't just throw money at the state of Illinois to make them process paperwork faster."
"I am fairly certain I can."
I shake my head, looking down at the dark liquid in my mug.
The sheer, unrelenting force of his competence is terrifying, but it is also the most grounding thing I have ever experienced.
He doesn't look at my ruined company and see a tragedy.
He looks at it and sees a logistical problem waiting to be solved.
"Okay," I whisper, looking back up at him. "Okay. Two o'clock."
Malcolm’s expression softens. He reaches across the counter, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
"What are you going to call it?" he asks quietly.
I bite the inside of my cheek, thinking. I spent four years operating under Jennings Design, trying to make my name sound established, trying to hide the fact that I was a girl from the suburbs with a mountain of inherited debt.
"I don't want to use my last name," I say slowly. "I want something different. Something that doesn't sound like I’m trying to prove I belong in a boardroom."
Malcolm watches me, waiting. He doesn't offer a suggestion. He lets me find the answer.
"Apex," I say, the word forming on my tongue before I fully process it. "Apex Architecture."
"Apex." Malcolm tilts his head slightly, testing the sound of it. "The highest point. The peak."
"The part of the structure that carries the most weight," I correct him. "The part that doesn't break."
A slow, devastating smile spreads across his face. It is a look of absolute, unfiltered pride.
"Apex it is," he murmurs.
Before I can respond, the heavy steel door at the front of the loft rattles loudly. The sound of the deadbolt disengaging echoes like a gunshot in the quiet room.
I jump, my hand instinctively reaching out to grip Malcolm’s arm. The memory of the tactical team outside the warehouse yesterday crashes back into my brain.
Malcolm doesn't flinch. He doesn't reach for a weapon. He just sets his coffee mug down.
The heavy door swings open.
Grant walks into the loft.
He is wearing a fresh dark overcoat, but his left arm is secured in a black medical sling, resting tightly against his chest. He looks pale, and the rigid, perfect posture he usually maintains is slightly compromised, but he is alive. He is standing.