Chapter 26 Barron
BARRON
The office didn’t look like power anymore.
It looked like war.
The carpet was shredded like old flesh. The walnut shelf split down the middle like a cracked ribcage.
This wasn’t an office anymore. It was a crime scene that hadn’t decided who was the victim.
Two chairs were overturned, one missing a leg entirely.
The coffee table had gone sideways, reports scattered across the floor like bloodstains.
The glass on the sideboard cabinet was cracked—spiderwebbed out from where someone threw a file like a weapon.
The blinds hung half-drawn. The air reeked of paper, ink, and intrusion.
The Bureau had torn the room apart. And I hadn’t put it back together. I stood at the window. Shirt unbuttoned halfway, no tie, sleeves rolled.
A glass of eighteen-year-old Scotch in my right hand. Not my first pour. Wouldn’t be my last. Behind me, the Lawlor empire lay in fucking pieces.
My reflection stared back from the glass—older than I remembered. Lines etched deeper. Collarbone visible beneath the linen. Hair not quite right. I looked like a man fraying at the edges. I was.
They took the files. The backups. The offshore records.
But worse?
They took the illusion. The one that told me this place—this name—was untouchable.
I lifted the Scotch. Tasted nothing. Didn’t care. The silence pressed against me. A scream with no air.
Then—
the elevator dinged.
I didn’t turn. Didn’t have to. I felt her before she stepped out. The shift. The chill. The silence holding its breath.
Selene.
She walked in like it wasn’t a graveyard. Trench coat belted tight. Heels clicking across the marble. Lipstick perfect. Hair sculpted into armor. Perfume sharp enough to wound.
She didn’t rush. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t act like she’d ever been thrown out of this room.
I stayed still. Facing the window.
“I always hated that painting,” she said behind me. Light. Casual.
Like she hadn’t gutted me.
I didn’t answer. She took a few more steps. Stopped at the desk.
“It’s impressive what the Bureau can do when they think they’ve cornered a legacy.”
Still, I said nothing.
She perched on the edge of my desk. Crossed her legs. The coat parted. Black lace glinted underneath. A performance.
“You look tired,” she said next.
My voice cracked when it came out, raw around the edges.
“Get to it.”
Her smile curled. Like a blade finding skin. Like she tasted blood already.
“I can make it go away.”
I turned then. Slowly. Just my head. She looked untouched. Unbothered. Like she hadn’t fucked her way through the men trying to steal the Lawlor name.
I stared.
She smiled wider.
“The subpoenas. The press. The investigation. The fallout,” she said.
One finger drifted along the edge of the desk.
Deliberate. Light.
“I can bury it.”
I blinked once.
“And what does that cost?”
She tilted her head. Unhooked the belt of the trench slowly. Let it hang open.
“You forgive me.”
She waited. Then added:
“Publicly.”
“You take me back. The way I was. Not as penance. As proof.”
I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. She kept going.
Part of me wanted her to. Another part wanted her to never leave again. And that part? That’s the one I’ve spent years trying to bury beneath bourbon and control.
“We rebuild the brand. The couple. The control.”
“You hold my hand at charity events and let the papers spin their fairytales.”
“And in return?” I asked, voice sharp as glass.
She leaned in. The lace visible now.
“You keep the empire.”
A pause. Then quieter. Not soft. Not kind. Sharper.
“Do you want it?”
I looked at her. At the room. At what was left of everything I’d built—now held together with silence and pride.
I lifted the glass.
Drank.
And said nothing.
Answering her meant acknowledging the ache. And I wasn't ready to admit that some part of me still wanted her. Just not enough to bleed for her again.
The door clicked shut behind her. She didn’t wait for an answer. Selene never did. She never needed permission to believe she’d already won.
I didn’t finish the Scotch. Didn’t pour another. Left the glass like everything else I couldn’t fix—half-finished and reeking of what I used to need.
The elevator ride down was its own kind of hell.
Quiet. Suffocating.
The silence that settles into your bones and rots from the inside out.
I pressed the button with fingers still curled too tight—
From holding myself together While the woman who ruined me strutted across the wreckage like it was her goddamn runway.
She even smelled like manipulation. Amber. Powder. Victory. She’d come in perfect. Lips blood-red. Eyes starving.
And when she undid that belt,
Let the coat fall open—
Black lace. Skin. The scent of a woman who kissed me like a confession and stabbed me with the memory of it.
She touched me. Not gently. Not like she missed me. Like she owned the past. Like I should be grateful she survived the betrayal.
Her fingers grazed my chest. Nails tracing along my collarbone. Skin flinching under grief.
She leaned in. Pressed her mouth to my throat. Not a kiss. A warning.
That’s the thing with Selene. She didn’t love. She devoured. She fucked men to remind herself she could. Then came back like we were supposed to forget. Like I was supposed to pretend the blood on her mouth wasn’t mine.
I gripped the wheel harder. Pulled out of the tower garage. Didn’t turn on music. Didn’t answer when the phone buzzed. Just drove.
City lights smeared across the windshield—concrete and glare and something sick underneath it all. My pulse didn’t slow. Not when traffic thinned. Not when the roads quieted.
I didn’t breathe right until I turned into the underground car park. The engine echoed in the concrete. Sharp. Empty. I eased into the spot. Let the car idle. And just stared at the elevator.
Felt her again—
Not her body. Not her scent. Her threat. Her voice, curling behind my ribs like smoke:
Do you want it?
And still…
I hadn’t answered. I killed the engine. Got out. Didn’t look back. The elevator waited. Still. Quiet. Watching.
Something older rose in me. Not grief. Not guilt. Something with teeth. And it wanted her to bleed.